called, is often the subject of conversation, and it is mentioned
with as much disgust and horror as in other countries; yet it never
seems to occur to any one, that in having been the tacit spectators
and instruments of the murders committed at that time, the inhabitants
of this country were parties to his crimes. But it is perhaps absurd
to complain of the present want of feeling, when we recollect the
strange unconcern with which, under the immediate terror and view of
the _guillotine_, the persons confined in the different prisons, while
they awaited their turn of cruelty, engaged in every sort of frivolous
amusement. I have been assured, by those who were themselves in custody
at that unhappy period, that toilets were made, parties planned, cards
played, scandal talked of, assemblies arranged, and little jealousies
entertained, in the very caverns of death. More than one person was taken
from the dinner table, or the game of chess, to the place of execution.
From a nation so strangely indifferent to its dearest interests, what
intelligence can you expect to collect? If you ask a question relating
to those dreadful moments, instead of a simple answer of facts, you
receive a violent philippic against the memory of a man, too infamous
even to deserve the honours of abuse. If you make an inquiry about the
present constitution, you are laughed at, and, _pour toute réponse_, are
told, “C’est Bonaparte qui fait tout—tout lui est soumis—tout lui est
possible.[95]”
A gentleman and his wife, proposing to visit Paris, particularly if they
happen to be attached to each other, and have no decided rank, ought
carefully to provide themselves with all the letters of recommendation
which they can possibly obtain, if they wish to be admitted into any
of the houses of the parisians. They must remember, that every thing
is calculated in this town, and that, if the female traveller will not
conciliate the masters of families by her smiles, nor her husband by
presents and attentions to the ladies, no door will be opened which is
not forced open by the imperious command of some person, on whose power
and interest the party depends. With the most insignificant title, or
the lowest order of chivalry, something may be done, for these add to
the splendour of an assembly; but without these advantages, and without
vice, foreigners live but dully in this gay city. An english lady, of
superiour talents, observed to me one day, with great truth, that she
never discovered that her title of “countess” was of any use, till she
entered the territory of the french republic. I ought also to mention,
that it seldom happens in this country, that a person, to whom a stranger
is recommended, thinks it necessary to present him to another. Of
course, the number of acquaintance will not exceed that of the letters
with which a foreigner is favoured. It may be doubtful, whether all
of these will be attended to; but, at any rate, the houses of those
to whom he is addressed will form the limits of his society. Families
coming here with children, will have great advantages in procuring them
education. Masters in every science, and in every language, may be had
at a very easy expense. The only antidote is the temptation to pleasure.
Under a certain age, no place can be so well suited to the purposes of
instruction.
Having taken a hasty view of the different situations in which this town
may be visited, I shall conclude my subject by enumerating in what I
conceive London is superiour to Paris, and in what Paris is superiour to
London.
In width, cleanliness, and beauty, the streets of London have such a
decided advantage over those of Paris, that I believe even a frenchman
would acknowledge, that the question could not be disputed. The footpaths
of the former, on which the pedestrian may walk without danger or dirt;
the excellent pavement, which prevents any fatigue from being experienced
in the use of a carriage; and the brilliance of the lamps at night, which
renders the passage, in an evening, from one part of the town to another,
rather a pleasure than a pain, are but ill contrasted by the narrow and
filthy lanes of the latter, in which persons on foot are constantly
exposed to every kind of accident and inconvenience; to the neglected
carriage ways, in moving over which individuals are bruised, and wheels
rapidly worn out, and to the dismal and uncertain light, which a few
lanterns, hung by cords suspended from the opposite houses, faintly
afford. But if the streets of Paris must yield to those of London,
the former city is undoubtedly superiour in its palaces and public
buildings, and in the height, style, and architecture of private houses,
the stone fronts, regular plan, and lofty dimensions of which, have a
very commanding appearance. But though the edifices are finer, and the
arrangement more convenient, each floor consisting of a complete set of
rooms, yet, from their great size, it usually happens that the same house
is inhabited by several families, and the stairs, consequently, becoming
public, are as dirty and as disgusting as the common streets. Where too
an individual keeps an entire house in his possession, the number of his
servants is rarely proportioned to the size of his habitation, and either
only a part is occupied, or the whole is neglected and in bad order.
