It certainly is a fine thing to have such a walk as the Louvre daily at
one's command, and to take refuge from snow and rain in the hall of
gods, and among the creations of genius.--'Vive le roi!' for this
liberality at least.
I spent my forenoon in the magnificent gallery, and also visited the
Egyptian Museum, of which I shall tell you more anon. At dinner, I found
an interesting companion in a Général de l'Empire, whom I accidentally
met, and whose conversation I preferred to the theatre. He related a
number of incidents of which he had been eye and ear-witness:--they give
a more vivid picture and a deeper view of all the bearings and relations
of things at that time, than are to be gathered from memoirs, in which
the truth can never be revealed wholly without concealment or colouring.
It would occupy too much time to repeat them all to you now; and
besides, they would lose much of their vivacity: I therefore reserve the
greater part for oral relations.--Only one or two.
It is not to be denied, said my informant, that many vulgarities were
observable in the interior of Napoleon's family, which betrayed
'roture.' (By this he did not mean inferior birth, but a defective and
ignoble education.) The greatest hatred and the most pitiful mutual
intrigues reigned between the Bonaparte family and the Empress
Josephine, who at length fell their victim. At first, Napoleon took the
part of his wife, and was often reproached for it by his mother, who
called him tyrant, Tiberius, Nero, and other considerably less classical
names, to his face. The General assured me, that Madame had frequently
told him that Napoleon, from his earliest infancy, had always tried to
rule despotically, and had never shown the slightest regard for any one
but himself and those immediately belonging to him. He had tyrannized
over all his brothers, with the exception of Lucien, who never suffered
the least offence or injury to go unrevenged. She had often, she said,
observed with astonishment how perfectly the brothers had retained their
relative characters. The General affirmed, that Madame Letitia had the
firmest persuasion that Napoleon would end ill; and made no secret of
it, that she hoarded only against that catastrophe. Lucien shared in
this persuasion; and as early as the year 1811, used the following
remarkable words in speaking to the General: "L'ambition de cet homme
est insatiable, et vous vivrez peut-être pour voir sa carcasse et toute
sa famille jettées dans les égouts de Paris."
At Napoleon's coronation, the Empress-mother, in whose household the
General held some office after he had quitted the military service
(what, he did not tell me,) gave him strict charge to observe how many
arm-chairs, chairs, and stools, had been placed for the imperial family,
and to make his report to her unobserved as soon as she entered. The
General, who had but little experience in court etiquette, wondered at
this strange commission, executed it, however, punctually, and informed
her there were but two 'fauteuils,' one chair, and so many 'tabourets.'
"Ah! je le pensais bien," cried Madame Mère, red with rage, "la chaise
est pour moi--mais ils se trompent dans leur calcul!" Walking quickly
up to the ominous chair, she asked the chamberlain on duty, with lips
quivering with passion, 'Where was her seat?' He motioned, with a deep
bow, to the chair. The queens had already seated themselves on the
'tabourets.' To snatch hold of the chair, throw it down on the feet of
the unfortunate chamberlain, who nearly screamed with pain, and to rush
into the closet where the Emperor and Josephine were waiting, was the
affair of a moment to the exasperated mother. The most indecent scene
followed, during which the Empress-mother declared in the most vehement
terms, that if a 'fauteuil,' were not instantly given her, she would
leave the Salle, after explaining aloud the reason for her conduct.
Napoleon, although furiously exasperated, was obliged to make 'bonne
mine à mauvais jeu,' and got out of the scrape by throwing the whole
blame on poor Count Ségur; "et l'on vit bientôt," added the General, "le
digne Comte arriver tout effaré, et apporter lui-même un fauteuil à sa
Majesté l'Empératrice Mère." It is characteristic, and a proof that the
thing originated in no respect with Josephine, but entirely with the
Emperor himself, that at the marriage of Maria Louisa the very same
incident was repeated,--only that the humbled and intimidated mother had
no longer courage to resist.
Napoleon was brought up a bigot; and although too acute to remain so, or
indeed perhaps ever to have been so sincerely, habit--which exercises so
strong an influence over us all--rendered it impossible for him ever to
divest himself entirely of first impressions. When any thing suddenly
struck him, he sometimes involuntarily made the sign of the Cross,--a
gesture which appeared most extraordinary to the sceptical children of
the revolution.
Now for one amiable trait of Charles the Fourth, whom the world would be
so little apt to suspect of any delicate attention. Those who knew him
intimately, however, know that he was liberal and kind, though weak and
ignorant; and much better as a man than as a king.
