_September_ 24, 1826.
I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty black coat, and
looking through the glass, saw all the world in yellow, blue,
and green, running at the ring of pleasure.--STERNE.
St. Cloud is the Richmond of France; or rather, it is to Paris what
Richmond, in the days of its regal splendour, was to London--the summer
palace of the court. In this comparison, allowance must be made for the
opposite building taste of each nation; especially as Richmond has an
appearance of substantial comfort in its massive brick mansions and
rusticated cottage groups. The French _Sheen_ is, on the contrary,
gayer; the exterior of the residences being whitened, or what is still
more artificial, coloured and decorated in tawdry French taste. Such, at
least, is the character of the _auberges_, or inns, and _restaurateurs_,
with which St. Cloud is even better supplied than our Richmond. In
situation, however, they strongly assimilate; the former being placed on
an acclivity overlooking the Seine, as the latter is on the banks of the
Thames.
St. Cloud, as I have already said, is the usual summer residence of the
French court; and with a royal liberality which might be less politic
elsewhere, the park is granted for three fairs--September 7, and the
three following Sundays, on the last of which I resolved to visit the
fête of St. Cloud. It was a glowing September day. The sun shone with
more than mellow warmth through the groves of the Tuilleries, and on the
little southern terrace, which was unusually crowded with groups of rosy
children, with here and there a valetudinarian, who seemed to have
emerged from his chamber to enjoy the parting glories of the season.
Crowds of elegantly-dressed company were promenading the mall, or
principal walk, and some few were not incuriously lingering about the
enclosed parterres of the garden, whose beauties would soon be
transported to a milder atmosphere. There was a general stir in the
neighbouring streets; it did not resemble the bustle of business, but
had more of the gaiety of a holiday scene. The _Pont Royal_ was thronged
with passengers, and just beneath it, were several hundreds, many of
whom were embarking in the steam-boat for St. Cloud. But the Seine is at
all times less inviting for such an excursion than our Thames; and in
the summer months many insulated spots may be seen in the centre of the
French river. At the next bridge (Louis XVI.) there was a general muster
of carriages, each adapted for six or eight passengers, and drawn by one
or two horses. Here was a loud clamour of "St. Cloud" and "Versailles"
among the drivers, some of whom were even more officious than the Jehus
of Greenwich, or the wights of Charing Cross or Piccadilly. I resisted
all their importunities, and passed on through the _Champs Elysées_, or
a dusty road through a grove, intersected with ill-formed paths, with a
few gaudy cafés bearing pompous inscriptions--for Voltaire has made the
French too fond of nomenclature to say with our Shakspeare, "what's in a
name?" The road presented a strange specimen of the insubordination of
French driving, notwithstanding police superintendants affected much
concern in the matter. Diligences, fiacres, and carriages resembling
large, covered cabriolets, might be seen loaded with gaily-dressed women
and children, with a due proportion of young Parisians, all just in the
hey-day of mirth, drawn by dust-provoking Flanders horses, their drivers
slashing almost indiscriminately, and, with their clamour and confusion,
far exceeding the Epsom road on a raceday.
At length, escaping from the dust and din of the French Elysium, I
halted to enjoy the distant view of the city of Paris, from the gate of
the barrier. It was indeed an interesting scene. Through the avenue,
whose area presented a living stream of traffic, might be seen the
terraces and groves of the Tuilleries, and the spacious and irregular
palace, with its cupola tops; the tarnished dome of the Invalides; the
cupola of St. Genevieve; the gray towers of Nôtre Dame; then the winding
Seine, with its bridges, quays, and terraces, flanked with the long line
of the Tuilleries, and the Luxembourg, and Louvre galleries, on the one
side; and on the other by the noble façade of the Chamber of Deputies;
the courtly mansions of St. Germain, and the blackened front and dome of
the Institute. What a multitude of associations flitted across the
memory, by a single glance at PARIS--the capital of that gay,
light-hearted, and mercurial people--the French nation--the focus of
European luxury, and the grand political arena of modern history, the
very calendar of whose events, within the last half century, will form
one of the most interesting episodes that ever glowed among the records
of human character. In the chain might be traced the vain-glory of
conquest linked with defeated ambition, and the sullied splendour of
royalty just breaking through the clouds of discontent, and slowly
dispelling the mists of disaffection and political prejudice. What an
unenviable contrast to the man who has "no enemy but wind and rough
weather." The same objects that prompted these discordant reflections
gave rise to others of the most opposite character; and within the
walls, where treaties, abdications, and warrants, by turns, settled and
resettled, exiled and condemned--were the store-houses of art, with all
her proud and peaceful labours of sculpture, painting, and architecture,
through galleries and saloons, on whose contents the chisel and the
pencil had lingered many a life, and reduced the compass of its fond
designs to the cubits of a statue, the fame of a picture, or the glory
of a pillar or ceiling--such are the frail elements of human art.