I cannot help adding, as a singular circumstance, that notwithstanding
the extensive and superiour scale on which private hotels are built at
Paris, I have seldom seen open, at an assembly here, either as many
rooms, or those of such large dimensions, as are met with, on similar
occasions, in families of rank and fashion in London. The reason of this
apparent contradiction, perhaps, is this, that as but one floor (whether
others belong to the same person or not) is generally made use of, the
bed rooms, offices, and antichamber, occupy too large a space to allow
much extent for the apartments devoted to the reception of company.
From the opposite reason, it often happens that a house in London, of
moderate size, has several large rooms, in which a numerous society may
be entertained, though these rooms are scattered on different floors.
In respect to furniture, the houses of the “_parvenus_” are elegantly
and splendidly fitted up. Most of the other private hotels have received
little improvement, repair, or alteration, since the beginning of
the revolution, and are consequently not very remarkable, either for
freshness or novelty of taste. Carpets are not common; and though the
beds are generally better, and in a more ornamental form, than those
usually seen in England, and the antique shapes are most classically
imitated in the decoration of these, and in the chairs, or _fauteuils_;
yet, in other respects, I think our modern manner of fitting up houses
has the advantage over that which generally prevails at Paris. Mahogany,
so commonly used in England for dinner tables, is seldom applied to that
purpose in France; and, as the cloth is never removed, they are made
of deal. _En revanchè_ it forms, instead of gold, the frames of satin
furniture; and the walls of drawing rooms are often ornamented with
that wood. I cannot say, I admire mahogany thus employed; but this is
entirely a matter of taste. Plate glass is, of course, very superiour,
and infinitely more common in the decoration of rooms than in England;
yet, with this exception, and a few others, I think our apartments in
London are more completely furnished, are much cleaner, and have many
little comforts which are wanting in those of Paris. Some particular
houses here do, indeed, present models of taste, profusion, and luxury,
unequalled by any of ours; but the number of these is very trifling, and
alters but little the general result.
The eating rooms of french houses are very disgusting. Instead of the
comfortable turkey carpet, handsome curtains, _stuccoed_ walls, blazing
fire, and ornamented sideboard, of a London parlour, the dinner is here
served in a dark and gloomy apartment, called “_la salle à manger_,”
imperfectly heated with a stove, the floor generally of stone, and always
without a carpet, the windows without curtains or shutters, and the whole
dirty and uninviting. Where there is not a separate antichamber, the
servants occupy the dining rooms in the absence of their masters; and, in
that case, the smell, which such company are apt to leave, is extremely
offensive.
Of the assemblies I have already spoken. Excepting a great ball given
by madame Recamier, where there was a crowd of three or four hundred
persons of different classes, with only a standing or _sandwich_ supper,
and a superb fête given by monsieur de Dimidoff, a rich russian, I
have heard of no very numerous party. The balls generally consist of
from fifty to a hundred people. Those at which I was present, appeared
rather calculated to show the dancing and dress of the ladies, than to
promote general gayety or diversion. In splendour of _costume_, and in
graceful movements, our entertainments of this sort must yield to those
of Paris; but in general mirth, in decorations, in supper, and brilliancy
of light, the comparison is decidedly in favour of the former. The
constant fluctuation also which takes place in London, from the number
of engagements of each individual, gives a variety which is wanting in a
french party, at which all the invited pass their whole evening.
The _thés_, which answer, in some respects, to our card parties, are
infinitely less in number than the latter. The conversation of the former
is, undoubtedly, on subjects more worthy of occupying the attention
of rational beings, than the senseless _chit chat_ of our fashionable
_coteries_. It is only to be regretted, that the desire of speaking
on literary subjects with _éclat_, so generally prevalent at Paris,
not unfrequently degenerates into pedantry and affectation. Hence the
tasteless coiner of pompous sentences is often mistaken for a man of
genius; and the chattering ostentatious coxcomb is admired, while the
silence of modesty, and the reflection of good sense, expose those in
whom they are discovered, sometimes to ridicule, and always to neglect.
