O Fortunatos nimium! O too fortunate those who visited Paris in the year
1814! They knew not however their own advantage, as they foresaw not the
events of the following year, and all the changes consequent on those
events. The pictures and statues of the Louvre were sent back in 1815 to
the countries which had produced them, where, says an enthusiast for
Italy, it is more natural to see them: just as a whig chancellor of the
exchequer said that ten per cent was the natural limit of the income
tax. Venus and the Graces fled to climes resembling those of Paphos and
Cythera; Apollo and Laocoeon went to be shut up in dark closets at Rome;
the horses of St. Mark galloped off to Venice, leaving the beautiful
arch, constructed by Napoleon as a pedestal for this trophy of his
victories, to be a misplaced entrance to an iron palisade.
But this was not all, nor the worst: it even served the English as an
excuse, though a superfluous one, for travelling further from home: the
spirit of the French people was changed, both in regard to foreigners,
and towards each other.
In 1818, I found it to be pretty generally believed in France, that the
English government contrived and connived at the return of Napoleon from
Elba, as an expedient for dividing, weakening, humbling, and despoiling
a rival nation. It was in vain that I argued, that the experiment was
too hazardous a one to have been ventured upon; that the imperial
government was implacably hostile to England, while the royal government
was, for the present at least, friendly, and likely to continue so; that
the English people were overwhelmed by a load of debt and taxation, and
needed repose after so long a war; that, had the battle of Waterloo been
lost, they were very ill disposed for the struggle that must have
ensued.
I was answered point by point; that, happen what might as to the success
or discomfiture of Napoleon, England was secure, fearing no invasion so
long as France had no marine; that it was the rival of France under
whatever government; that, spite of its debt, it would find means to
hire the troops of the continent; that, had the Prussians not come up in
time to gain the battle of Mont St. Jean, the Austrians and Russians
would have arrived shortly after, and the whole force of Europe would
have been set in array.
Before the "hundred days," all that had happened from 1789 was
considered as the result of a concatenation of circumstances neither to
be foreseen nor controlled;--as a visitation of Providence, a fatality,
a delirium. This explanation had been given and received between the
restored government and individuals, and by individuals amongst each
other: all things proceeded towards union and amnesty. But during the
"cent jours," the medal was reversed: many were compelled or persuaded,
or joyfully availed themselves of the occasion to manifest opinions and
engage in acts contrary to royalty: jacobinism or republicanism, which
Napoleon in the vigour of his sway had stifled, began again to take
breath during his short and fleeting apparition; so that the second
restoration of the king found the people in every town, in every
society, divided and discordant.
After the battle, which it was unkind and unjust to refuse to call by
the name of "La Belle Alliance;"--after this battle, in which so many
thousand human beings lost their lives,--the French submitted to
sacrifices, galling to every man of every party among them; for in
France it is permitted to every man to be a patriot. Their
frontier-line was remeasured in a manner unfavourable to them, in a
sense contrary to that in which it had been marked out the year before:
then all that was enclave was ceded to them; now, whatever stretched out
into the neighbouring territory was taken from them; some fortresses
were abandoned; others were to be temporarily occupied by allied forces,
for whose sustenance the French paid what they regarded as enormous
sums: "the spoils of victory," and such they really were, at the Louvre,
were yielded up.
Let any Englishman suppose what would be his own feelings were such
treatment dealt out to England by a hostile country; and how much the
soreness of his mind would be irritated, if he imagined, (whether truly
or falsely imports not,) that these evils were the result of the
machinations of the government of that country. He would think the
display of a little ill-humour towards individuals of that country to be
very natural at least, if not very reasonable. I was therefore not much
surprised nor offended by the "civil god-dems," with which we were
occasionally saluted at Paris. At Auxerre, I overheard a god-dem which
rather amused me. My younger son had placed a table on the balcony, and
was drawing a view of the church. "Voila un petit god-dem qui
dessine,"[20] said they: this might even have been good-naturedly meant.
At Chalons-sur-Saone, as we walked in the evening by the side of the
river, we were greeted by hisses, low and suppressed, but still audible
hisses. At Lyons, some soldiers, contrary to the rule of military
discipline, (for they were marching in their ranks,) and contrary to the
gallantry of the military profession, cried out "a bas les Anglois."
From several instances of resiliency, coldness, and alienation,
inconsistent with the genius of the people, and their well-known
politeness, it was evident that the spirit of enmity was not yet
subsided.
The practice of barter is not so well understood in France as in
England. A French shop-keeper, (many of them at least, though the number
of such is, I believe, daily diminishing,) proposes to himself to gain,
not a certain profit on each article, but as much as he can obtain, the
wealth, ignorance, and other circumstances of the customer taken into
consideration. A French gentleman, or, rather let us put the case, a
French lady, after beating down the price of an object for half an hour,
will, as a last effort, leave the shop; and, if this valedictory
demonstration does not succeed, will return in the course of the morning
to complete her purchase, in a renewed treaty, of which the basis is the
price last named: if, by these manoeuvres, a few francs are saved, the
morning has been well employed. If the French thus bargain amongst
themselves, it may easily be imagined how they would treat, in money
matters, with the English, supposed to be indefinitely rich, coming
from a country where prices were, during the currency of paper money,
higher than in France, ignorant of French prices, and affording an
occasion of political revenge.
