CONTRASTS--FRENCH KITCHENS--SHOPS AND SIGNS--THE SEINE--TREES AND
FLOWERS--A PRETTY THIEF--FRENCH WIT--FRENCH SILVER--THE HOTEL DES
INVALIDES.
In narrating the incidents that came under my personal observation, and
the impressions produced by many of them on my mind, during a residence
of eighteen months in the French capital, I have to suffer the
disadvantage of a lapse of ten years, during which some tremendous
visitations have produced very disastrous effects, which may be
attributed not only to the successful hostility of a foreign enemy, but
also to the unrestrained and sanguinary violence arising from domestic
turbulence. These unhappy events may have occasioned changes in the
morals and habits of the Parisians, which would prevent recent
travellers from deeming my descriptions correct or my conclusions
reasonable. Having premised the possibility of a considerable social
alteration, I resume, and shall advert to certain comparative qualities
of persons in this country and in Paris, belonging to similar classes,
presuming to recommend them to the consideration, not only of those who
may visit the French city, but to all who are desirous of the
improvement and civilized progress of thousands around us. Let me put
some unpleasant but truthful contrasts. If I walk, between the hours of
nine and twelve at night, from Stephen's Green, by Grafton Street,
Westmoreland Street, and Sackville Street, to the Rotundo, I shall see
from two to three dozen intoxicated females, and hear many loathsome
expressions. On Monday mornings, there have been frequently upwards of
fifty females convicted before me for drunkenness; and it would appear,
by the statistical tables of the Dublin police, that the numbers have
not decreased since my retirement from office. Now, without stigmatizing
my own native Dublin as a peculiar locality of public impropriety, I
would fearlessly assert that the English Metropolitan district is as
bad, that Liverpool is worse, and our own Cork not better. The contrast
presented to the reader is, that during a residence of eighteen months
in Paris, and in that time frequently passing at late hours through
quarters in which much poverty is to be seen, and to which great
immorality is generally ascribed, I never saw a female under the
influence of liquor, and never heard an expression or witnessed a
gesture of an indecent character.
I ascribe much of the intemperance of the operative classes in Ireland,
aye, and in Great Britain also, to the absence in general of each sex
from the potations of the other. I shall venture on a narrative, which
the stenographic talent of Mr. Hughes enabled him to acquire whilst
waiting in the yard or lobby of the police-court, and listening to a
woman detailing the misfortunes of some of her friends:--
"Mrs. Rafferty had just run out to get a grain of tay and a quarther of
shuggar. Mrs. M'Mullen, the shoemaker's wife, had a few half-pence left
after paying for a pair of soles and some binding; and was it not quare
that they should meet Jenny Riordan just round the corner at Cassidy's
door? Cassidy always kept 'the best of sperrits,' and Jenny Riordan
stood for little Patsy M'Mullen only a fortnight before. Mrs. M'Mullen
insisted that half a glass a-piece would do them no harm, if they'd slip
into Cassidy's. Well, in they went; and just as they were passing
'behind the tay chests,' that all the world mightn't see them, who
should be there but Kitty Laffan and Betty Rooney. Poor Betty had just
left her sarvice, and had half a quarter's wages in her pocket; and she
wished to explain why she wouldn't stay in that place, as her mistress
was too particular entirely. They were all decent women, that never took
more than 'half a glass' at a time. But they were all very genteel, and
had a proper spirit; so each insisted on 'standing' until each half
glass had become half a pint. Mrs. M'Mullen got home after losing the
pair of soles on the way, and got terrible usage from her husband. Mrs.
Rafferty had a little difference with Betty Rooney, and as Betty felt
herself rather strong after the last little sup, she cut Mrs. Rafferty's
head with a pewter quart that happened, unluckily, to be 'convenient.'
