I resolved not to take my departure from Paris without visiting some of
the numerous royal palaces situated in its vicinity. St. Cloud first
claimed my attention, both from its proximity to Paris, and from its
having been for a considerable time the favourite residence of the
ex-ruler of France. Its situation is certainly one of the most striking
near the capital, and the views from it are both diversified and
extensive. The improvements made here by Buonaparte render it a most
agreeable residence, and display an extremely good taste. This palace is
at present occupied by the Prince of Condé. The approach to it from
Paris is very striking, through avenues of elms, with lamps at regular
distances.
I also visited Marli, which is chiefly remarkable for the machine which
raises water from the Seine to the height of five hundred feet. St. Cyr
was the retreat of Madame de Maintenon, and Malmaison was the residence
of Buonaparte, when first consul; but it is far inferior to St. Cloud.
The palace of St. Germain is in a situation inferior to none I had seen.
My expectations had however been particularly raised by the accounts I
had heard of Versailles, which has at all times been the object of the
admiration of the French; and it is certainly better suited to their
ideas of grandeur than to ours.
This palace is about four leagues distant from Paris. The approach to it
has nothing of that magnificence that I had been led to expect, and the
road is in bad repair. On my arrival, I found it was impossible to gain
admittance into the palace, which was undergoing a thorough repair,
rendered indispensable by neglect during the last twenty years. The
number of workmen employed is stated to amount to two thousand. It is a
vast pile of building, and certainly one of the most famous royal
residences in Europe. A Frenchman tells you with exultation of the vast
sums which have been expended in its construction, and thinks that a
sufficient proof of its magnificence. An Englishman, however, will very
naturally be out of patience at the praises bestowed on gardens laid out
in that taste which has been so long exploded in England, and cannot
help exclaiming with the poet--
"Lo! what huge heaps of littleness around!"
In front of the palace is a vast terrace which you mount with
considerable difficulty by innumerable flights of stairs. To occasion an
unexpected treat to the admirers of art, by excluding every thing
natural, the whole of this elevation is abundantly supplied with ponds
and water-works. The grand vista in front of the palace is formed into a
canal, and no description can give a more just idea of these boasted
gardens than the following lines of Pope; the _only_ difference being,
that the water-works of Versailles are put in motion the first Sunday
of every month, and remain stagnant the rest of the year.
"Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suffering eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be play'd,
And there a summer-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs,
There gladiators fight or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn."
What pleased me most at Versailles was the great number of large orange
and lemon trees.
The forest of Versailles is of great extent, and abounds in wood, but
there is little of what would be considered in England as _good timber_.
Windsor and Versailles have been often compared, although no two places
can possibly differ more completely than they do. To have again recourse
to the words of the poet, Windsor is a place,
"Where order in variety we see;
And where, tho' all things differ, all agree."
And, in my judgment, it is as far superior to Versailles as its forests
of oak are to the elms which surround that boasted palace.
I was permitted to see the royal stables. They are, it is said,
sufficiently large to contain 4000 horses, but are at present much out
of repair. The city of Versailles is large and well built, but has a
melancholy and deserted appearance, having lost nearly half its
population since it has ceased to be a royal residence, and the present
number of inhabitants does not exceed 30,000. The Grand and Petit
Trianons deserve attention from having been the favourite retreats of
the late unfortunate Queen of France; but few traces of the taste once
displayed in their decoration now remain. They are situated within the
limits of the forest of Versailles, which is said to be twenty leagues
in circuit. At Sèvres, which is celebrated for the beauty of its
porcelain manufactory, I observed workmen employed in finishing a new
and handsome bridge of nine arches over the Seine, in place of the old
one which is hardly passable. Near the barrier of Passy is a
carpet-manufactory, which was established there by Henry the Fourth.