When Lucien went to Spain as ambassador from the Republic, the General,
my informant, accompanied him as secretary of legation. Lucien's
predecessor had 'affiché' all the coarseness of republican manners, to
the infinite scandal of the most formal and stately court in the world;
and the Spaniards dreaded still greater rudeness and arrogance from the
brother of the First Consul. Lucien, however, had the good taste to take
the completely opposite course; appeared at court in shoes and bag-wig,
and fulfilled all the duties of ceremony and etiquette with such
punctuality, that the whole court was in a perfect ecstacy of delight
and gratitude. Lucien was not only extremely popular, but the perfect
idol of the whole royal family. He returned their friendship, the
General affirmed, sincerely, and often earnestly warned the King against
the Prince of the Peace, as well as against the insatiable ambition of
his own brother, of whom he spoke on every occasion without the
slightest reserve. The confidence, however, of the old King in his
'grand ami,' as he called Napoleon, remained unshaken to the last.
Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent
fête, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost
nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the
court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with
their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to
express their attachment to the ambassador. A few days afterwards, all
the members of the legation received splendid presents; the ambassador
alone was omitted; and republican familiarity permitted many jokes upon
him in the palace of the embassy. Meanwhile the audience of leave was
over, Lucien's departure fixed for the following day, and all hopes of
the expected present at an end, when an officer of the Walloon guard
came with an escort to the hotel, bringing a large picture in a
packing-case, as a present from the King to Napoleon. When Lucien was
informed of this, he said, it was doubtless Titian's Venus, which he had
often admired in the King's presence, and which was certainly a very
valuable picture, but that the carriage of it was inconvenient to him,
and he must confess he had rather the King had not sent it. However, the
officer was most politely thanked, and dismissed; and Lucien, taking out
a valuable shirt-pin from his breast, begged him to accept it. The
ambassador now ordered the case to be unpacked, the picture taken out of
its frame (which could be left behind), and rolled so that it could be
carried on the imperial of a carriage. The secretary did as he
desired:--scarcely was the wrapping-cloth raised, when, instead of the
admired Venus, a face anything but beautiful--that of the King himself
smiled upon him. He was just flying off in mischievous delight to inform
the ambassador of the comical mistake, when on entirely removing the
cloth, a yet greater surprise detained him:--the whole picture was set
round like a miniature with large diamonds, which Lucien afterwards sold
in Paris for four millions of francs. This was truly a royal surprise,
and the ambassador speedily recalled his order for leaving the frame.
The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of
Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought
D---- M---- was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may
remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like
Napoleon.
_January 13th._
The turn of the Gaiété came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I
make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little
melodrames and vaudevilles are now--the French may be as grand about it
as they please--their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they
are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to
the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of
the
"--------------------------- pathos tragique
Qui longtems ennuya en termes magnifiques."
There was one evening on which I gave you no theatrical intelligence.
The cause of this was the horrible ennui I had suffered at the Théatre
Français. Mademoiselle Mars did not play, and I found the parts of the
great and matchless Talma and Fleury sunk into the most deplorable
hands. In full contrast with this classical dulness, was the excellence
of the melodrame of the Gaiété; and in spite of all the long litany that
may be repeated by classicists as to coarse colouring, 'coups de
théatre,' improbabilities, and so forth, I am persuaded that no
unprejudiced fresh mind could see it without lively interest.--Let us
now go back to the Théatre Français.
After a Greco-French tragedy, in which antique dresses vainly strove to
convert Frenchmen into Greeks, in which the provincial hero Joanny
vainly tried to exhibit a faint copy of the godlike Talma, and
Duchesnois, who is now really 'au delà de la permission' ugly, with
whining, antiquated and stony manner, vainly quivered out the end of
every sentence with her hands in the air (also à la Talma,) while all
the rest exhibited a truly hopeless picture of mediocrity, the 'Mercure
galant' was given as a conclusion. The faded embroidered silk clothes,
as well as the awkwardness with which they were worn by the modern
actors, spoke of the remote date of this piece. The ladies, on the other
hand, had dressed according to their own taste, and were in the newest
fashion. The comedy is utterly without plot, and the wit flat and
coarse.
Setting aside 'que tous les genres sont bons hors le genre ennuyeux,'
the contents of this latter piece were really better fitted to a booth
in a fair. What appears still more extraordinary is, that this stately,
classical, national theatre, has itself been driven to give melodrames,
(as to their contents at least,) though without music; and that these
are the only representations which draw audiences. The only profitable
modern piece, L'Espion, is a sufficient proof of this.