Mrs. Rafferty put Betty's eyes into mourning for the next week; and the
big polisman (I don't know his name, but they call him 'Coffin-foot',
because you might bury a child in his shoe) escorted the combatants to
Chancery Lane." Some more of the party were picked up on their way home,
and taken to Newmarket, and were brought up to the Head Office next
morning. The husbands of these half-glass takers could not say much
about the matter, for they had a little jollification amongst themselves
on the previous Monday, and two of them beat their respective wives very
severely, for daring to go skulking and prying after them, and
disturbing them, under the pretence of getting them home.
Such was not an exaggerated picture, nor did it deal with an unusual
occurrence; but there was a vast difference between it and the
indulgences of the corresponding class in Paris. There, if a married
operative took himself to the fair of St. Cloud, to the Bois de
Boulogne, or Vincennes, his wife almost invariably not only accompanied
him, and if they had a family, brought one or two of the children with
her, but she also assumed the direction of the humble festivity over
which she presided. Then, as to the refreshments, no seclusion was
sought: on the contrary, if the weather was fine, the open air was
preferred. Their landlord, their employers, their neighbours might be
passing, or perhaps occupying the next tables, whilst the Frenchman and
his family were enjoying themselves. The woman shared the wine, beer,
coffee, cakes, or whatever formed the repast. Their superiors were
recognised, and saluted with grave respect. Their acquaintances were
accosted with politeness and apparent cordiality, but were not invited
to join. Wine was not much used; beer, of German or English manufacture,
especially the latter, was the drink most desired. The man sat, chatted,
and smoked; the woman occupied herself with the children, or perhaps
with needle-work. The various incidents of a French metropolitan
thoroughfare or pleasure-grounds amused and sometimes excited them.
Intoxication and its concomitant indecencies and absurdities were
ignored. A man could not but feel repugnance to excess in the presence
of his wife, and with his children almost at his knees; and, moreover,
publicity is an important auxiliary to the promotion and maintenance of
decorum. In the British empire, the respectability of a neighbourhood is
considered a valid reason against granting a licence for the sale of
liquor to be consumed on the premises, in the vicinity. In Paris, there
is a _restaurant_ in the gardens of the Tuileries, another at the
Luxembourg, and two within the palatial grounds of St. Cloud, unless
recent events have caused their suppression, which there is no reason to
suppose to have occurred. In every part of France that I visited, I felt
convinced that the policy was to have liquors moderately supplied to
sober customers, and to impart full publicity to the sale and
consumption. Amongst us the classes of society are separated from the
view, and consequently from the moral influences of each other; and
licensed public-houses in all our populous localities are provided with
places arranged for the reception and refreshment(?) of the lower
orders, where they may meet "no one better than themselves"--where they
may skulk in and reel out.
I turn to another topic which involved a great and very apparent
difference between the operative and labouring classes who came under
my observation in Paris and those of corresponding grades in my own
country. In the French capital, works were in progress of a most
extensive nature. Great eminences were to be levelled, and valleys
filled up; old streets were to disappear, to be replaced by spacious
Boulevards, lined with splendid mansions. I was informed that upwards of
200,000 labouring men were employed in daily toilsome work, but to avoid
any imputation of an exaggerated statement, I shall suppose the number
not to exceed one-half of the thousands mentioned by my informants. As
to those whom I saw engaged in mere labour, one look at their wrists and
ankles--one glance at their weather-bronzed features and high cheek
bones would suffice to satisfy any observer of the unceasing exertions
incident to their avocations. Their necks were open, and a hat or cap, a
blouse, trousers, shoes, and stockings were the only garments to be
seen. Their clothes in general appeared old and worn; a patched elbow, a
patched knee was to be seen with the great majority: but amongst them I
looked repeatedly, but invariably in vain, for even _one ragged man_. I
may mention that the words "_une leque_" (a rag) was considered amongst
the lower classes in Paris as expressive of the utmost contempt for the
person, male or female, to whom it would be applied.
FRENCH KITCHENS.
