Absence of the English Embassy.--Trial of the Lyons
Prisoners.--Church of the Madeleine.--Statue of Napoleon.
It may be doubtful, perhaps, whether the present period[1] be more
favourable or unfavourable for the arrival of English travellers at
Paris. The sort of interregnum which has taken place in our embassy
here deprives us of the centre round which all that is most gay among
the English residents usually revolves; but, on the other hand, the
approaching trial of the Lyons prisoners and their Parisian
accomplices is stirring up from the very bottom all the fermenting
passions of the nation. Every principle, however quietly and
unobtrusively treasured,--every feeling, however cautiously
concealed,--is now afloat; and the most careless observer may expect
to see, with little trouble, the genuine temper of the people.
The genuine temper of the people?--Nay, but this phrase must be mended
ere it can convey to you any idea of what is indeed likely to be made
visible; for, as it stands, it might intimate that the people were of
one temper; and anything less like the truth than this cannot easily
be imagined.
The temper of the people of Paris upon the subject of this "atrocious
trial," as all parties not connected with the government are pleased
to call it, varies according to their politics,--from rage and
execration to ecstasy and delight--from indifference to
enthusiasm--from triumph to despair.
It will be impossible, my friend, to ramble up and down Paris for
eight or nine weeks, with a note-book in my hand, without recurring
again and again to a theme that meets us in every _salon_, murmurs
through the corridors of every theatre, glares from the eyes of the
republican, sneers from the lip of the doctrinaire, and in some shape
or other crosses our path, let it lead in what direction it may.
This being inevitable, the monster must be permitted to protrude its
horns occasionally; nor must I bear the blame should it sometimes
appear to you a very tedious and tiresome monster indeed. Having
announced that its appearance may be frequently expected, I will leave
you for the present in the same state of expectation respecting it
that we are in ourselves; and, while we are still safe from its
threatened violence, indulge in a little peaceable examination of the
still-life part of the picture spread out before me.
The first objects that struck me as new on re-entering Paris, or
rather as changed since I last saw them, were the Column of the Place
Vendôme, and the finished Church of the Madeleine. Finished indeed!
Did Greece ever show any combination of stones and mortar more
graceful, more majestic than this? If she did, it was in the days of
her youth; for, poetical association apart, and the unquestionably
great pleasure of learned investigation set aside, no ruin can
possibly meet the eye with such perfect symmetry of loveliness, or so
completely fill and satisfy the mind, as does this modern temple.
Why might not our National Gallery have risen as noble, as simple, as
beautiful as this?
As for the other novelty--the statue of the sometime Emperor of the
French, I suspect that I looked up at it with rather more approbation
than became an Englishwoman. But in truth, though the name of Napoleon
brings with it reminiscences which call up many hostile feelings, I
can never find myself in Paris without remembering his good, rather
than his terrible actions. Perhaps, too, as one gazes on this brazen
monument of his victories, there may be something soothing in the
recollection that the bold standard he bore never for an instant
wantoned on a British breeze.
However, putting sentiment and personal feeling of every kind apart,
so much that is admirable in Paris owes its origin to him, that his
ambition and his usurpations are involuntarily forgotten, and the use
made of his ill-gotten power almost obliterates the lawless tyranny of
the power itself. The appearance of his statue, therefore, on the top
of the column formed of the cannon taken by the armies of France when
fighting under his command, appeared to me to be the result of an
arrangement founded upon perfect propriety and good taste.
When his effigy was torn down some twenty years ago by the avenging
hands of the Allies, the act was one both of moral justice and of
natural feeling; and that the rightful owners of the throne he had
seized should never have replaced it, can hardly be matter of
surprise: but that it should now again be permitted to look down upon
the fitful fortunes of the French people, has something of historic
propriety in it which pleases the imagination.
This statue of Napoleon offers the only instance I remember in which
that most grotesque of European habiliments, a cocked-hat, has been
immortalized in marble or in bronze with good effect. The original
statue, with its flowing outline of Roman drapery, was erected by a
feeling of pride; but this portrait of him has the every-day familiar
look that could best satisfy affection. Instead of causing the eye to
turn away as it does from some faithful portraitures of modern
costume with positive disgust, this _chapeau à trois cornes_, and the
well-known loose _redingote_, have that air of picturesque truth in
them which is sure to please the taste even where it does not touch
the heart.
To the French themselves this statue is little short of an idol. Fresh
votive wreaths are perpetually hung about its pedestal; and little
draperies of black crape, constantly renewed, show plainly how fondly
his memory is still cherished.
While Napoleon was still among them, the halo of his military glory,
bright as it was, could not so dazzle the eyes of the nation but that
some portentous spots were discerned even in the very nucleus of that
glory itself; but now that it shines upon them across his tomb, it is
gazed at with an enthusiasm of devoted affection which mixes no memory
of error with its regrets.
It would, I think, be very difficult to find a Frenchman, let his
party be what it might, who would speak of Napoleon with disrespect.
I one day passed the foot of his gorgeous pedestal in company with a
legitimate _sans reproche_, who, raising his eyes to the statue,
said--"Notre position, Madame Trollope, est bien dure: nous avons
perdu le droit d'être fidèles, sans avoir plus celui d'être fiers."