_Paris, October 21, 1801._
On approaching this capital, my curiosity was excited in the highest
degree; and, as the carriage passed rapidly along from the
_Barrière_, through the _Porte St. Denis_, to the _Rue neuve St.
Roch_, my eyes wandered in all directions, anxiously seeking every
shade of distinction between _monarchical_ and _republican_ Paris.
The first thing that attracted my attention, on entering the
_faubourg_, was the vast number of inscriptions placed, during the
revolution, on many of the principal houses; but more especially on
public buildings of every description. They are painted in large,
conspicuous letters; and the following is the most general style in
which they have been originally worded:
"RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE, UNE ET INDIVISIBLE."
"LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ, OU LA MORT."
Since the exit of the French Nero, the last three words "_ou la
mort_" have been obliterated, but in few places are so completely
effaced as not to be still legible. In front of all the public
offices and national establishments, the tri-coloured flag is
triumphantly displayed; and almost every person you meet wears in his
hat the national cockade.
The tumult which, ten or twelve years ago, rendered the streets of
Paris so noisy, so dirty, and at the same time so dangerous, is now
most sensibly diminished. Boileau's picture of them is no longer
just. No longer are seen those scenes of confusion occasioned by the
frequent stoppages of coaches and carts, and the contentions of the
vociferating drivers. You may now pass the longest and most crowded
thoroughfares, either on foot or otherwise, without obstacle or
inconvenience. The contrast is striking.
Indeed, from what I have observed, I should presume that there is
not, at the present day, one tenth part of the number of carriages
which were in use here in 1780-90. Except on the domestics of foreign
ambassadors and foreigners, I have as yet noticed nothing like a
livery; and, in lieu of armorial bearings, every carriage, without
distinction, has a number painted on the pannel. However, if private
equipages are scarce, thence ensues more than one advantage; the
public are indemnified by an increased number of good hackney
coaches, chariots, and cabriolets; and, besides, as I have just
hinted, pedestrians are not only far less exposed to being
bespattered, but also to having their limbs fractured.
Formerly, a _seigneur de la cour_ conceived himself justified in
suffering his coachman to drive at a mischievous rate; and in narrow,
crowded streets, where there is no foot-pavement, it was extremely
difficult for persons walking to escape the wheels of a great number
of carriages rattling along in this shameful manner. But he who
guided the chariot of a _ministre d'état_, considered it as a
necessary and distinctive mark of his master's pre-eminence to
_brûler le pavé_. This is so strictly true, that, before the
revolution, I have here witnessed repeated accidents of the most
serious nature, resulting from the exercise of this sort of
ministerial privilege: on one occasion particularly, I myself
narrowly escaped unhurt, when a decent, elderly woman was thrown
down, close by my feet, and had both her thighs broken through the
unfeeling wantonness of the coachman of the Baron de Breteuil, at
that time minister for the department of Paris.
Owing to the salutary regulations of the police, the recurrence of
these accidents is now, in a great measure, prevented; and, as the
empirics say in their hand-bills: "_Prevention is better than cure._"
But for these differences, a person who had not seen Paris for some
years, might, unless he were to direct his visits to particular
quarters, cross it from one extremity to the other, without remarking
any change to inform his mind, that here had been a revolution, or
rather that, for the last ten years, this city had been almost one
continual scene of revolutions.
Bossnet, once preaching before Lewis XIV, exclaimed: "Kings die, and
so do kingdoms!" Could that great preacher rise from his grave into
the pulpit, and behold France without a king, and that kingdom, not
crumbled away, but enlarged, almost with the rapid accumulation of a
snow-ball, into an enormous mass of territory, under the title of
French Republic, what would he not have to say in a sermon? _Rien de
nouveau sous le ciel_, though an old proverb, would not now suit as a
maxim. This, in fact, seems the age of wonders. The league of
monarchs has ended by producing republics; while a republic has
raised a dukedom into a monarchy, and, by its vast preponderance,
completely overturned the balance of power.
Not knowing when I may have an opportunity of sending this letter, I
shall defer to close it for the present, as I may possibly lengthen
it. But you must not expect much order in my narrations. I throw my
thoughts on paper just as they happen to present themselves, without
any studied arrangement.