This barrier is thought to be the most striking entrance to Paris. In my
excursions in the vicinity of Paris, I observed that the harvest was
extremely abundant, but the majority of those employed in collecting it
were women. I was informed that last year the greatest difficulty was
experienced in saving the harvest for want of a sufficient number of
hands. I saw, at a distance, the castle of Vincennes, where Buonaparte
(who had caused the removal of every vestige of the Bastile) had
dungeons constructed many feet under ground, and with walls ten feet
thick. This place is distinguished for the atrocious murder of the Duke
d'Enghien. I had occasion to observe, both in the streets of Paris and
on the roads in its vicinity, that there were but few _private_
carriages to be seen, and those by no means handsome; but the roads are
covered with _cabriolets_, of which there are 2,800 in Paris, besides
about 2,000 fiacres, or hackney-coaches. The fare for an hour is only
thirty sous.
As I had by this time pretty well satisfied my curiosity, in visiting
the objects in Paris that principally arrest the attention of a
traveller who has not leisure to dwell longer than is indispensable in
one place, I began to be impatient to exchange the continual bustle of
that city--its
"Fumum opes strepitumque,"
for those romantic and enlivening scenes in which Switzerland stands
without a rival, and is, as it were, by _acclamation_, allowed to
surpass the other countries of Europe.
I therefore attended at the office for foreign affairs, and obtained the
signature of the Prince of Benevento (for about ten francs) in addition
to the signature of our own distinguished minister, Lord Castlereagh. I
was told it was necessary also to have my passport visited by the police
before leaving Paris; and my landlord offered his services to arrange
that affair for me. I however recollected Dr. Franklin's maxim, "If you
would have your business clone, go; if not, send," and went accordingly
to the office myself.
These affairs being arranged, so as to permit my passing without
molestation through the interior of France, I quitted Paris without any
sensations of regret at leaving a place which, highly as I had been
pleased with many of the great objects which it contains, I cannot but
consider, when curiosity is once gratified, to be an unpleasant
residence. I took the road to Fontainbleau, distant about thirty-seven
English miles; a place formerly only remarkable for its castle, situated
in a forest of about 30,000 acres, and often visited by the Kings of
France, for the amusements of the chace; but which will hold in history
a distinguished page, and be visited in future ages as being the scene
where it pleased Providence to terminate a tyranny unexampled in the
history of the world. It is worthy of remark, that in this very castle,
in which the venerable Head of the Romish Church was so long and so
unjustly detained a captive, his once formidable oppressor was obliged
to abdicate that authority which he had so long usurped and abused; and
the _11th of April 1814_, will be long hailed over Europe as the epoch
when liberty, peace and good order were restored to its inhabitants,
after the long and stormy reign of oppression, war and anarchy had so
long precluded the expected time of which it was impossible entirely to
despair--when Europe, so long a prey to dissension, should again be
united as one common family. These hopes have at last been realized; the
evils of the French Revolution (more productive of misfortune than the
fabled box of Pandora) have in a manner been surmounted; and we have
only further to wish, that the nations who have restored tranquillity to
Europe, may continue to act with the moderation for which they have
hitherto been distinguished [guess: distinguished].
It was natural, in beholding a place rendered memorable by such great
events,--events which are probably destined to fix the fortunes of
succeeding centuries, that the mind should dwell with more than common
attention on the scene, and give itself up to the reflections it was
calculated to produce. My thoughts were principally engaged in
considering the very opposite characters of Pius VII. and of Buonaparte.
In the first we see united all that can give dignity to an exalted
station, or that is praiseworthy in private life. We see him disposed as
much as possible to conciliation, and even persuaded by his cardinals to
cross the Alps in the most inclement season notwithstanding his advanced
age, to crown the _Usurper of France_, in the expectation of advancing
the interests of religion, by consenting to submit to a power which then
appeared but too firmly established. The hopes of the pope were not
realized; Buonaparte soon forgetting past services, made demands which
he well knew could not be complied with, and amongst them that his
holiness should declare war against England, and that too without the
slightest motive for such a proceeding on his part, as he stated in his
manifesto against the outrages of Buonaparte, a paper which must affect
all who peruse it, and excite their regret that the pope was not in a
situation effectually to preserve that independence which did such
honour to his heart.