The road now began to exhibit the usual appearance of an approach to a
country fête or fair. Scores of pedestrians, overcome with the heat and
dust of the day, might be seen at the little boxes or shops of the
_traiteurs_, or cooks, and at the houses of the _marchands de vin et de
la biacre_; these by their anticipated anxiety caused the line from
Paris to St. Cloud to resemble a road-side fair. Cheerfulness and
vivacity were upper-most in the passengers; and the elastic pace of
dozens of gaily-dressed _soubrettes_ not a little enhanced the interest
of the scene. Neither were these charms impaired by that species of
vulgarity which not unfrequently characterizes the road to our suburban
fairs; and, what is still more creditable to humanity, there was no
brutality towards jaded horses or hacks sinking beneath their loads.
Historians attach some antiquarian importance to the village of St.
Cloud, it being historically confounded with the earliest times of the
French monarchy; for, from the beginning of the first race, the kings of
France had a country-seat here.[5]
[5] For an engraving and account of the Palace of St. Cloud, see
MIRROR, vol. ii. page 225.
I now reached the bridge of St. Cloud, an elegant modern structure which
crosses the Seine, near the entrance to the village. Here the river
loses much of its importance; and in summer, the steam-boats are not
unfrequently delayed in their _voyage_ (if it may be so designated) for
lack of water. The prospect of the château, or palace, embosomed in
trees, and the park variegated with natural and artificial beauties,
with the adjoining village on a steep, shelving hill--is unusually
picturesque. On the present occasion, however, the principal attraction
was the fête, which reminded me more forcibly of John Bunyan's Vanity
Fair, than any other exhibition I had ever witnessed.
The entrance to this motley scene was by the principal gate, where the
carriages set down their company, and at a short distance along the bank
of the river, the steam-boat in like manner contributed its visiters. On
entering the park, I was first struck with a long row of boxes,
(somewhat in the style of those at Vauxhall) but on a raised bank, and
attached to a _restaurateur_. Here were tables for dinner, and as many
others were laid in the open air--with the usual _carte_ of 2 or 300
articles, and the economical elegancies of silver, napkins, and china,
and this, too, in style little inferior to Verey's in the Palais Royal.
Promenaders of the better description appeared in the mall, or principal
walk, and it being the last fête of the season, their attendance was
very numerous. The stalls and exhibitions were chiefly on the left side
of this walk; at the former was displayed an almost indescribable
variety of wares, which were the adjudged prizes in a lottery; but, from
the decisions which I witnessed, they resembled the _stationary_
capitals in an English scheme--the nominal Stock in trade of the
office-keepers. Many of these little gambling shops were superintended
by women, who proved themselves far from deficient in loquacious
inducements for adventurers; and by their dexterous settlement of the
chances, left little time for losers to reflect on their folly.
Provisions of various descriptions were to be purchased at every turn,
and among their _marchands_, it was not incurious, to see some humble
professors of gastronomy over smoking viands, fritters, and goffers or
indented wafers baked on cast-iron stoves _à la minute_--it must be
owned, unseasonable luxuries for a September day. The _spectacles_, or
shows, in noise and absurdity, exceeded the English trumpery of that
order; and to judge from the gaping crowds which they attracted, we are
not the only credulous nation in the world. Among the games was a
machine resembling an English round-a-bout, with wooden horses for the
players, each of whom was furnished with a foil, with which he strove to
seize the greatest number of rings from the centre; this was, indeed, a
chivalrous exhibition. Stilt-walkers, mountebank families, and jugglers,
"chequered in bulk and brains," lent their aid to amuse the crowd; and,
occasionally, two or three fellows contrived to enact scenes from plays,
and with their vulgar wit to merit the applause of their audience.
