He, who, on his return to Edinburgh from London, should publish his
remarks on the latter city, would not take more superfluous pains, for
the instruction of his countrymen, than the Englishman who should
publish in England an account of Paris: it is there almost as well known
as London itself. Still it is a foreign city: and many, who would scorn
to take up a London Guide, may, for the hundredth time, amuse themselves
with notices of Paris.
"Il n'y a qu'une Paris dans le monde,"[12] say the French, and of that
world they consider it as the capital: they are in some measure
justified in so considering it, by the universality of their language,
by the general imitation of their manners, and, above all, by the
liberality with which every thing that a stranger can desire to view is
offered to his inspection. There is certainly a greater resort of
foreigners to Paris, independently of commerce, than to any other city
of Europe.
I followed the advice of a former tourist, and went, first of all, to
the Place Louis XV. It is almost the only object I have seen in my
travels, that I have heard much praised beforehand, which has not
disappointed me. Perhaps I was thus well contented, because the feeling
of admiration was now, for the first time, excited in the beginning of
my tour in foreign parts; and I pleased myself in expecting a frequent
renewal of it; and I have since admired less, because I have seen more
things to admire. But, to the Place Louis XV. Entering it from the
north, you have the Seine, with its bridge, and the Palais Bourbon
before you; advancing to the middle of the square, you have public
buildings with magnificent colonnades behind you; on the left is the
garden of the Tuilleries, at the end of the central allee of which is
seen the chateau; on the right, the Champs Elysees; and, at the end of
the grand avenue, the triumphal arch, which shared the fate of the
triumphs of its founder, being left incomplete: it has since been
finished in honour of his Royal Highness the Duc d'Angouleme on account
of his Spanish campaign of 1823. A very good taste dictated to Napoleon
the site of this arch; without it the fourth side of this magnificent
square was trees and country only; but the arch seems to enclose the
Champs Elysees, as the Palace encloses the garden of the Tuilleries; the
extent of the _Place_ is increased by making the Champs Elysees appear
as a part of it, and the whole is perfected. The daughter of Louis XVI.
and Marie Antoinette avoids this Place with a pious horror, in which
every honest heart is disposed to sympathise.
The Museum of the Louvre consists of the lower apartments, in which the
statues are placed, and of the gallery of paintings; but as it has
become usual to call the gallery by the name of the Gallery only, the
lower rooms have retained sole possession of the name of Museum. At the
door may be bought catalogues of the statues and paintings, which enter,
in some cases, into a short detail of their history and merits. The
statues are well placed: one may go round them, and see them on every
side. Common sense directs, that a statue should be placed thus; yet at
Rome, statues, the admiration of the world, are placed in dark cabinets,
in niches, close to the wall; as if statues, like paintings, were to be
seen only on one side: they are thus robbed of half their glory, nay of
all their glory; since, to judge of a statue, it must be contemplated as
a whole. "They order these things better in France."
It is easy to say, and it has often been said, that the gallery is too
long,--too long, that is, for its breadth: but who would wish it to be
shorter? and as, on each side, there is sufficient distance to allow a
good view of the pictures opposite, it cannot be said to be too narrow
for its use. By two arches, thrown across the ceiling, it seems to be
divided into three compartments; and thus the length is, in some sort,
broken. The paintings of the Italian school have the place of honour, in
the compartment at the end furthest from the door; the French school is,
however, in a most flourishing state, and boasts great names: it will
soon rival, if it does not already rival, the old Italian school; to
surpass it, is, I suppose, impossible.
This gallery, originally intended as a passage from the Louvre to the
Tuilleries, from the town-house to the country-house of the kings of
France,--is now, with the rooms on the ground-floor, and some large
chambers that have been added, the repository of the finest collection
of monuments of the arts, that is to be found out of Italy. Indeed no
single Italian collection equals it, saving always the reverence due to
certain renowned and incomparable chefs-d'oeuvre.
The Museum of Natural History, in the Jardin des Plantes, is said to be
the first in the world. That class of society which has but one day in
the week of relief from labour is admitted here as well as at the
Louvre. Sunday is not the day on which the museums are closed; as the
French government has not discovered the wisdom of driving the people
into the cabaret by depriving them of all other amusement on that day. I
have attended on that day at both museums, and have been equally
surprised and pleased in witnessing the behaviour of those who on that
day only have leisure to attend in great numbers. They had not the
pretensions of savans and connoisseurs; though probably there might be
found amongst them their fair proportion of connoisseurs and savans.