Thus does one theatre after another plant the romantic standard with
more or less success; and tragedies and plays 'a la Shakspeare,' as the
French call them, daily make their appearance, in which all the
time-honoured unities are thrown over the shoulder without any more
qualms of conscience on the part of authors or the public.
The revolution has regenerated France in every respect,--even their
poetry is new; and ungrudging, never-envying Germany calls out joyfully
to her, "Glück auf."
_January 14th._
To-day I visited some new buildings; among others the Bourse. It is
surrounded with a stately colonnade, whose magnitude and total effect is
imposing; but the long narrow-arched windows behind the pillars are in
very bad taste. Modern necessities harmonize ill with ancient
architecture. The interior is grand, and the illusion produced by the
painting on the roof complete: you would swear they were
bas-reliefs,--and very bad ones.
I remarked to-day for the first time how much the Boulevards are
improved by the removal of several houses: the Portes St. Martin and St
Dénis are seen to much greater advantage than before. Louis the
Fourteenth deserves these monuments; for in truth, all that is grand and
beautiful in Paris may be ascribed to him or to Napoleon. The rows of
trees have been carefully preserved; and not, as on the Dönhofsplatz in
Berlin, large trees cut down and little miserable sticks planted in
their stead. The numerous 'Dames blanches' and Omnibuses have a most
singular appearance. These are carriages containing twenty or thirty
persons: they traverse the Boulevards incessantly, and convey the weary
foot-passenger at a very moderate price. These ponderous machines are
drawn by three unfortunate horses. In the present slippery state of the
pavement I have several times seen all three fall together. It is said
that England is the hell of horses: if, however, the metempsychosis
should be realized, I beg leave to be an English horse rather than a
French one. It rouses one's indignation to see how these unhappy animals
are often treated, and it were to be wished that the police would here,
as in England, take them under its protection. I remember once to have
seen a poor hackney-coach horse maltreated by a coachman in London.
"Come with me," said the Englishman with whom I was walking; "you shall
soon see that fellow punished." He very coolly called the man and
ordered him to drive to the nearest police office. He alighted, and
accused the coachman of having wantonly maltreated and tortured his
horse. I was called on to give evidence to the same effect; and the
fellow was sentenced to pay a considerable fine; after which we made him
drive us back:--you may imagine his good humour.
Omnibuses are to be found in other parts of the city, and the longest
'course' costs only a few sous.--I know few things more amusing than to
ride about in them in an evening, without any definite aim, and only for
the sake of the rich caricatures one meets with, and the odd
conversations one hears. I was often tempted to believe that I was at
the Variétés; and I recognised the originals of many of Brunets and
Odry's faithful portraits. You know how much I like to wander about the
world thus, an observer of men and manners; especially of the middle
classes, among whom alone any characteristic peculiarities are
now-a-days to be found, and who are also the happiest,--for the medal is
completely reversed. The middle classes, down to the artisan, are now
the _really privileged_, by the character of the times and of public
opinion. The higher classes find themselves, with their privileges and
pretensions, condemned to a state of incessant opposition and
humiliation. If their claims be adequately supported by wealth, their
condition is tolerable; though even then, from ostentation,--the
hereditary vice of those among the rich who are not slaves to
avarice,--their money procures them far less substantial enjoyment than
it does to those a step or two below them. If their rank is not upheld
by property, they are of all classes in society,--except criminals and
those who suffer from actual hunger,--the most pitiable.
Every man ought therefore maturely to estimate his position in the
world, and to sacrifice nothing to vanity or ambition; for no epoch of
the world was ever less fertile in rewards for such deference to the bad
and frivolous part of public opinion. I do not mean, of course, the
ambition of true merit, which is rewarded by its own results, and can be
adequately rewarded by them alone. We nobles are now cheaply instructed
in wise forbearance and practical philosophy of every kind;--and Heaven
be thanked!