To such of my readers as may visit Paris, I presume to suggest that they
will be amused and perhaps surprised by examining two or three French
kitchens. The space appropriated to culinary purposes, even in
establishments containing numerous inmates, is in general less than
one-half the size of the apartment used for similar purposes amongst us.
The cooking is done by "a range," which usually occupies one-third of
the room. Covers, stewpans, saucepans, salad baskets, ladles, &c.,
appear on the shelves or hang thickly upon the walls. They are very
cleanly in appearance. The French own Cayenne, but I never met a French
cook who was acquainted with such a stimulant as Cayenne pepper, nor
did I ever see it at table. Mushrooms are profusely used in a variety of
ways, and by their extensive artificial cultivation, are procurable
almost in all seasons, but catsup appears to be unknown, nor is there a
specific word in the language by which it can be expressed. The French
have been contemptuously designated "frog-eaters," but if you wish to
indulge in a repast of frogs, you will have to pay as much for it as
would procure you a far larger portion of turtle in London or Liverpool.
The hind-quarters of the frog are the only parts used in French cookery.
Snails are highly esteemed, and enormous quantities are displayed for
sale, in baskets or barrels, at certain houses, which exhibit
inscriptions that they are celebrated for snails (_specialité pour
escargots_.) I tried a plate once, and must candidly admit that the
stomach overcame the palate, or perhaps I should say that prejudice
conquered judgment. I have never seen them served up to table, unless in
soup, and my plate contained at least a dozen. I took one, thought it a
delicious morsel, swallowed it, and essayed another. Nothing could be
nicer, and down it went, but then my stomach suggested that I was eating
snails. In vain the palate pleaded; I could go no further, and
compromised with the stomach that if it retained the two, no more should
be offered. I do not consider myself an epicure, but can easily imagine
that a lover of dainties might regret that he had not been trained in
early life to take, without repugnance, _a mess of snails_.
If you fancy corned beef and the vulgar vegetable which is abundantly
used, but never named at our tables by lips polite, let your thoughts
revert to home, and postpone the repast, until your return, for at a
French table it is not to be seen. If you get a nice slice of ham you
are at liberty to wish for a little strong Irish mustard to give it a
relish; the French mustard is made with vinegar and flavored with
garlic, and is certainly a very unpleasant contrast to ours. If you wish
for pepper or salt, turn the haft of your silver or plated fork and help
yourself with it. I never saw a salt-spoon or pepper-castor at a French
table.
SHOPS AND SIGNS.
The shops on the principal commercial thoroughfares of Paris are
tastefully constructed, and their internal arrangements, in almost every
instance, appear creditable to the proprietor and convenient to his
customers. Still, I do not think that Grafton Street, College Green,
Dame Street, Westmoreland Street, or Sackville Street, would be
disparaged by a comparison with the Parisian streets in which similar
trades are pursued as those to which, in the above-mentioned places, the
Dublin shops are appropriated. Perhaps I should not employ the term
"shop," for it appears to have fallen greatly into disuse, and to have
been supplanted by houses, temples, halls, emporiums, magazines,
bazaars, institutions, and repositories. I like the old respectable,
bread-winning word; and I cannot forget the expression attributed to the
first Napoleon, that he overcame every difficulty until he had to
encounter the hostility of "ships and shops." However, I fear I am
digressing, and shall proceed to notice some differences which a tourist
may observe between our shops and those of Paris. In my opinion, nothing
proves the advance of education, although of a very limited nature, in
Dublin more than the almost universal abandonment of signs and peculiar
designations over our shops. In my early boyhood, few of the laboring
class, or even of the domestic servants, could read. It was hazardous to
send a messenger to Messrs. Worthington and Dawson, hardware merchants,
27 Thomas Street. Signs were absolutely necessary for those who could
not read; so we had the "New Frying Pan," the "Golden Boot," the "Three
Nuns," the "Plough," the "Raven," and hundreds of others displayed.
