The American in Paris; vol. 1 of 2 — Reading Companion

A Foreigner's Eye for Street Life

Sanderson excels at capturing the texture of Parisian streets. In Letter III, he catalogs the boulevards with a naturalist's precision: the chiffonnier (rag-picker), the gratteur (scraper), and the commissionnaire (errand-runner) each get a brief portrait. He notes the shoe-black's trade, the Café Turc's fountains, and the 'recollections of the Bastille' that linger on the Boulevard du Temple. His descriptions are not merely picturesque—they carry social weight. The 'half-starved population' pelted with loaves and pies at a public spectacle is condemned as 'a dishonour of the French nation,' a practice ended by the 1830 Revolution. Sanderson's eye for detail serves his moral and political observations, making the boulevards a stage for both amusement and critique.

The Politics of Everyday Observation

Sanderson's letters are peppered with political asides that arise from ordinary scenes. In Letter VI, he describes the 'three glorious days' of 1830 not with grand narrative but through a 'plump little widow' and a mention of the 'benefits of the last Revolution' ending a degrading food-throwing ritual. His analysis of Louis Philippe's government is blunt: the king 'has about the same enjoyment of his royalty, as one sea-sick, has of the majesty of the ocean.' Sanderson explains the mechanics of power—the Chamber of Deputies elected by fewer than 200,000 voters, the king's 150,000 'bribes' in offices—with a clarity that suggests he is writing for an American audience unfamiliar with French political structures. He even casts the king's horoscope, a playful gesture that underscores his role as a foreign commentator, not a partisan.

Diction and the Conversational Letter

Sanderson's prose is deliberately informal, mimicking the spontaneity of a letter. He uses contractions ('I'm,' 'can't'), exclamations ('What infinite amusement!'), and direct addresses to his correspondent ('You have no sooner a guinea in London than you have none'). His vocabulary is concrete and often satirical: the custom-house is a 'school for perjury,' the Palais Royal's gambling dens are 'hells,' and the king's popularity is built on 'savings banks' that 'bind the poorer classes by the strongest of' ties. He borrows from Shakespeare ('a snapper up of inconsiderate trifles') and classical references (defending dancing from 'classical authority'), but his tone remains that of a sharp-eyed traveler, not a pedant. The letters feel like dispatches from a friend, complete with gaps ('I must trust to-morrow to furnish me something for this blank space').

Structure and the Art of Digression

Sanderson's letters follow no rigid plan; they meander from topic to topic, mirroring the wanderings of a flâneur. Letter II begins with street cries, moves to St. Roch, then to boulevards, lodgings, the Grand Opera, and ends with a defense of dancing. The transitions are often abrupt ('This is all I have to say of the “three glorious days.” I must trust to-morrow to furnish me something for this blank space.'). This structure is not a flaw but a deliberate choice: Sanderson presents himself as an observer who records what strikes him, not a systematic essayist. The effect is a mosaic of Parisian life, where a political crisis can be followed by a note on Taglioni's dancing, and a description of a café can lead to a reflection on the Bastille. The reader is invited to share in the author's spontaneous curiosity.

Sanderson's letters reward readers who enjoy a digressive, opinionated guide. He does not pretend to completeness—his preface warns that the letters are 'in their present dishabille'—but his sharp eye for detail and willingness to judge make him a lively companion. For those interested in how an American saw Paris in the 1830s, these pages offer a view that is both personal and politically astute, filtered through a voice that remains engaging two centuries later.

Reading Sanderson’s Paris letters, I remembered sitting on a dusty stairwell as a teenager, thumbing through a borrowed atlas while my grandmother napped. The same feeling returned with From Berlin to Bagdad and Babylon — Inside the Classic—that quiet thrill of watching a stranger’s world unfold, page by patient page, as if the streets were breathing just outside my window.