With such thoughts I arrived in a 'Dame blanche' at Franconi's theatre,
to which a blind man might find his way by the scent. The performances
are certainly in odiously bad taste, and a public which had no better
amusements must end by becoming but one degree above the animals they
look at. I speak of the senseless dramatic pieces acted here;--the mere
feats of activity and skill are often very interesting. I was
particularly delighted with the slack rope-dancer called Il Diavolo, who
outdoes all his competitors as completely as Vestris surpasses his. A
finer form, greater agility and steadiness and more finished grace, are
hardly conceivable. He is the flying Mercury descended again on earth in
human shape; the air appears his natural element, and the rope a mere
superfluity, with which he enwreathes himself as with a garland. You see
him at an enormous height lie along perfectly at his ease when the rope
is in full swing; then float close to the boxes with the classic grace
of an antique; then, with his head hanging down and his legs upwards,
execute an 'entrechat' in the clouds of the stage-heaven. You may
suppose that he is perfect master of all the ordinary _tours de force_
of his art. He really deserves his name; 'Il Diavolo non può far'
meglio.'
_Jan. 14th._
As appendix to my yesterday's letter, I bought you a 'Dame blanche'
filled with bonbons; and, as a present for Mademoiselle H---- next
Christmas, a bronze pendule with a running fountain at its foot, and a
real working telegraph on the top. Tell her she may use the latter to
keep up conversations which none but the initiated can understand. Paris
is inexhaustible in such knicknacks: they are generally destined for
foreigners; the French seldom buy them, and think them, justly enough,
'de mauvais goût.'
To have done with theatres I visited three this evening. First I saw two
acts of the new and most miserable tragedy, Isabelle de Bavière, at the
Théatre Français. My previous impressions were confirmed; and not only
were the performers (with the exception of Joanny, who acted the part of
Charles the Sixth pretty well) mediocrity itself, but the costumes,
scenery, and all the appointments were below those of the smallest
theatre on the Boulevards. The populace of Paris was represented by
seven men and two women; the 'Pairs de France' by three or four wretched
sticks, literally in rags, with gold paper crowns on their heads, like
those in a puppet-show. The house was empty, and the cold insufferable.
I drove as quickly as I could to the 'Ambigu Comique,' where I found a
pretty new house with very fresh decorations. As interlude, a sort of
ballet was performed, which contained not a bad parody on the German
Landwehr, and at any rate was not tiresome. I could not help wondering,
however, that the French do not feel about the Landwehr and the Prussian
horns, as the Burgundians did about the Alp horns of the Swiss, whose
tones they were not particularly fond of recalling; for, as the
Chronicle says, 'à Granson les avoient trop ouis.'
My evening closed with the Italian Opera. Here you find the most select
audience; it is the fashionable house. The theatre is prettily
decorated, the lighting brilliant, and the singing exceeds expectation.
Still it is curious, that even with a company composed entirely of
Italians the singing is never the same,--there is never that complete
and inimitable whole, which you find in Italy: their fire seems chilled
in these colder regions,--their humour dried up; they know that they
shall be applauded, but that they no longer form one family with the
audience; the buffo, as well as the first tragic singer, feels that he
is but half understood, and, even musically speaking, but half felt. In
Italy the Opera is nature, necessity; in Germany, England, and France,
an enjoyment of art, or a way of killing time.
The Opera was La Cenerentola. Madame Malibran Garcia does not, in my
opinion, equal Sontag in this part: she has, however, her own 'genre,'
which is the more attractive the longer one hears her; and I do not
doubt that she too has parts in which she would bear away the palm from
all competitors. She has married an American; and her style of singing
appeared to me quite American,--that is, free, daring, and republican:
whilst Pasta, like an aristocrat, or rather like an autocrat, hurries
one despotically away with her; and Sontag warbles forth melting and
'mezza-voce' tones, as if from the heavenly regions. Bordogni, the
tenore, had the difficult task of singing without a voice, and did all
that was possible under such circumstances: Zuchelli was, as ever,
admirable; and Santini his worthy rival. Both acting and singing had
throughout more of life, power and grace, than on any other Italian
stage out of Italy.
On my return to my hotel, I was surprised by one of those Parisian
'agrémens' which are really a disgrace to such a city. Though my hotel
is one of the most respectable, and in the most frequented part of the
town, I thought I was alighting at a 'cloaque.' They were clearing
certain excavations, an operation by which the houses here are poisoned
twice a year.
I have already burned a dozen pastiles, but can create no radical
reaction.