Nicknames were sometimes advantageous to traders; O'Brien of Christ
Church yard would rather have his till plundered than be deprived of his
designation of "Cheap John." "Squinting Dick's" was an unfailing
direction to a rich trader's in Mary's Abbey, where he viewed both sides
of the street at one glance. In France. I feel convinced that the
education of the "million" has not advanced as it has with us, and
consequently signs and peculiar titles for commercial establishments are
extensively used. In Paris the number and variety is astonishing, and in
some instances very irreverent. That name, at the mention of which every
knee should bend, is over more than one shop. Saintly names and effigies
designate many houses engaged in the sale of mere worldly wares or
fashionable vanities. A picture of the first Napoleon is displayed on
one house as "La Redingôte Grise," (the grey riding coat,) and on
another he appears as "Le Petit Caporal" (the little corporal.) Some
signs bespeak the patronage of the aristocratic legitimists, others
refer to French progress in the arts, or prowess in the battle-field.
Some of the shops amuse by ludicrous propinquities. In the Rue de Rivoli
one house, over the door of which Cupid appears persistently stationary,
is inscribed with an announcement of marriage outfits; next door to it
is an extensive establishment of baby linen. On one of the Boulevards,
St. Michael the archangel is only a door removed from--the prophet
Mahomet.
I have to enunciate a deliberate opinion, which to those who have not
visited the French capital will undoubtedly appear extraordinary, and
perhaps be by them considered exaggerated. It is to the effect that if I
had to select the Parisian shop most worthy of a prize for comparative
cleanliness, beauty of internal arrangement, quality and variety of
productions incident to the trade, I should feel bound to award the
preference to some one of the many shops belonging to BUTCHERS. In
nearly all these concerns, whether small or spacious, it would be almost
impossible to suggest any improvement. There is one belonging to Duval,
in the Rue Tronchet, just at the rere of the Madeleine, well deserving
of an express visit. An entire house is appropriated to make a shop, and
nothing intervenes between the floor and the roof. Over the front, as
emblems of the trade, you see gilded ox-heads and the horns of deer
displayed. You enter on a floor neatly matted, or in summer sprinkled
with white sand. The meat lies on slabs of white marble, or hangs from
hooks of polished steel, and the scales are sheeted with porcelain.
Stools, well padded, and covered with green leather afford you a seat.
On the shelves, and in the recesses, bouquets of flowers and pots of the
choicest exotics gratify your sight and smell. A fountain with a
rock-work basin exhibits gold fish and scarlet carp. The cashier is a
handsome female, elegantly attired. The aspect of the place tends to
excite an appetite, for no idea of an impure or disgusting nature can be
suggested by anything in your view. The front closes with lattice rails,
which admit the air, and the meat in warm weather is covered with a
gauzy kind of canvas which excludes the flies. If you admire a nice
plant or bouquet, it is intimated that you can have it at a certain
price, and the fish will be sold if you fancy any of them. Any articles
you purchase are succeeded next morning by a fresh supply. One word,
however, as to the Parisian butchers' shops. Never lodge very near one,
unless you are satisfied to lie awake from about four o'clock in the
morning. The beasts are all slaughtered at the public "abattoirs," the
carcasses are conveyed to the shops on strong and loudly-rattling carts.
The work of cutting up, cleaving, sawing, chopping, then commences, and
to sleep, within fifty yards of the place, is out of the question.
The transition is natural from the butcher's stall to the poulterer and
fishmonger. Their shops are far inferior in arrangement or appearance to
those of the flesh vendors, but the fowls in France are uncommonly fine,
which is ascribed to the feeding being _finished_ with maize and milk. I
would back Paris against London for a Christmas turkey or pair of fowl.
Truffles are an addition seldom seen at our tables, but a splendid
turkey would be considered in France, a very ill-treated bird, if it
went to the spit unaccompanied by the honors of a truffle-stuffing. I
may here incidentally mention that I have seen flocks of turkeys at _St.
