Library Collections: Document: Full Text

We did not always escape difficulty at the custom-houses. At Courtrai, a frontier town in Belgium, we had to endure the pleasures of a search and tax. They demanded a duty for the General's ponies and carriage; but when I showed them a document proving that the French government allowed them to enter duty-free, they did the same. At the custom-house at Lille, it was deemed necessary to measure and describe the ponies, in order to prevent our substituting other ponies on our return to France. As the General's beautiful equipage was passing through the custom-house, the chief officer, eyeing the General's petit coachman and footman in livery, seriously asked if the General was a prince in his own country.

"Certainly!" replied Sherman, with much gravity, "he is Prince Charles the First, of the dukedom of Bridgeport and kingdom of Connecticut."

The officer made a profound bow, and swallowed it all for gospel truth!

A person may frequently travel through the larger towns in France, for days together, without being called on for his passport; but it not unfrequently happens that in a little insignificant village, he is waited on quite unexpectedly by a gendarme, who demands permission to see the precious document. Such was one day the case with me.

I was quietly enjoying my dinner, at a neat little rustic inn, when the door was suddenly opened, and a full-accoutred, heavy-moustachioed gendarme entered, and demanded my passport.. It was in my trunk on the top of the diligence, and so I told him; but he insisted on seeing it. Not taking the trouble of getting it, I searched my pockets, and finding an old insurance policy, which I had accidentally brought from America, I drew it forth, and, excelaiming, "Oh, here is my passport!" handed it to the officer. He eyed it rather closely, and looked very wise while turning it backwards and forwards, but it was all Greek to him, for he could not read a word of English. After retaining it for a minute or two, he politely handed it back, with a "Très Bien!" ("Very well!") and took his leave!

This is not always a safe trick, however, as most of the gendarmes know the stamp of the Prefecture of Police at Paris; and, as that stamp is not always found on an old American insurance policy, it would be rather unpleasant for a man to attempt to travel in France with no other passport. In my case, however, if I had been detected, I could easily have rectified the mistake.

Whenever I dined at a French table d'hote, (and I always did so when I could, on account of the excellence and great variety of dishes,) I usually expected to partake of about six dishes with which I was acquainted, and of as many as sixteen of the composition of which I had not the remotest conception. If a person asked me if I ever ate serpents or lizards, or any thing else, I dare not answer no; for I did not know what I had not eaten in France!

While we were in Brussels, Mrs. Stratton, the mother of the General, tasted some sausages which she declared the best things she had eaten in France or Belgium; in fact, she said "she had found little that was fit to eat in this country, for every thing was so Frenchified and covered in gravy, she dared not eat it; but there was something that tasted natural about these sausages; she had never eaten any as good, even in America." She sent to the land-lady to inquire the name of them for she meant to buy some to -- take along with her. The answer came that they were called "saucisse de Lyons," (Lyons sausages,) and straightway Mrs. Stratton went out and purchased half a dozen pounds. Mr. Sherman soon came in, and, on learning what she had in her package, he remarked: "Mrs. Stratton, do you know what Lyons sausages are made of?"

"No," she replied; "but I know that they are first rate!"

"Well," replied Sherman, "they may be good, but they are made front donkeys!" which is said to be the fact. Mrs. Stratton said she was not to be fooled so easily, that she knew better, and that she should stick to the sausages.

Presently Mr. Pinte, our French interpreter, entered the room. "Mr. Pinte," said Sherman, "you are a Frenchman, and know every thing about edibles; pray tell me what Lyons sausages are made of."

"Of asses," replied the inoffensive professor.

Mrs. Stratton seized the package, the street window was open, and, in less than a minute, a large brindle dog was bearing the "Lyons sausages" triumphantly away.

Such trifling incidents as these served to amuse us occasionally in a land of strangers, but I frequently had much more than amusement in that journey of ours in a foreign land. On several occasions I felt entirely at home, especially on the fourth of July, 1844.

Being that day in Grenelle, outside the barriers of Paris, I remembered that I had the address of Monsieur Regnier, an eminent mechanician, who lived in the vicinity. Wishing to purchase a variety of instruments such as he manufactured, I called at his residence. He received me very politely, and I soon was deeply interested in this intelligent and learned man. He was a member of many scientific institutions, was "Chevalier of the Legion of Honor," etc.