_October 21, in continuation_.
When we have been for some time in the habit of corresponding with
strangers, we are apt to draw such inferences from their language and
style, as furnish us with the means of sketching an ideal portrait of
their person. This was the case with myself.
Through the concurrence of the two governments, I had, as you know,
participated, in common with others, in the indulgence of being
permitted to correspond, occasionally, on subjects of literature with
several of the _savans_ and literati of France. Indeed, the principal
motive of my journey to Paris was to improve that sort of
acquaintance, by personal intercourse, so as to render it more
interesting to both parties. In my imagination, I had drawn a
full-length picture of most of my literary correspondents. I was now
anxious to see the originals, and compare the resemblance.
Yesterday, having first paid my respects to Mr. M----y, the successor
to Captain C----s, as commissary for the maintenance and exchange of
British prisoners of war, and at present _Chargé d'affaires_ from our
court to the French Republic, I called on M. F----u, formerly
minister of the naval department, and at present counsellor of state,
and member of the National Institute, as well as of the board of
longitude. I then visited M. O----r, and afterwards M.
L------re, also members of the Institute, and both well known to our
proficients in natural history, by the works which each has published
in the different branches of that interesting science.
In one only of my ideal portraits had I been very wide of the
likeness. However, without pretending to be a Lavater, I may affirm
that I should not have risked falling into a mistake like that
committed, on a somewhat similar occasion, by Voltaire.
This colossus of French literature, having been for a long time in
correspondence with the great Frederic, became particularly anxious
to see that monarch. On his arrival in a village where the
head-quarters of the Prussian army were then established, Voltaire
inquired for the king's lodging: thither he paced with redoubled
speed; and, being directed to the upper part of the house, he hastily
crossed a large garret; he then found himself in a second, and was
just on the point of entering the third, when, on turning round, he
perceived in one of the comers of the room, a soldier, not overclean
in appearance, lying on a sorry bedstead. He went up and said to him
with eagerness: "Where's the king?"--"I am Frederic," replied the
soldier; and, sure enough, it was the monarch himself.
I am now settled in my new apartments, which are situated in the most
centrical part of Paris. When you visit this capital, I would by all
means, recommend to you, should you intend to remain here a few
weeks, to get into private lodgings.
I know of no article here so much augmented in price, within the last
ten years, as the apartments in all the hotels. After looking at
several of them in the _Rue de la Loi_, accompanied by a French
friend, who was so obliging as to take on himself all the trouble of
inquiry, while I remained a silent bystander, I had the curiosity to
go to the _Hôtel d'Angleterre_, in the _Rue des Filles St. Thomas_,
hot far from the _ci-devant Palais Royal_. The same apartments on the
first floor of this hotel which I occupied in 1789, happened to be
vacant. At that time I paid for them twelve louis d'or a month; the
furniture was then new; it is now much the worse for nearly eleven
years' wear; and the present landlord asked twenty-five louis a
month, and even refused twenty-two, if taken for three months
certain. The fact is, that all the landlords of ready-furnished
hotels in Paris seem to be buoyed up with an idea that, on the peace,
the English and foreigners of other nations will flock hither in such
numbers as to enable them to reap a certain and plentiful harvest.
Not but all lodgings are considerably increased in price, which is
ascribed to the increase of taxes.
To find private lodgings, you have only to cast your eye on the daily
advertiser of Paris, called _Les Petites Affiches_. There I read a
description of my present quarters, which are newly fitted up in
every particular, and, I assure you, with no small degree of tasteful
fancy. My landlady, who is a milliner, and, for aught I know, a very
fashionable one, left not the smallest convenience to my conjecture,
but explained the particular use of every hole and corner in the most
significant manner, not even excepting the _boudoir_.
This would be a most excellent situation for any one whose principal
object was to practise speaking French; for, on the right hand of the
_porte-cochère_ or gateway, (which, by the bye, is here reckoned an
indispensable appendage to a proper lodging), is the _magazin des
modes_, where my landlady presides over twenty damsels, many of whom,
though assiduously occupied in making caps and bonnets, would, I am
persuaded, find repartee for the most witty gallant.