There was no crowding or jostling,--not so much as I have sometimes
observed in assemblies of people more fashionably dressed: there was no
noise or clamour; they conducted themselves with the greatest decorum:
in the botanical garden, they kept themselves on the walks and allees
without ever stepping among the plants; they did not even teaze the poor
animals imprisoned in the menagerie. No apprehension seemed to be
entertained by any one that they would injure any object of art or
science. This love of mischief is only excited in the people by the
jealousy or disdain of their superiors, refusing to share with them
pleasures that may, at so cheap a rate, be made common to all. Dr.
Willis used to have some of the persons entrusted to his charge as his
daily guests at dinner: he was asked how he succeeded in making his
patients behave so well at table,--"By treating them as if they were in
their senses."
The palace of the Luxembourg contains many very fine paintings, the
works chiefly of living authors: its beautiful garden is a source of
health and enjoyment to the inhabitants of this distant quarter of the
city; and this garden, as well as that of the Tuilleries, is open every
day to the public. Even the passage from the Place du Carousel to the
garden, through the chateau, or from the front door to the back door of
the king's palace, is a public thoroughfare; a practice not very
respectful to the king, say some: I say it is a mark of his kindness;
and I hope the people, to reward him for it, and show their gratitude,
will cry "Vive le Roi" whenever his Majesty appears on the balcony.
The library of the king of France is second only to that of the Vatican,
and superior to the imperial library at Vienna, and to the Bodleian at
Oxford: it is not generally known, even to the English, that this
last-named ranks as the fourth library in Europe. The king of France
gives the use of his library to the public during four hours every day
of the week not a festival, except Thursdays. Persons are in attendance,
who, with an air of civility, as if pleased with the service required of
them, find and present every book that may be asked for; and although
the number of readers is great, the most perfect decorum and silence
prevail. There are five or six other great public libraries at Paris, at
all of which the same accommodation is afforded. The apartment in which
the king's library is kept is handsome, but not sufficiently so, and is
in the midst of other buildings: if a fire should happen, a risk is
incurred of an irreparable loss. When the building, now in construction,
opposite to the Museum of the Louvre, shall be completed, and the Place
du Carousel shall form one vast quadrangle, it is to be hoped that this
building will contain a gallery, like that of the paintings, in which
may be deposited this superb and useful collection of books. With two
palaces united by two such galleries, the king of France will be more
magnificently lodged than any monarch of ancient or modern time: he need
not envy the golden palace of the Caesars: he may even be contented under
the inconvenience consequent on his condescension to the wants of his
people,--of having no place where he can take the air, but that very
balcony, on which I augur to him the continuance of their felicitations.
The Pont Neuf is a fine point of view from which to see the eastern and
southern fronts of this edifice, with the garden and Champs Elysees and
country beyond.
Of the churches of Paris, the cathedral of Notre Dame may rank with the
cathedral churches of the second order in England. Ste. Genevieve,
sometime the Pantheon, although the inscription, "aux grands hommes la
patrie reconnoissante,"[13] was still legible in 1818, is now restored
to the use for which it was built. The portico is so extremely
beautiful, that the architect was blamed by a pun, not transferable into
English, for having turned all his architecture out of doors,--"mis a la
porte toute son architecture." A greater and more unequivocal fault than
this was committed; it was found necessary to support the dome by a
double thickness of wall within. This church is not equal in grandeur to
St. Paul's, which the little boy called "the church of England;" but the
inside is more beautiful, and would appear larger, (as the pillars do
not occupy so much space,) were it not too short in the part beyond the
dome; shorter than the due proportion of the cross demands.
A traveller, soon after the restoration, having visited the tombs below
the pavement of this church, and seen the torch, typical of philosophy,
issuing from that of Voltaire,--observed a monument which seemed to him
a new one; he inquired whose it was, and was told by the attendant,
"that of a member of the ancient Senate."--"But," said the traveller, "I
thought this edifice was the place of interment for great men."--"C'est
vrai; mais, en attendant, on y enterre des senateurs."[14] It is not
certain whether this was said in simplicity or in _persiflage_.
I recommend to the attention of those who visit the church of St.
Sulpice an image or statue of the Blessed Virgin, with the infant
Saviour in her arms, seated on a globe, and surrounded by angels. The
light, from an unseen opening above, falls on the figures in such a
manner, as to give to the whole scene an appearance of animation beyond
what the sculptor, however great his merit, could have produced. There
are other objects in this church worthy of notice. The double portico, or
rather two porticos, one above the other, are much to be admired. I
cannot be persuaded, however, even by the numerous examples of this
practice, that it is not absurd for pillars to support pillars: it seems
as if children were playing at architecture, and trying how high they
could make their building reach. Yet there is nothing childish in these
porticos; they are grand and imposing.