_Jan 15th._
I seated myself in a cabriolet early this morning, to make a wider
excursion than usual. I directed the driver first to Nôtre Dame, and
regretted as I passed the Pont Neuf that this spot had been assigned to
the statue of Henry the Fourth. It stands most disproportionately on the
naked base of the obelisk which Napoleon had projected, and for which
the spot was chosen with great sagacity; whereas now, surrounded by the
broad and high masses of building which form the back-ground of the
little statue and enclose it in a colossal triangle, the prancing horse
looks like a skipping insect. While I was following this train of
observations, and thinking what Paris would have become had Napoleon's
reign been prolonged, my driver suddenly cried out "Voilà la Morgue!" I
told him to stop ('car j'aime les émotions lugubres),' and entered this
house of death, which I had never before seen. Behind a lattice is a
clean little room with eight wooden biers painted black, placed in a
row, the heads turned to the wall, the feet towards the spectator. Upon
these the dead bodies are laid naked, and the clothes and effects of
each hung upon the white wall behind him, so that they can easily be
recognised. There was only one; an old man with a genuine French
physiognomy, rings in his ears and on his fingers. He lay with a smile
on his face and open eyes like a wax figure, and with exactly such a
mien as if he were about to offer his neighbour a pinch of snuff, when
death surprised him. His clothes were good,--"superbes," as a ragged
fellow near me said, while he looked at them with longing eyes. There
were no marks of violence visible on the body; so that the stroke of
death had probably surprised the old man in some remote part of the
city, and was still unknown to his relatives: misery seemed to have no
share in his fate.
One of the guardians of the place told me a curious fact;--in winter,
the number of deaths by drowning, which is now the fashionable mode of
self-destruction in Paris, is less by two-thirds than in summer. The
cause of this can be no other, however ridiculous it may sound, than
that the water is too cold, for the Seine is scarcely ever frozen. But
as trifles and every-day things govern the great events of life much
more than we are apt to think, so they appear to exercise their power
even in death, and despair itself is still 'douillet,' and enthralled by
the senses.
You remember the three portals of Nôtre Dame, with the oaken doors
ornamented with beautiful designs and arabesques in bronze, and how
striking is the whole façade, how interesting its details.
Unfortunately, like the temple at Jerusalem, the interior is defaced by
stalls and booths. This interior, always so unworthy of the exterior, is
rendered still more mean by a new coat of paint.
Continuing my drive, I alighted for a minute at the Panthéon. It is a
pity that the situation and _entourage_ of this building are so
unfavourable. The interior appeared to me almost too simple and bare of
ornament, which does not suit this style; and Girodet's new ceiling is
hardly visible without a telescope. The opening of the cupola is too
small and too high to enable one to see anything of the painting
distinctly. I saw a piece of carpet hanging to one of the pillars, and
asked what it meant: I was told that it was the work of the unhappy
Marie Antoinette, and presented to the church by Madame. Over the side
altar was written 'Autel privilégié.'
The association of ideas which this inscription suggested, led me to the
neighbouring ménagerie, and I drove to the Jardin des Plantes. It was
too cold for the animals, and almost all, living and dead, were shut up,
so that I could only visit a Polar bear. I found him patiently and
quietly clearing out his den with his fore paws. He did not suffer my
presence to interrupt him in the least, but went on working like a
labourer. He used his paws as brooms, then brought the straw and snow
into his hole to make himself a comfortable bed, and at length with a
sort of grumble of satisfaction slowly stretched himself out upon it.
His neighbour Martin, the brown bear who once on a time ate a sentinel,
is quite well, but not visible to-day. On my way back I visited a third
church, St. Eustache. The interior is grander than that of the Panthéon
or Nôtre Dame, and is enlivened by a few painted windows and pictures.
There was indeed a sort of exhibition of the latter, on occasion of some
festival: I cannot say that much good taste was conspicuous in it. A
more agreeable thing was the fine music, in which the trumpets produced
an overpowering effect. Why is not this sublime instrument oftener
introduced into church music?
As I drove across the Place des Victoires, I sent up a sigh to Heaven
over the nothingness of fame and its monuments. On this place, as you
well remember, stood Désaix's statue, which he had really deserved of
France. Now it is thrown aside, and a Louis the Fourteenth in Roman
armour, with a long wig, and mounted on a horse which looks like a
wooden one, occupies its place. I had some difficulty in silencing the
melancholy moralizings which this sight excited in me, by the more
sensual impressions I received in the 'salon des Frères Provençaux,'
from excellent truffles, and the perusal of a somewhat less praiseworthy
fashionable novel. I was even forced to drink a whole bottle of
champagne before I could exclaim with Solomon, "All is vanity!" and add,
"Therefore enjoy the present moment without thinking too much about it."