The new-made emperor was not, however, to be reasoned with but by
_force_; and in about four years after the pope had placed the diadem on
his head, he caused him to be removed from his capital as a prisoner,
and united the Ecclesiastical States to the dominions of France. The
spirit of the pope was still unsubdued, and he refused, for himself and
his cardinals, all offers of subsistence from the usurper of their
possessions. When urged to come to some agreement with Buonaparte, he
answered that his regret at having accepted the late _Concordat_, would
be a sufficient security against his being again deceived. And when the
cardinals represented the evils which might result from his refusal, he
answered, "Let me die worthy of the misfortunes I have suffered." On the
23d of January, 1814, the pope was removed from Fontainbleau, as were
each of the seventeen cardinals, in custody of a _gend'arme_, and their
destination was kept secret. But on the 5th of April following, the
provisional government of France gave orders, that all obstacles to the
return of the pope to his states might be removed; and, after five years
of confinement and outrage, Pius VII. returned to his capital, to
receive the reward of that _firmness_ and _moderation_, which, blended
so happily in his character, will long render it an object of
admiration.
I next considered the character of the tyrant, who so long and so
successfully triumphed over prostrate Europe, England alone preserving
unimpaired that liberty, which she was destined to be the means of
diffusing to rival nations. It would be absurd to deny Buonaparte the
praise due to the matchless activity, and consummate skill, with which
he conducted the enterprizes suggested by his boundless ambition; and
which made him the most formidable enemy with whom England ever had to
contend; but his cruelty, his suspicion, and his pride, (which made him
equally disregard those laws of honour, and those precepts of morality,
respected by the general feelings of mankind), as they excited the
indignation of thinking men, prevented any pity at his fall. Such a man
was destined only to excite astonishment, not admiration; and that
astonishment could not fail of being greatly diminished, by his want of
extraordinary resources, when placed in a situation, upon the
possibility of which he had disdained to calculate.
His continued aggressions raised Europe against him from without, and he
was overthrown, because he had completely disgusted the fickle people,
whom he had made the instruments of his ambition.
It would surely require the pen of _a Tacitus_ to delineate with
accuracy the character of such a man, who, to use the words of the
lamented Moreau, "had covered the French name with such shame and
disgrace, that it would be almost a disgrace to bear it; and who had
brought upon that unhappy country the curses and hatred of the
universe."
His ambitious wars are supposed to have occasioned the destruction of
nearly _four millions of men_, whom he considered merely as instruments
to accomplish his extravagant views; and he is reported to have said
repeatedly, that "it signified little whether or not he reigned over the
French, provided he reigned over France."
He delighted in carnage, and speaks in one of his bulletins of "800
pieces of cannon dispersing death on all sides," as presenting "a most
admirable spectacle."
On Buonaparte's arrival from Egypt, he found things as favourable for
his projected usurpation as his most sanguine hopes could have imagined.
In the eighteen months which had preceded his arrival, there had arisen
no fewer than four constitutions, and the French might well exclaim,
"They have made us so many constitutions, that we have now none
remaining!" Wearied out with the succession of sanguinary factions, each
endeavouring to establish itself by proscriptions, banishments, and
confiscations, France submitted without opposition to the government of
a ruler, who seemed sufficiently strong to keep all minor tyrants in
subjection; and, despairing of freedom, sought only an interval of
repose. This hope was, however, not destined to be realized, for
Buonaparte soon pursued all those who presumed to oppose his schemes in
the slightest degree with astonishing eagerness, and those who submitted
with the most alacrity, were treated only with contempt.
He was hardly seated on his throne, before he spoke of making France a
camp, and all the French soldiers. A long series of success made him
despise those precautions so necessary to insure it, and rendered his
catastrophe the more striking.
The character given by Seneca of the Corsicans, has been quoted as
applicable to the most famous character that island has ever produced:
he says, "the leading characteristics of these islanders are revenge,
theft, lying, and impiety." Over the downfall of such a man, the
civilized world must rejoice; but the contemplation of his character
affords a salutary lesson to ambition, which, carried to excess, ruins
that greatness it would so madly increase.
The last years of his reign were distinguished by the number of plots
which were pretended to be discovered, and proved the truth of a remark
of Mary de Medicis, "That a false report believed during three days,
tended to secure the crown on the head of an usurper."
But neither his guards, nor his police, could insure him a moment of
repose.
"Volvilur Ixion, et se sequiturque fugitque."