Germain en Laye_, and also in different parts of Normandy and Brittany,
feeding eagerly on haws picked from the foot-stalks and crushed in
wooden troughs. What numbers of turkeys might be fed in Ireland by a
similar process! Fish, in Paris, is scarcely ever of first-rate quality,
and it is always dear. They eat many kinds which we seldom touch. Carp,
tench, and perch are frequently to be seen at table, and the gudgeon is
used to an extent calculated to surprise a Dublin man, in the vicinity
of whose city it is most abundant, but at whose repasts it is unknown.
THE SEINE.
The Seine, which at Paris is a considerable river, not being affected by
any tide, and also being protected from the access of such quantities of
filth as are conveyed into the Liffey by our public sewers, presents
always a clear, and sometimes a limpid, appearance. The banks are a
great school of practical patience. There may be seen numerous anglers
watching the floats of their lines, and tranquilly awaiting the bite of
some unwary member of the finny tribe, whilst hours are absorbed into
past time, but without pastime--not even "one glorious nibble" rewarding
their perseverance. I have sauntered along the quays of Paris for an
hour or two almost every day, and never saw but one capture, which was a
small eel. The proprietor of the rod and line seemed very proud of his
solitary achievement, and it was evident that he regarded it as an
unusual occurrence.
Persons who rescue others from drowning at Paris receive from some
public fund, either police or municipal, a reward of twenty francs (16s.
8d.) I have been credibly informed that it is not an infrequent
arrangement between two scamps, that one is to fall into the river, and
then the other takes a heroic plunge, seizes the sinking victim, and
emulates the skill and courage of Cassius, when, "from the waves of
Tiber he bore the troubled Cæsar." But the modern Cassius and Cæsar, if
the reward is attained, devote it to a gastronomic sacrifice, and feast
sumptuously on what was so nobly acquired. A young female on the Quai
Voltaire, having excited suspicion by falling too frequently into the
river, was told that no reward would be given for any future salvage;
consequently the subsequent wettings of her garments were reserved for
the washing tub.
TREES AND FLOWERS.
Perhaps the most general taste in France, amongst all classes and
conditions of people, is for ornamental trees and flowers; you see them
everywhere. On the Boulevards you find rows of the Oriental plane,
acacia, horse-chestnut, hickory, catalpa, maple, and various other
trees. Every nook or corner, not required for some industrial or
domestic purpose, is planted. The yards of horse repositories or forges
have trees or scandent plants trained on the walls; and in private
residences, and the enclosures belonging to public offices, trees and
flowers abound. Balconies and window-stools display boxes and flowerpots
wherever the aspect is favorable; and even in northern aspects the hardy
ivy is encouraged to push its verdant tendrils. In the palatial gardens
and public parks, Flora appears to be not merely the presiding, but the
monopolising deity. Great care is bestowed on the cultivation of those
places; but it is worthy of remark and imitation on the part of
strangers, that where an enormous population have free access, without
any distinction of age or class, no trespass is committed--the blossoms
are unplucked, and the boughs unbroken. Flower shows are very frequent
in Paris, and are always certain of attracting a numerous and
fashionable assemblage. I have attended on many such occasions; and my
candid judgment of the gardens and horticultural exhibitions I have seen
is, that profusion and mediocrity appear to be their leading
characteristics. I can freely and fairly acknowledge that many of the
choicest productions of our gardens, our best fruits and finest flowers,
have been originally derived from France; but our cultivation, whether
of trees or plants, results in a decided superiority. However, I have
seen a vast deal worthy of admiration in their horticulture, and I hope
that speedy improvement will attend their future labors. I shall now
close my horticultural remarks with an anecdote which I ascertained to
be strictly true.
A PRETTY THIEF.
In 1864 there was a show of fruits and flowers in the Rue de la
Chausée-d'Antin, and the proprietor of a suburban nursery exhibited a
collection of _orchides_, grown and blown to perfection. One flower was
of surpassing size and beauty, and was deservedly considered the gem of
the exhibition. On the second day, a young woman of prepossessing
appearance, whose attire and manner indicated that she belonged to the
industrial class, appeared to be quite enchanted by the splendid orchis,
and her encomiums, and perhaps her good looks, attracted the attention
of the exhibitor. He paid her some gallant compliments, and ventured to
inquire her name.