The conversation too, is commonly monopolised by a few, and the rest
of the company yawn away their evening uninterested and uninteresting.
On this subject the higher classes, of both countries, might improve,
by observing the faults of each other; those of England, in rendering
the topics of their conversation less trifling; and those of France, by
letting ideas, instead of expressions, occupy their attention.
The concerts here are dull and tiresome entertainments, which last five
or six hours uninterruptedly. Young ladies are often the principal
performers, and admired rather in proportion to their rank and fashion
than to the harmony of their voice, or the scientifical proficiency which
they have made in the study of music. As we have generally in London the
first italian masters, and the most distinguished singers, I conceive
that our amusements of this sort must be superiour to those of Paris.
Of the _spectacles_ I have fully spoken in a former letter. I shall,
therefore, be as concise as possible at present. The opera of Paris is
superiour to that of London in dancing and decoration; but the latter, in
point of brilliance, gayety, music, beauty, and elegance of company, has
such an advantage over the former, that it may be justly said to be, in
the language of Shakspeare, “Hyperion to a satyr.” As to the play-houses,
the comic performers in France possess a degree of extraordinary merit,
and of professional skill, which I do not conceive any theatre of Europe
can equal; but if they have attained a higher point of perfection than
our actors in that line, I think our tragedians as decidedly exceed the
french in simplicity of diction and of manner, in the just representation
of human passions, and, above all, in taking nature for their guide,
which, in assuming the buskin, the latter seem entirely to forget. As to
the general state of the _spectacles_ as public places, those of London
are infinitely gayer, but those of Paris more orderly, and less subject
to riots, indecency, and disturbance.
The walks, or _promenades_, of both these great cities, are delightful.
Ours have the singular merit of being pleasant even in winter; and,
besides, our large streets, the footways of which, even after rain, are
soon dry, with the gardens of our various squares and inns of court, St.
James’s and Hyde park offer constant and beautiful spots for exercise.
At Paris, there are no _trottoirs_; and the Thuilleries, Champs Elisées,
and Boulevards, are almost impassable for foot passengers in bad weather.
When the spring begins, the scene changes, and this city then boasts some
charming gardens, which I have already enumerated, and which are well
frequented. In my opinion, however, there is nothing here to be compared
either with Hyde park or Kensington gardens.
For excursions round the town, the neighbourhood of London seems to
afford more variety and picturesque views than that of Paris; but the
vicinity of both cities is very beautiful.
The hours of the two capitals are now so nearly alike, that it is
unnecessary to draw a comparison between them. No genteel family at
Paris dines before four or five o’clock, and some persons not till six
or seven. The _thés_ begin about nine, the balls at twelve. The theatres
commence at seven, and are generally over between ten and eleven.
The shops of London, as well as every kind of trade and manufactory, are
so decidedly superiour to those of Paris, that it would be ridiculous
to make the subject a question of doubt. There have been, however, some
very elegant “_magazins_” (or shops) lately opened in la Rue de la Loi
(ci-devant de Richelieu), particularly that of M. le Roi, and another
called “la Maison de la Providence,” nearly opposite _la Rue de Feydeau_.
Hackney coaches are a convenience which both these cities enjoy in great
perfection. Those of Paris have improved so much since the revolution,
that I conceive them now to be superiour to ours, both in carriages
and horses. The fare for one distance (or “_course_,”) whether long
or short, provided it be within the gates of Paris, is _thirty sols_
(or one shilling and three-pence english). There are, besides these,
“_cabriolets_,” or open carriages, constantly plying, which are not only
good, but uncommonly elegant. They are equal to the best appointed gigs
of private persons in London. The horses are fleet, and the drivers
civil. The fare is something more than that of a “fiacre,” or hackney
coach.
The “hôtels garnis” are not so good or so numerous as they were formerly;
but I think them still better than our houses of the same kind in London.
There is also a privacy in a french apartment (the outward door of each
making a distinct habitation), which gives it a decided advantage over
the lodgings of an english hotel.