Modern history has fully demonstrated a truth, which might have been
collected from more ancient records, and of which England affords an
illustrious example, that the attachment of a free and enlightened
people is the only basis on which thrones can rest with security.
Having now sufficiently satisfied my curiosity at Fontainbleau, I
determined on continuing my journey (which I fear my reader may regret I
did not do sooner), and I accordingly arrived at noon at Montereau,
which is an inconsiderable town, but beautifully situated in a fertile
plain, at the junction of the rivers Seine and Yonne. The bridges over
those rivers had been partly broken down, to impede the progress of the
allied troops in the late memorable campaign. They have been repaired
with timber in a temporary manner, but cannot be considered as at all
sufficiently secure for the passage of heavy carriages. Many of the
houses in this town still exhibit abundant marks of bullets, but the
country around appears in such a luxuriant state of cultivation, that
had I not myself seen the spot where a battle had been fought in the
last spring, I could hardly hare persuaded myself it had so lately been
the theatre of war.
I next reached Sens, a large and ancient city, but thinly inhabited, and
with little marks of activity, although situated in a country abounding
with all the conveniences of life, and possessing a situation on the
rivers Vanne and Yonne, which seems to shame its inhabitants for their
neglect of the commercial advantages they afford.
The Cathedral is a venerable structure, and contains the tomb of the
Dauphin, father of the present King, who died in 1765.--About sixteen
English miles distant is Joigny, beautifully situated on the Yonne, and
surrounded on all skies by vineyards; we now were approaching one of the
parts of France most famous for its wines.
The road, which is in excellent repair, follows the windings of the
river to Auxerre, which, although much less than Sens, has a more lively
appearance, and the inhabitants seem to make more use of the facilities
which the river affords of communicating with Paris and the rest of the
country. The churches here are handsome, the tower of one of them is
said to have been built by the _English_.
The Vineyards in this neighbourhood are numerous, and the wine is much
esteemed.
I waited here for the arrival of the Paris Diligence, in which I
proposed to proceed to Dijon, wishing not to leave France without having
made trial of one of their public carriages.
The appearance of that which I saw at Calais was much against it; the
one I met with here proved a very tedious conveyance, not going in
general above three or four English miles an hour; which, however is as
much as could be expected from a carriage which is scarcely less laden
than many of our waggons. It was drawn by five horses, all managed by
_one_ postilion, mounted on one of the wheel horses, and furnished with
a vast and _unwieldy_ pair of _boots_, cased with iron, and a long whip,
which he is perpetually employed in cracking. Another important
personage is Monsieur le _Conducteur_, who has the care of the luggage,
&c. The French in general adhere to old customs, as well as the
postilions to their antiquated boots; their hour of dinner in general
being from eleven to twelve o'clock, and seldom so late as one. This in
England would be considered only as a _Déjeûner à la Fourchette_. The
hour of supper is from seven to nine, according as the length of the
stages may determine.
If the _hour_ of a French dinner is singular to an Englishman, the
order in which it is served up is not less so. The soup (that great
essential to a Frenchman) is always followed by bouilli, which having
contributed to make the soup, is itself very tasteless.--Fricassées and
poultry succeed; then follow fish and vegetables, and last of all comes
the rôti, which, as I before had occasion to observe, is so much done as
not to be very palatable. The pastry and desert conclude their dinners,
which certainly deserve the praise of being both cheap and abundant. The
fruit is astonishingly cheap; I. have seen excellent peaches sell for a
sous apiece. A traveller is not, however, in general disposed to
criticise these singularities, either in the hour or order of the repast
with too much severity, as the remark attributed to Alexander the Great,
has probably been made by many of less celebrity, "that night travelling
serves to give a better appetite than all the skill of confectioners."
The general price of the Table d'Hôte in France, including the _vin
ordinaire_, is about three francs, which are at the present rate of
exchange equal to about a shilling each.--Those who call for better
wine pay of course extra.
The vin ordinaire, or common wine of Burgundy, is a pleasant beverage,
little stronger than cider, but in many parts of France it is by no
means palatable. The cider and beer in France are, with few exceptions,
extremely indifferent, and consequently little used.
* * * * *