In this good frame of mind I passed through, for the last time, the
Palais Royal, where so many gay 'colifichets' and new inventions
sparkled upon me from the well-lighted shops, that I almost took the
full moon, which hung small and yellow over one of the opposite
chimneys, for a new toy; and should not have been much surprised if the
man in the moon or Mademoiselle Garnerin had stepped out of it, and
vanished again down one of Véry's chimneys. But as nothing of this sort
happened, I followed the brilliant front of the Variétés, which eclipsed
the dim oil lamps around, and entered, 'pour y faire ma digestion en
riant.' This end was perfectly attained; for though the little theatre
has lost Potier, it still retains its power over the risible muscles. It
has gained--for the eyes at least--an extremely pretty little actress,
Mademoiselle Valérie, and a much better and fresher exterior than
formerly. Among the agreeable novelties is a drop curtain of real cloth,
instead of the usual painted draperies. The rich folds of dark blue
contrasted well with the crimson, gold, and white, of the theatre. It is
not rolled up stiffly and awkwardly like the others, but draws back
gracefully to either side. The great theatres would do well to imitate
this.
_Jan. 16th._
Formerly _Anas_ were the fashion; now it is _Amas_, 'et le change est
pour le mieux.' To these _Amas_ I dedicated my morning, and began with
the _Ama_ of geography, the Georama. Here you suddenly find yourself in
the centre of the globe,--which Dr. Nürnberger has not yet reached with
his projected shaft; but in which you find the hypothesis of a sea of
light confirmed, for it is so light that the whole crust of the earth is
rendered transparent, and you can distinctly see even the political
boundaries of countries. The excessive cold somewhat chilled my
curiosity, so that I can only tell you that no globe elucidates
geography so well as the Georama. It were to be wished that all
Lancasterian schools could be thus introduced into the bowels of the
earth: such a company too might warm themselves 'mutuellement.' The
lakes appear, as in reality, beautifully blue and transparent, the
volcanoes little fiery points, and the black chains of mountains are
easily followed by the eye. I was amused to see that the great lakes in
China had the precise outline of the grotesque and frightful faces of
Chinese gods. The largest was really, without any effort of the
imagination, the exact copy of the flying dragon so frequent on their
porcelain. I hug myself amazingly on this discovery;--who knows if it
will not throw some light on Chinese mythology? I was much displeased at
seeing no notice taken of the recent discoveries at the North Pole, in
Africa, and the Himalaya mountains. The whole affair appeared to me
somewhat 'en décadence.' Instead of the pretty woman who generally sits
at the bureau of all exhibitions of this sort in Paris, there was a
terrific person who might have passed for the Lépreux d'Aosta.
The Diorama, a mile or so further, on the Boulevards, contains views of
St. Gothard and of Venice. The former, on the Italian side, which I have
seen 'in naturâ,' was well painted and very like; but as there is no
change of light and shadow, as in the far superior Diorama in London,
there is not the same variety and charm. Venice was a bad painting, and
the light so yellow that it looked as if its just indignation at the
French, who destroyed its political existence and then did not even keep
it, had given it the jaundice.
The Neorama places you in the centre of St. Peter's; the illusion
however is but faint, and the crowd of motionless figures, in a thing
which pretends to perfect imitation, tends to break it. Only the
sleeping or the dead can be appropriately introduced into such a scene.
The festival of St. Peter is represented. Pope, cardinals, priests, and
the Pope's guard 'en haye,' fill the church; and are so badly painted to
boot, that I took His Holiness for an old dressing-gown hung before the
Jove-like statue of Peter.
Passing over the well-known Panoramas and Cosmoramas, I bring you at
last to the Uranorama in the new Passage Vivienne. This is a very
ingenious piece of mechanism, exhibiting the course of the planets and
the solar system. I confess that I never had so clear an idea of these
matters as after the hour I spent here. I shall tell you more about it
by word of mouth. If you like to spend twelve hundred francs, you can
have a small model of the whole machine, which every good library ought
to possess.
Thus then I began with the central point of the earth, then admired the
various glories of its surface, and after a cursory visit to the
planets, left off in the sun. There wanted nothing but a final _Ama_
representing the seventh heaven and the houris, to complete my journey:
I should have seen more than the Egyptian dervise in the five seconds
during which his head was immersed in the pail of water.
It is better that I drop the curtain here over my sayings and doings.
When it is drawn up again in your presence, I shall stand before you.
After I have refreshed all the powers of my mind there, I shall tell you
my further plans;--to dream away a winter amid pomegranates and
oleanders; to wander awhile under the palm-trees of Africa, and to look
down on the wonders of Egypt from the summit of her pyramids. Till then,
no more letters.
Yours most faithfully,