The gilded dome of the Church of the Invalids, from whatever point it
can be seen, is the ornament of Paris, and it is an ornament because it
is gilded. A dome is, on the outside, an ugly and heavy object to the
view; and therefore gilding, or what is better, architectural ornament,
like that left incomplete at Florence, is well employed on a dome. I
know I have Cicero against me, who speaks in high praise of the dome of
the Capitol. Cicero and the Capitol are great names; but, much as I
venerate that great orator and philosopher, I hope there is no harm in
saying, that I have seen more domes than he had an opportunity of
seeing. I reserve what I have to say on the interior of domes till I
shall arrive at St. Peter's and the Pantheon. The Church of the Invalids
is a very handsome one: I attended military mass there: none but those
who have proved it can judge of the fine effect produced, on such an
occasion, by the military music and ceremonial.
The Halle aux Bleds is an object very likely to be overlooked by an
elegant traveller. I have heard of a young man of fashion, who, being
requested to call at Child's bank, declared he never had been so far in
the city in his life. In this Halle is deposited the corn and flour
brought for the supply of Paris: it is conveniently situated for the
distribution of this supply, being in the most populous quarter of the
city; but the streets leading to it are narrow; and it has,
unfortunately both for its commercial uses and for the view of it, no
open space around it. It is in form and dimensions exactly like the
Pantheon at Rome, without the portico: no timber is employed in its
construction; it is built entirely of stone and iron; even the doors are
of iron. I know not if I saw it on a gloomy day, or if the sky of Italy
be clearer than that of France, or if the corn and flour sacks hindered
the reflection of the sun; but, though the opening at the top be equally
large, it did not seem to admit so much day-light as that of the
Pantheon.
Napoleon did much, and projected still more, for the embellishment of
Paris. The pillar in the Place Vendome is superior to those of Trajan
and Antonine in every thing, but in the veneration due to antiquity and
the name of Rome. His son bore the title of King of that ancient capital
of the world; and for him,--for the king of Rome,--was projected a
palace on the right bank of the Seine opposite the Hotel des Invalides,
that from his infancy the view of these _emeriti_ of French valour might
inspire him with an ardour for military exploits, and that these
warriors also might find a part of their recompense in being continually
under the eye of the heir of so much glory. This project has, of course,
been abandoned. Yet why should not the education of the young Henry, the
future heir of the French monarchy, be conducted in the same spirit as
would have been that of the young Napoleon? There exists, indeed, but
too much cause why it should be so conducted, as to form a leader fit to
head the armies and direct the energies of France. A million of bayonets
threaten Europe from the north, and France only can array itself against
them, Russia has already absorbed, within its empire, that great
limitrophe nation which might have been a barrier against its further
progress: its nearest neighbour has a force not more than a third of
that which Russia itself can wield: the first military power of Germany,
Prussia,--a camp rather than a kingdom, a state rather than a
nation,--must continue the voluntary or involuntary ally of Russia: the
rest of Germany is divided into petty sovereignties. Russia has an army,
the half of which is sufficient for its own defence; nay, it is secure
from attack: what then may it do, What will it do, with the other half?
The irruption of the now half-civilised and well-disciplined hordes of
the north, directed by one will, which rules from the Aleutian isles to
the banks of the Vistula, is an event that may take place before the
infant Henry shall have attained the age of manhood: then, instead of
the prospect of the Invalides, he may have that of the "tented field;"
instead of mimic war and reviews on the Champ de Mars, he may join in
real battle for the security of France and the protection of Europe.
The building which was to have been a monument dedicated to the grand
army, is converted into a church, for which, by its form, it was well
adapted. But, instead of this edifice, a monument has been raised to the
glory of the French warriors, _aere perennius_;--a work in twenty-six
volumes, by a society of military men and men of letters: it is entitled
"Victoires et Conquetes" in very large capitals, "desastres et revers"
in very small capitals, of the French armies, from 1792 to 1815. It is
composed in the spirit of the liberal party, but with great moderation:
it speaks with constant respect of the royal family of France, with
unreserved freedom of Bonaparte, and with severe censure of the faults
of the republican government: its hatred of England is more than
patriotic,--plus quam civilia: it is written in a very respectable
style, itself a history, and forming a collection of materials to be
embodied into future, general, or partial histories of the revolution.