I really believe that, in many instances, the gratification of this
passion was an incitement to overcharging, stronger even than private
interest. At any rate, during the first years of peace, the English are
said to have thrown their money out of the window: I knew one of them at
Avignon who did so literally. They paid English prices and gave English
gratifications; sometimes they paid more than was demanded, as they
said, for the honour of old England: having deposited a certain sum with
a banker, if the sum was spent sooner than they expected, they had only
to return home so much the sooner; like the young Oxonian, who being
asked how long he should stay in town, answered "twenty pounds."
The French, who had any thing to dispose of for money naturally wished
to profit by this disposition of the English, which they flatteringly
termed generosity; and to have the advantage of the highest prices which
these latter were willing to give: but, at this time, these prices were
unknown and unsettled, and every affair of bargain and sale rose into a
contest. "Quel est _votre_ prix, Monsieur?"[21] said one, of whom I was
buying a parasol. The Parisian shop-keepers, when they saw an
Englishman, nodded, and cried, "Speculation." "On ne dit plus god-dem,
on dit speculation,"[22] said my informant. "As you are an Englishman,
you ought to pay double," said one, whose opinion was asked on occasion
of an over-charge. My voiturier, who, for a certain sum, paid my
expenses on the road, told me that he would do this for a German family
for half the money. "The inn-keepers set no bounds to their charges,"
said he, "when they know you to be English;" muttering besides some
words, from which I inferred the hostile mind above-mentioned.
_La jeunesse Francaise_ (so the young men of an age for military service
affected to call themselves, as if they were a corps apart,) seemed
still to breathe war and defiance, and to endeavour by fierceness of
look to make up for the want of cockades and epaulettes. An especial
ordinance was required to prevent all who were not officers in the army
from wearing moustaches. These symptoms of a warlike temper were not
pleasing to a peaceful visitant. The whole French nation was, at this
time, discontented; and it was evident that some years must pass away
before it could resume that amenity of manners which rendered it
heretofore the delight of strangers. All parties were discontented.
The prudent and conciliatory conduct of the king displeased the
royalists. The emigrants said, that the restoration was to them no
restoration, since they had lost their estates; and they complained
bitterly of that provision by which the purchasers of the national
domains were confirmed in their possessions: had nothing been said on
this matter,--had silence been observed on a subject on which themselves
only had a right to speak,--a great part of the lands confiscated
during the revolution would have been restored unconditionally, or on
terms of easy compromise, to the ancient titulars. The clause by which,
as the emigrants said, their estates were thus a second time given away
without their consent or avowal, was reported to have been of
ecclesiastical suggestion. It would be unfair to suppose any man, least
of all an ecclesiastic, capable of deriving an uncharitable consolation
from having companions in misfortune; but it is remarkable, that no
mention was ever made of the restitution of ecclesiastical property. It
"died and made no sign." The French clergy endured this spoliation with
the patience of Christians and the good humour of Frenchmen, as every
one can witness who knew them in their emigration: but, on their return
home, they found their appointments inadequate to their services and to
the augmented price of the necessaries of life.
That Napoleon should descend from the throne when he could no longer
maintain himself upon it,--that France should re-enter within her former
limits,--that what was gained by victory should be lost by defeat;--all
this was in order. But military glory had consoled many for the loss of
liberty and republican forms,--synonymes in their vocabulary: though
they needed not to go very far back in history to discover that they
did not always subsist together. Of military glory Napoleon had obtained
for the French more, beyond all comparison, than was ever gained by any
people within an equal number of years. Possessed of absolute power over
a great empire, he had used the means, at his disposal, of drawing to
himself many adherents,--of founding the fortunes of many. Frequent
suicides took place, after his fall, of persons whose hopes were ruined
by that event. Some of these chose, in preference to any other mode of
self-destruction, to throw themselves from the top of the column erected
by Napoleon in the Place Vendome: insomuch that, when I was in Paris, an
order was still in force that no one should be allowed to ascend the
column without a permission, that it might be ascertained that they had
no motive but curiosity. Such were the discontents of the Bonapartists.
Had Bonaparte contented himself with being the first magistrate of the
republic,--had he allowed its name and forms to subsist,--he would have
identified himself with the cause and party of the revolution. But he
had put down the revolution; and in 1814 the question was no longer
between a monarchical and democratic government, but between the ancient
claimant and the recent possessor. One of the evils, (and they were
many,) resulting to Napoleon from the assumption of the imperial purple,
was that he himself became personally the object of hostilities. Of this
no one was more sensible than himself: he said to his friends, "They
will crush, first me, then you, then France." France was not crushed:
the king returned, and the charter was given. The republicans could not
complain that a monarchy, a government by _one_, was imposed upon them;
they had themselves submitted to it. But an argument drawn from a former
defeat was not suited to make them quite pleased with a second. They
reposed; but it was the repose of lassitude, not of contented
acquiescence.