"Monsieur, it is in the catalogue."
"Then, Mademoiselle, it must be 'Rose;' you are indeed worthy of the
same designation as the pride of our parterres."
"Monsieur is right in his conjectures as to my name, but he is mistaken
in the comparison by which he compliments me so greatly."
"May I presume, to ask where Mademoiselle resides?"
"I live, Monsieur in the Rue d'Amsterdam, No. --."
"I indulge the pleasing hope that Mademoiselle may permit me to have the
honour of calling on her."
"Monsieur confers a great honour on me, I shall have much pleasure in
receiving his visit."
The horticulturist became completely enamoured; he redoubled his
compliments, and eventually requested Mademoiselle to remain in care of
his flowers whilst he procured some ice and other delicacies for her
refection. When he returned, Rose had disappeared, and with her his
magnificent orchis had departed. The plant remained, but the stem was
severed near the root, and the display of its loveliness was adjourned
for at least twelve months. Furiously indignant, he denounced the pretty
Rose as a thief. Proceeding quickly to the Rue d'Amsterdam, he found
that the numbers of the houses stopped short by one of the number
mentioned by her. He was despoiled, and had no available remedy. Towards
the close of the next day, he was contemplating his stand, lamenting the
loss of its greatest attraction, and recounting to his sympathising
friends the circumstances of the spoliation, when a box and a note were
delivered to him by a porter, who had been employed to convey them from
a neighbouring street. The note was as follows:--
"MONSIEUR,
"You displayed too great a temptation to an ardent admirer of
beautiful flowers. From the moment I beheld your orchis I
determined that its artificial reproduction should not fall to the
lot of any rival _artiste_. In the accompanying box you may behold
your flower; and if you place it upon the stem, it will not wither
for a considerable time. Receive, Monsieur, the assurance of my
lasting respect and gratitude.
"ROSE."
The box contained an artificial orchis, so exactly resembling the stolen
flower, that it would deceive the closest observer. It was placed upon
the stand, and passed off admirably. The fair delinquent was not
detected--indeed the search for her was not rigorously pursued--but
copies of the abstracted orchis gained a general and deserved
pre-eminence amongst the artificial flowers which graced the fashionable
female dresses of the succeeding season.
FRENCH WIT.
Some of the lighter literary productions of the French press afford to a
reader abundant instances of pithy and witty expressions. A stranger who
has not been habituated to the language, and accustomed to think in it
as well as to speak it, will be very likely to allow many sparkles of
conversational wit to escape his notice, and may consequently impute
more dullness to the social circle in which he mingles than he is
justified in ascribing. I am sure that many ebullitions of genius
totally escaped my observation, but I recollect an expression addressed
to me by a cab-driver which I cannot omit relating. I had walked down
the Rue St. Florentine towards the Place de la Concorde, when in turning
the corner at which I had arrived, the driver accidentally let his whip
fall. It lay just at my feet, I took it up and handed it to the owner,
who respectfully touched his hat and said, "I thank you, sir; I hope
that whenever misfortune (_malheur_) meets you, he'll lose his whip."
FRENCH SILVER.
I often thought, during my Parisian sojourn, that the instability of
human dynasties was strongly evidenced by a handful of French silver, a
coinage which has been left to public currency from the end of the last
century. I met with coins of the old Republic, of Bonaparte, First
Consul; Napoleon, Emperor; Louis XVIII., Charles X., Louis Philippe, the
French Republics again, and Napoleon III. The silver coins of the
Republic immediately preceding the last empire, have on the obverse,
"Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité." I remarked to a shopkeeper in the Rue de
Bac, that it was very strange the Imperial government left the coin of
the Republic still in circulation. He took up a five-franc piece, and
said, "_Liberté point. Egalité point. Fraternité point_." The forcible
wit of his expression consisted in the double meaning which may be
assigned to "_point_." It signifies a full stop or period, but taken as
an adverb, it may be understood to denote "Liberty, not at all;
Equality, not at all; Fraternity, not at all."
THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.
There is no institution more worthy of a visit from a tourist than the
Hotel des Invalides at Paris. An additional interest has been imparted
to it since the remains of the first Napoleon have been deposited in a
magnificent mausoleum immediately adjoining. In the front of the
building, ranged along the terrace, and also on the eastern and western
sides, were a considerable number of cannon, captured in war. I saw guns
of Russian, Chinese, Dutch, Austrian, Prussian, and Moorish origin; but
amongst them all I do not believe that the English artillery would find
an old acquaintance. When you enter the church, your attention is
immediately arrested by the flags of various nations pendant from the
walls to your right and left, and placed there as captured trophies. On
the left hangs an English flag. I asked, on four different occasions,
and of different persons, where this color had been taken. The
invariable reply was "Leipsic." I thought this very extraordinary,
having always supposed that no English were at Leipsic, except a troop
of the Rocket Brigade, and certainly they did not carry a color.
The Hotel des Invalides was under the direction of the Minister of War;
and in the library of the War Office I have seen several rolls and
registries of its former inmates. In such as relate to the period
between 1700 and 1775, Irish names are not infrequent; Byrne, Bryan,
Carty, Cavanagh, Dunne, Delany, Keogh, Kelly, Corcoran, Quin, Purcell,
Redmond, Sullivan, &c., appear to attest the services and sufferings of
the Irish Brigade. There are not many "O's"; and I am inclined to
believe that in several instances that prefix was laid aside purposely.
Scotch names occur, but not at all in such frequency as Irish. Of the
occupiers of this splendid military asylum, I can safely affirm that I
found them extremely civil, and by no means reserved in their
communications. They were proud of their Institution and of the
profession with which it was connected; but their conversations
exhibited the human character in some thoroughly prejudiced phases. I
did not meet amongst the veterans even one individual who had served
under "The Emperor," and only three or four who had ever seen him; but
all were well versed in the traditions of his military achievements. I
had become intimate with Monsieur Turpin, the librarian of the War
Office, who understood English perfectly, and he appeared to enjoy, as
much as I did, frequent visits to the Invalides, and the peculiar
feelings or sentiments expressed by the old soldiers, especially
regarding the policy adopted by Napoleon, and the political and military
operations to which he had recourse for the extension of French power
throughout the world. It was almost an article of faith amongst them,
that Napoleon was never conquered by any of his numerous adversaries.
They could not admit that he ever committed a military mistake, or was
guilty of a moral wrong. In Russia, he was repelled by the frost and
snow. At Leipsic he suffered a reverse by the premature explosion of a
mine. At Waterloo he was sold. At Paris he was betrayed. It was
politically expedient for Napoleon to imprison Ferdinand of Spain, when
he entered France as a suitor for the hand of his sister, Pauline; but
it was infamous to send Napoleon to St. Helena. It was a noble idea for
Napoleon to collect the choicest works of art from every capital on the
Continent into the museum of the Louvre; but that their original owners
should take them back was _robbery_. It was glorious to recollect that
the victorious eagle of France had triumphantly entered Madrid, Lisbon,
Berlin, Rome, Vienna, Milan, Naples, Munich, Venice, Hamburg, and
Moscow; but that the European powers should ever think of returning the
visit--that the Russians should have threatened to shell Paris from the
heights of Montmartre--that the Prussians should have encamped in the
Bois de Boulogne, and the English in the Champs Elysées, was a
degradation, an insult never to be forgotten nor forgiven. After all,
perhaps, these Frenchmen are fair specimens of human vanity, of human
resentments, and only think and speak as we would think and speak if we
had, like them, to revert to a series of astonishing military successes
terminating in our complete discomfiture.