The public rooms and private _cabinets_ of “restaurateurs,” are
certainly more elegantly fitted up than the apartments of our taverns or
coffeehouses. The cooking of the former is better, and presents a much
greater variety of dishes, and the affixed price to each article, makes
the price of a dinner depend entirely on the choice of him by whom it is
ordered.
As to society, that material ingredient in the happiness of man, of
which every one who has a head or heart, feels the vast importance, I
conceive that foreigners arriving either in London or in Paris, without
pressing recommendations or exalted rank, may be much embarassed, and
may in both places pass months and even years, without making one
proper acquaintance. Yet it appears to me that there is this great and
distinguishing difference between the manners of the two capitals, that a
person properly introduced to a few families of fashion in London, will
rapidly find his way into every society which he wishes to frequent,
whereas, in Paris, however well individuals may be received in one or
two of the most esteemed houses, that circumstance will not contribute
to their introduction to any others, and if a stranger arrives with a
certain number of recommendations, he may, after a six months residence,
quit Paris without having increased the list of his acquaintance. I
speak on this subject from experience. Besides a near relation of my
own, two or three families[96] long connected with mine, have still
establishments here, and live in the best company of the place. By all
of these Mrs. ⸺ and myself were well and hospitably received, but the
persons whom we met at their houses, neither paid us visits, or in other
respects showed us the most trifling civilities.
Madame de St—l, is the only new acquaintance to whom we are indebted
for a polite and hospitable reception, which indeed every foreigner of
character is sure to find at her house, which on account of the public
characters often seen there, on account of the rational conversation,
and general gayety which always prevail, and above all, on account of
the distinguished wit and universal politeness of “madame,” is the most
agreeable of Paris.
Having thus drawn a comparative statement of the advantages and
disadvantages of these cities, principally viewed as places either of
study or of amusement, I shall be excused for adding a few words on the
state of charitable institutions, though they do not immediately form
part of my subject.
Our hospitals and asylums for suffering poverty, are too well known, and
stand on too high a basis to require any eulogium from me. I am happy
to add, that those of Paris have not been neglected during the united
horrors of war and revolution. A respectable physician (not a frenchman)
assures me, that even during the most barbarous moments of the sanguinary
Robespierre, these useful establishments were not abandoned. By a strange
contradiction, while virtue and innocence were daily dragged to the
scaffold, misery here found a refuge from the agonies of pain, and the
menaces of disease. These institutions are now kept up with liberality,
and every possible attention. Besides several others the medical
gentleman in question particularly praises “l’Hôtel Dieu, rue du Marché
Palu,” where from fifteen hundred to two thousand sick persons receive
the advice of the ablest physicians, and are treated with the most
delicate care. The government, and the persons particularly entrusted
with the management of this establishment, show the most laudable zeal
in its support. “L’Hospice St. Louis” is an excellent appendage to this,
to which those whose complaints are contagious are immediately removed.
He next commends “l’Hospice de la Pitié, rue Fossés St. Victor,” behind
“_le Jardin des Plantes_,” the refuge of distressed innocence, in which
two thousand children of soldiers, who died in the service of their
country, are rescued from misery, and comfortably supported. “L’Hospice
de St. Sulpice, rue de Sèvres,” originally built by madame Necker, in
which one hundred and twenty sick, and eighteen wounded persons are
relieved. “L’Hospice des Incurables,” where the doom of these unhappy
wretches is softened by an extensive garden; and “l’Hospice de la
Salpétrière,” built by Louis XIII, and maintained at present in all its
original grandeur. The building is fine, presenting a majestic _façade_,
and its boundaries are so extensive that it is almost a little city. Here
sixteen hundred girls are employed in making linen and in working lace.
Old married men, young women affected with madness, and female ideots
here receive those little comforts, of which their respective situations
still allow them to partake.
Requesting you to pardon this digression I shall conclude my subject with
a few short observations drawn from my former remarks.
To those who are fond of the arts, and who devote their time to the
pursuit, Paris offers objects of great interest and unequalled beauty.