Even "the Great Unknown" himself, than whom no one has a better right to
disprove the assertion of Pindar, that fable delights more than truth,
since so much of what is delightful in fable is of his own creation, and
every one may do what he wills with his own;--even he, who may dispute
with Cervantes, Shakspeare, and Ariosto, the title of "the greatest liar
that ever lived,"--may have recourse to more than the latter half of
these twenty-six volumes, in the composition of that story, in which
every thing shall be true, yet every thing shall be astonishing. It is
superfluous to wish him success: of that he is assured, both by his
subject, and by the novel manner in which it will be handled; but I wish
he would take the trouble of once revising his manuscript before
impression, to correct the blunders of rapid composition.
I saw the model in plaister of the statue in marble, of an elephant,
which statue was to have been raised upon a high pedestal in the Place
de la Bastille: a staircase, beginning within one of the fore-legs of
the elephant, was to have led to the top of a tower on his back, from
which would have been seen all Paris and its environs: from his
proboscis was to have issued a fountain. The model, I am told, is now
broken in pieces. Perhaps this is fortunate: the elephant might in
future times have answered the purpose, if not of the Bastille, of the
bull of Phalaris: after the pleasant jests we have heard of _la petite
fenetre nationale_,[15] and the _bapteme republicain_[16],--who knows
whether the sovereign people, calling to mind the bull of Phalaris oh
the site of the Bastille, and justifying, according to custom, its own
tyranny by that of others,--might not have amused itself with the
bellowing of an elephant? Despots, of one or many heads, resemble each
other:
----facies non omnibus una,
Nee diversa tamen.
Still it is a pity that the elephant is not to be erected: he would
have been at once a curious and majestic figure; and his absence will
not deprive cruelty, if the disposition to it should unhappily again
exist, of the means of inflicting vengeance. It is always an easy
matter, says the English proverb, to find a stick to beat a dog; and
when one portion of society become dogs to the other and more powerful
portion, of course the dogs must be beaten.
The model of the elephant drew me into the neighbourhood of the Marais:
this quarter of Paris was once the court end of the town, and Vincennes
was what St. Cloud has since become. The streets of the Marais are much
wider and cleaner, and better built than the other ancient streets of
Paris; and this quarter, with the Place Royale, is well worth visiting,
though seldom visited: it is inhabited by an old-fashioned set of
gentry, who prefer Paris, as a residence, to any country town, but take
no part in its amusements; who go to church, and do not go to the opera;
who persist obstinately in the more ancient mode of dining at one
o'clock; who gave no assistance or encouragement to the revolution, it
may be, because it brought in so many innovations. I am assured that,
during the most tumultuous scenes of that period, the Marais was always
tranquil. Strangers who mean to spend some time in Paris, and who have a
carriage, or can do without one, would do well to establish themselves
in the Marais: they would indeed be at a great distance from their
astonished friends and from the places of amusement, but the line of the
Boulevards would lead them any where.
The Boulevards are a great, and precious, and a peculiar advantage,
which the city of Paris enjoys above all cities that I have seen or
heard of. This ancient enclosure of the town is now at about half-way
from the Seine to the walls; so much have the Fauxbourgs increased; for
all beyond the Boulevards is called Fauxbourg. Thus, in the midst of
Paris, for the whole of the distance from the bridge of the Jardin des
Plantes to the Place Louis XV. in a line running at first from south to
north, then westward, and then inclining to the south, is found a wide
street, with a broad walk on each side, shaded by two rows of trees.
Here you may walk in safety, without fear of the cabriolets or one-horse
chairs, which, in all the streets of Paris, even on the trottoirs,
endanger life and limb. Here you may see exposed to sale, on tables
niched in between the trees on one side, and between the trees and
houses on the other, all kinds of wares; millinery and bon-bons,
literature and jou-jous, maps, prints, and cutlery. "Voila," says a boy,
flashing in your eyes his string of steel watch-chains, "voila des
chaines superbes."--"Voila le regne de Napoleon," says a moralist, out
of time and place. Here you may find petits gateaux and eau de
groseille, to allay both hunger and thirst; and chairs, for a sous
a-piece, to repose while you refresh yourself. The houses are lofty, and
many have balconies: the shops are well supplied; at every step are
theatres, and spectacles, and cafes, and public gardens and diversions
of every sort: an infinite variety of physiognomy, character, and
occupation is continually flitting before you. It is the most amusing
morning scene of this amusing metropolis.
