Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/369

 358 ONCE  A WEEK. [October 29,  1869.

A book which  was  published  last  winter  in Paris,  and  which  created  a sensation  wherever  the French tongue  was  spoken, — a book  purporting  to treat  of  marriage,  and  of  the  care  and  attention a husband ought  to  show  to  his  wife,  was  a very curious proof  in  point  of  what  is  the  present degenerate condition  of  the  French  female  in  all ranks. In his  chapter  on  the  “Health  of  Young Women” you  find  rules  laid  down  by  M.  Michelet which, to  our  English  ideas,  would  almost  alone suffice to  reduce  any  woman  to  the  lowest  state  of physical  weakness. She is  to  be  kept  as  quiet  as possible,  to  eat  little  meat,  and  drink  no  wine; to take  hardly  any  exercise; very  moderately  to improve  her  mind  by  reading,  or  any  other rational employment; never  to  hear  of  cold bathing; and  if  ever  she  should  guess  at  such follies as  fine  racing  gallops  over  breezy  downs  on the  back  of  a generous  horse,  to  rank  them  among the mad  and  improper  freaks  which  only  those eccentric creatures  les  Anglaises  ever  indulge  in! M. Michelet's  “Model  Wife”  is  simply  infirm  in body  and  soul. Yet, let  it  be  remarked,  she  is  the beau ideal  of  the  contemporary  Frenchwoman; and, whatever  else  may  have  been  said  of  M. Michelet's  book  in  the  way  of  blame,  no  critic  in all  France  ever  suggested  that  his  female  type  was not “adorable,”  or  that  his  manner  of  bringing her up  or  caring  for  her  was  not  one  worthy  of universal  imitation.

Let the  English  reader  ask  himself  what  the sons of  such  a mother  as  M.  Michelet's  “Model Wife” would  be  likely  to  be.

We disclaim  all  desire  to  “preach,”  or  unneces- sarily to run  down  our  neighbours,  and  all  wish  to “prove ” any  pet  theory. We have  merely thought a few  moments  might  not  be  wasted  in obtaining  a nearer  insight  into  certain  details  of social  life  in  France. No one  can  say  we  shall never be  brought  into  collision  with  the  French nation, or  that  it  can  never  be  of  any  importance to us  to  know  what  is  the  relative  worth  of  the  two races, and  in  what  particular  points  we  should  be likely  in  a serious  struggle  to  show  ourselves superior to  them. Besides, whatever  is  really  true is really  instructive. It may,  therefore,  not  be uninteresting  to  compare  our  country  men  and women with  the  people  of  France,  and  the  French men and  women  of  this  day  with  those  of  a hundred  and  fifty  years  since. A very few  facts will suffice  to  demonstrate  that  the  British  race has gone  on  modifying  and  improving  itself,  whilst still remaining  at  bottom  what  it  was  under glorious Queen  Bess; and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is as  easy  to  show  that  the  French  race  is  not  the  same as it  was  under  Henri  TV. or under  the  Fronde. It is  not  “modified:” it  is  radically  changed. Is it “improved?”  This  is  a question  we  will  not take upon  ourselves  to  answer,  but  leave  to individual  appreciation,  only  begging  our  readers to meditate  upon  the  following  few  words:

England has  slowly  adapted  all  her  old  insti- tutions to the  exigences  of  modern  times,  and  has overthrown scarcely  one; France  has  overthrown every institution  she  possessed. How have  the two systems  acted  upon  the  two  races? Which is the  freer? which the  more  powerful? which the happier of  the  two? AD.

PRAWN CURRY.

I have a weakness  for  prawns. For seven  years I lived in  a barbarous  colony  where  they  had no prawns. I shall not  name  that  colony,  because I have no  desire  to  deter  people  of  taste  from going there; but  for  seven  years  I saw  nothing like a prawn  except  some  wretched  potted  shrimps embalmed in  grease  and  red  pepper. Homeward bound some  months  ago  in  a mail  steamer,  we  ran into Galle  harbour  for  coals. Now Galle  is  famed throughout the  East  for  the  most  rapturous  pre- paration of prawns,  the  most  ecstatic  aliment conceivable. To taste  prawn  curry  at  Ceylon makes one  additionally  grateful  to  Vasco  do  Gama for having  found  his  way  round  the  Cape. I had heard much  on  the  voyage  about  these  curried prawns and  about  the  green  cocoa-nut  and  artful concomitants used  in  preparing  them,  and  the various accounts  worked  upon  my  fevered  imagi- nation till my  brain  was  filled  with  prawns  caper- ing about like  the  lively  monsters  in  a magnified drop of  stagnant  water.

“Any coals?” said  the  captain; “any  news? ” asked the  passengers; “any  prawns?” whispered I, in  a voice  husky  with  emotion,  for  I trembled for the  answer.

“Plenty prawns,”  was  the  reply,  and  down  the ship’s side  I went  into  a sort  of  long  washing-tub, kept from  capsizing  by  a floating  counterpoise about three  yards  off. My conductor  was  a Cin- galese commission riai re of  pale  gingerbread  com- plexion, who was  attired  in  a very  small  quantity of white  calico  and  a tortoiseshell  comb. We fought our  way  through  mendicants,  jewel -pedlers with their  Birmingham  rubbish  tenderly  bedded in white  wool,  and  a bristling  array  of  paper umbrellas thrust  forward  for  purchase  at  six- pence each. Through this  ordeal  I passed  scathe- less, all but  a few  shillings,  for  which  I obtained an umbrella,  two  or  three  fans,  a gold  ring  with rubies like  red  currants,  an  ebony  walking-stick, and half  a dozen  pine-apples. We found  an hotel,  a stately  Portuguese  mansion  of  the  olden time, through  the  door  of  which  you  might have driven  a waggon  of  hay. The proprietor was smoking  in  a Manilla  cane  chair,  with  a boy  and  a feather  brush  behind  to  intimidate the flies; and  when  he  understood  that  I had come several  thousand  miles  to  taste  prawn  curry, there was  a glow  of  interest  in  his  yellow  coun- tenance that was  quite  gratifying. Arrangements were soon  made. In four  hours  all  that  gastro- nomic science could  accomplish  would  await  my approval. A cheerful drive  about  the  neighbour- hood was suggested  as  a suitable  preliminary. The regular handbook  sort  of  thing  to  do  at  Galle  is  a drive  to  the  cinnamon-gardens,  where  you  cut  odori- ferous walking-sticks, fill  your  pockets  with  the fragrant bark,  and  come  out  quite  spicy. There was also  a very  ancient  Buddhist  temple,  with a huge strongly-gilt  heathen  deity  sitting  cross- legged on  the  altar,  like  a canonized  tailor; and a Buddhist clergyman  who  chewed  betel-nut  and kept up  a smothering  supply  of  incense,  and was very  grateful  for  a two-anna  piece  and  half a cigar. That golden  tailor  was  at  least  ten feet high  as  he  sat,  and  he  had  eyes  dispropor-