Persons who pass their lives in a career of dissipation, who are
satisfied with public amusements, bought pleasures, and high play, will
find here, decked in all the joys of variety, the means of gratifying
their favourite wishes. To such as come to view the curiosities of the
place, Paris will appear delightful during a residence of two or three
months, as that time will be fully and agreeably occupied in examining
its various institutions, and in visiting its different theatres,
particularly if the traveller arrives in the beginning of spring,
when the charms of nature are added to those of art. But to him whose
attachments are centred within the circle of his own family, who is fond
of the investigation of truth, and whose early days have been passed in
the polished societies of London, Paris, after its great and striking
beauties have once been sufficiently viewed, will appear comparatively
tame, dull, and uninteresting. He will daily miss the freedom of
conversation, which is so generally prevalent in England; he will look
in vain for that manly sense, with which great national questions are
discussed by men of education in London, he will be irritated by the
flippancy of french politicians, and by the pedantic terms and laboured
sentences, which take the place of sound argument and solid reasoning.
He will find the amusements rather various than splendid. He will find
society difficult when it is good, and dangerous when it is easy[97]. He
will admire the grace and elegance of the ladies, and will look with an
eye of pity, it not of contempt, on the indelicacy of their dress. He
will hear “la bonne compagnie” talked of in every set, and never defined.
He will perhaps at last discover that it only exists, where it does not
assume the name, or as Voltaire says,
“Qui ne s’appelle pas la bonne compagnie, mais qui l’est.”
He will view with wonder and admiration the works of art, and see with no
little pleasure and curiosity the extraordinary man now at the head of
government. Such will be his principal sources of satisfaction at Paris.
He will soon discover that every thing else, however blazoned out in the
trappings of grandeur, or vamped up in the colouring of hyperbole, is
only “air and empty nothing.”
Adieu, my dear sir, I propose setting out to-morrow morning for Lyons,
Switzerland, and Italy. You will, therefore, not hear from me again till
I am far distant from this capital. I came here big with hope, and eager
in expectation. I rejoice at having undertaken the journey, as it has
afforded me much useful information, but I leave Paris without regret,
and with but little desire of a speedy return.
I am, &c.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Three horses and a post boy cost six livres, or five shillings per
post. The post is two leagues, or five miles english.
[2] The room in question has, since this was written, been limited to a
better use. Vide LETTER XX.
[3] Maria Cosway. Her plan is to follow the arrangement of the gallery,
and to devote one copper-plate to each of the fifty-seven grand
divisions or compartments, of which it at present consists, engaging to
continue her work, as the collection shall be increased. The size of the
copper-plate is to be twenty-one inches high, and seventeen wide. The
numbers are to appear monthly, and each is to contain two engravings,
with an historical description of the subjects, and the artists, by
J. Griffiths. Didot the elder, in the Palais royal, receives her
subscriptions. Coloured proofs cost thirty-six livres, and plain ones
twenty-four.
[4] I ought perhaps to mention, that judges of painting have frequently,
in my hearing, complained of the double light in which the pictures are
seen in this gallery. Individually speaking, I was always during the
very many times when I visited this museum so amused, and so delighted,
that I had no inclination to criticise; but it is certainly true, that
on some days the pictures were seen to greater advantage than on others.
The windows of the gallery are directly opposite to one another, and
the paintings are hung on the piers between them. The glare which this
circumstance produces, is the cause of the objection I have named.
[5] Next to the Apollo and the Laocoon, the most celebrated statue is
the Dying Gladiator, the copies of which are dispersed over almost every
country in Europe.
[6] _Spectacle._—This is so important a word, and of such general use in
french conversation, that I cannot too soon introduce it to the notice
of my english reader. It means, first, all the theatres, puppet-shows,
pantomimes, horse exercises, and other motley amusements of this gay
capital.
It is also perpetually in the mouths both of gentlemen and ladies. If
you ask one of the former, whether he were pleased with the opera, he
replies, “Oui, enchanté; le spectacle étoit magnifique.” (Yes, delighted;
the spectacle was magnificent.) And if you put a similar question about a
ball to one of the latter, you receive a similar answer.