The prudence of Louis XVIII. succeeded in uniting all parties, though
blamed by all; in obliterating, if not the memory, at least many of the
sensible traces of what France had endured. Both Royalists and
Napoleonists complained that whatever the court had to dispose of was
given to the other party. Just before I left England, I was advised by a
friend, lately returned from Paris, by no means to venture into France.
"If the king dies," said he, "and his health is very bad, there will
certainly be a kick-up." My counsellor saw a very little way into
futurity: he himself, being about the age of Louis XVIII. died within
two years after. Five years later the king terminated in peace an
anxious but successful reign: the demise of the crown caused not the
least disturbance; its quiet devolution on his successor seems rather to
have strengthened the ancient notion of hereditary right.
Paris, since the time to which my account of it refers, has been
improved and increased. It is the lot of all old cities in a state of
great prosperity to have a new town built near them: of this London,
Edinburgh, Marseilles, Lyons, Bath, and Liverpool are examples. "Mend
_you_?" said the chairman to Mr. Pope, in reply to his accustomed
exclamation,--"God mend me," "Mend _you_? it would not be half the
trouble to make another." Old Paris is, however, worth mending: the case
is by no means so desperate as that of a deformed man like Pope. They
have begun to make trottoirs. When I was in Paris, the trottoirs being
paved like the middle of the street, persons on foot had no inducement
to walk on them in preference to the middle of the street; people
exposed merchandises there, roasted coffee, blacked shoes, or played at
cards: the cabriolets ran along them where there was a vacant space,
sometimes where there was no vacant space at all. When the trottoirs
shall be such as carriages cannot drive on, the foot passengers will
occupy them, and the encumbrances, above-mentioned, will be removed of
course.
I went up to a man who was cleaning a lantern in the Rue Neuve des
Mathurins, and made him understand that I wished to be instructed in
what manner the popular sentence of condemnation "a la lanterne" was
executed in the beginning of the revolution. I had remarked, that he was
old enough to have remembered such scenes; when near him, I saw a face
that testified that he had in all probability been an agent in them: he
told me drily, "On ote la lanterne, et on monte l'homme a sa place."[23]
He spoke in the present tense, be it observed: the recollection of such
achievements was fresh in his mind, and he showed no symptom that it was
unpleasant to him. These lanterns have a cumbrous and heavy appearance
in the day time; and hanging over the middle of the street, they stop
all passing while they are cleaned or lighted. They have begun to light
the streets of Paris with gas: the pipes, I am informed, are not
air-tight; but, once undertaken, this enterprise will no doubt be soon
brought to perfection, as well as others already in contemplation.
Paris, in the old parts of it, is, as the French express it, _mal
percee_. The way to remedy this evil is obvious. I will venture to
suggest one improvement,--that the Rue St. Honore be continued, no
matter whether in a straight or curved line, through the streets of St.
Denis and St. Martin, by piercing these two streets, to the line of
streets which lead to the Place de l'Elephant and the Rue du Fauxbourg
St. Antoine.
I will also take the liberty of hinting that a populous city can well
afford to keep its streets clean: the streets themselves pay this
expense; and the greater the quantity of dirt, the better they defray
it. I have sometimes passed into the most thickly-inhabited parts of the
city of London, and have been surprised to observe the streets to be
cleaner than in Mary-la-bonne and at the west end of the town, where the
population is less condensed. The reason is plain: it oftener becomes
worth while to carry away the material of the dung-heap from the streets
of the city, than from the quarter where they are wider in proportion to
the population. But every parish of the English capital receives a sum
towards its poor-rate, in exchange for the privilege of cleaning its
streets. At Paris nothing is wanting but a reglement de police.
Paris is extending itself, towards the west and the north especially: in
time, the Boulevard without the walls may become a second interior
Boulevard. While I doubted whether I should continue in Paris, or go to
live in a provincial town, I looked at several hotels, houses with a
_porte cochere_,[24] in the Fauxbourg St. Germain: the rent demanded for
these was three or four thousand francs: at present they are let for ten
thousand francs a year. The speculators in building, of course, find
their profit in what they undertake so largely.
I congratulated those who had visited Paris in 1814. Many highly
estimable works of art of the French school begin however now to supply
the place of those taken away by their old owners. English travellers in
France, and those with whom they have to do, understand each other
better than at the time when I began my journey; and more accommodations
to the English taste are provided. The rivalry between France and
England will subsist as long as the geographical position of the two
countries: but no people are more willing than the French, in ordinary
cases, and when not stimulated by strong incitements, to distinguish
between the nation and the individual. Thus far we may all be
cosmopolites; though nations be divided, let men be united. Indeed, I
observed a sensible difference in the behaviour of my neighbours at
Avignon, from the day which Louis XVIII. wisely declared to be the
happiest of his life,--when no banner but that of France floated within
its territory.