Napoleon gave to Paris the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena: the names
have been changed to those of "du Jardin du Roi," and "des Invalides;"
but the benefit remains: thus the extension of the city, at both
extremities, was encouraged, and the value of property increased. Along
the Seine, on both banks, from the one to the other of these bridges, is
a space of the width of a very broad street between the houses and the
river. This too, as well as the Boulevards, is an advantage peculiar to
Paris. In London, to get a view, or a peep at the Thames, you must go to
the ends of the streets at right angles with it: the projected terrace,
when accomplished, will, I hope, form a magnificent answer to this
reproach. At Florence, the _lungarnata_ extends for about one third only
of the course of the Arno through that beautiful city.
The Hotel-Dieu is in a central situation, more convenient, both for the
patients and their medical attendants, than the sites now often chosen
for such institutions in the precincts of cities. The course of the
Seine supplies it with air and water. An admirable cleanliness is
observed in the wards: even the beds of the patients are free from all
offensive odour. This infirmary is a school of medicine: young surgical
practitioners flock to Paris for instruction. The French have unhappily
had of late so many opportunities of perfecting themselves in this
science, that they are well qualified to give lessons. If honour hath no
skill in surgery, he is obliged to lead in his train many who have. The
Hotel-Dieu is a credit to the country.
It is very easy to find your way in Paris: between the Seine and the
Boulevards you may always arrive quickly at a point where you may know
whereabouts you are. This is facilitated too by a trifling, but
ingenious arrangement: the streets parallel to the river are
distinguished from those at right angles with it, by inscribing the
names of the one set in black letters on a light ground, and of the
other set in white letters on a black ground.
The Morgue is an excellently well-contrived establishment. It is a
little building, on the bank of the river, where are deposited the
bodies of persons found drowned or otherwise accidentally slain. These
bodies are laid on an inclined plane, in a space partitioned off by
glass doors and windows, stript of part of their clothes, which are hung
up over their heads. By this simple method, the members of a family, of
whom one is lost or missing, have the means of finding and reclaiming
their own, if there, without inquiry,--without exposing to public remark
a mischance which may be only temporary. Calling here one day, I was
witness to a scene on which the genius of Sterne would have lived and
revelled most sentimentally. The body of a middle-aged man, who, by the
clothes suspended above, appeared to have been a sailor, was laid in its
place to be recognised. After gazing on this sight for some little time,
I was retiring, when I met, at the outer door, an elderly woman
accompanied by a lad of about fourteen years old. Their steps were
hurried: their countenances full of anxiety and terror. "They have
lost," said I, "a son and a father." I waited the event. They advanced
to the window, with what I will call, if the phrase may be allowed, a
precipitate irresolution,--dreading to find what they sought. They
returned consoled, but still dejected: the expression of their faces
said plainly,--"It is not he; but then, where is he?" He was not found
there, yet still he was lost.
There are several manufactures at Paris worthy of attention. Old renown
led me to the Gobelins: it was not in a state of great activity at this
time, but I saw some works both finished and carrying on, worthy of that
old renown. The process of making this tapestry is exceedingly tedious.
I observed that the workmen, like clock-makers, and printers, and other
_men of letters_, were almost all short-sighted.
The Palais Royal, as a centre of wealth and dissipation, deserves all
the celebrity it has acquired: it is besides a very handsome quadrangle,
as I once was used to call the interior of buildings of this form: it is
not a square; it would be pedantic to call it a parallelogram, and not
according to usage to call it an oblong. The arches are not wide enough;
and the arcade (the space, I mean, between the arches and the shops,)
is not broad enough. Here is more splendour, but less of variety to be
seen, than on the Boulevards. The shop-keepers are not dearer here than
in other quarters of Paris: the greater number of their transactions
pays their higher rents, though their profits may be only equal to those
of their brethren in trade. I took ice at the Cafe de Mille Colonnes,
and found that, counting shadows or reflections in the mirrors with
which the rooms are lined, the number, though indefinite, may not be
exaggerated.
The garden is enclosed by iron palisades between the arches: it is
closed in the night, the arcade being still left as a thoroughfare. I
found no reason to avoid passing through it with my elder son, a youth
of seventeen, though I should have been most unwilling to lead him in
the evening into any street in London. When will the police of the
capital of the British empire take shame to themselves?
The colonnade of the Louvre, which the Gascon said was very much like
the _back_ front of his father's stables, is justly admired. The court I
thought to be too much ornamented, and the ornaments too much
subdivided, and the height of the building within too great for its
extent of area. It is, however, an exceedingly handsome building: I was
glad to see it completed, at least as to the exterior. I was told it had
been nearly two centuries in building. He who had Versailles wanted no
other dwelling.
I shall be well pleased to have excited the reader's attention to my
remarks also on the curiosities of Paris: at any rate I have not
detained him long. I hope he will not be disinclined to accompany me to
the environs.