Portable clock-work exhibitions swarmed, and mummeries or mysteries,
representing the Life and Death of our Saviour and the blessed Virgin,
appeared to be ritual accompaniments of the day, and represented each
stage of the holy lives. The bearers of the latter machinery enlivened
their exhibitions with a grinding organ, which they accompanied with
appropriate ditties or carols. Crosses and other religious emblems were
hung about the theatrical boxes or shows, which, with their
representations, could only be compared with the nursery toys of Noah's
ark, with which most of us have been amused. Accordingly, here were
models of Nazareth, Jerusalem, and Mount Calvary, in the characteristic
accuracy of biblical topography, and from the zeal of the spectators,
the ingenuity of the inventors was unsparingly rewarded.
I turned from these sights to the natural beauties of the park, which,
aided by the happy inequalities of the ground, (which French artists
imagined would be such an obstacle to its perfection,) possesses far
more variety than is usually found in the pleasure-grounds of France.
The original plantation of the park was the work of La Nôtre, who, it
will be recollected, planned the garden of Versailles; but St. Cloud is
considered his _chef-d'oeuvre_, and proves, that with the few natural
advantages which it afforded him, he was enabled to effect more here
than millions have accomplished at Versailles--where art is fairly
overmatched with her own wasteful and ridiculous excess. This alone
ought to make the French blush for that monument of royal folly.
The situation of the château is its greatest attraction. It possesses a
fine view of Paris, which is indeed a splendid item in the prospect of
the princely occupants; and the sight of the capital may, perhaps, be a
pleasant relief to the natural seclusion of the palace.
One of the most remarkable objects in the park is a kind of square
tower, surmounted with an exact copy, in _terra cotta_, of the lantern
of Diogenes at Athens, ornamented with six Corinthian columns. It is
used as an observatory, and, like its original, is associated with the
name of the illustrious Grecian--it being also called the lantern of
Diogenes. Its view of the subjacent plain overlooks the city of Paris by
a distance of twenty miles.
The fountains and _jets d'eau_ are entitled to special notice, although
in extent and variety they are far exceeded by those of Versailles. The
arrangement of the principal cascade is well contrived, and I had the
good fortune to be present at the moment the water commenced flowing,
which continued but a short time. This struck me as a singular piece of
mimicry, and compared with those truly-sublime spectacles--the cascades
of Nature--the boasted works of St. Cloud seemed mere playthings, like
the little falls which children contrive in running brooks; or at best
resembling hydraulic exhibitions on an extensive scale. The playing
commenced by a jet bursting from a point almost secluded by trees, which
appeared on a level with the first story of the palace; the stream then
fell into stone basins, and by turns threw itself aloft, or gushed from
the mouths of numberless marine animals, and descended by glassy falls
into a basin, whence it found its way into several vase-shaped forms,
and again descended by magnificent cascades, discharging themselves into
a large, circular tank or basin, with two strong jets throwing their
limpid streams many feet high. In the sculptured forms there is some
display of classic design; and the effect of many mouths and forms
gushing forth almost instantaneously was altogether that of magic art,
not unaided by the lines of trees on two sides being clipped or cut into
semi-arched forms. The most powerful of the fountains is, however, a
grand jet, characteristically named the _Geant_, or giant, for the
incredible force with which it springs from its basin, and rises 125
feet high, being more than the elevation of Napoleon's triumphal column,
in the Place Vendôme, at Paris. An uninterrupted view of these
exhibitions may be enjoyed from the river, which runs parallel with the
road adjoining the park. Crowds flocked from all directions to witness
the first gush of the fountains; but their attention soon became
directed to a royal party attended by footmen, from the palace, who came
to witness the sights of the fair, and appeared especially amused with a
family of vaulters and stilt-walkers. They were received with a slight
buzz of curiosity, but without that enthusiasm with which the English
are accustomed to recognise, and, not unfrequently, to annoy royalty;
for here
No man cried, God save them.
I now began to make a more minute survey of the preparations for
amusement, for the fête was not yet in its equinoctial splendour. The
most prominent of these were plots of the raised bank on one side, and
at the termination of the principal walk, which were enclosed with
hurdles or frames, a platform being elevated and decorated with
festooned curtains, &c. for an orchestra, and the whole hung round with
illumination lamps. Towards evening, but long before dark, these
enclosures were blazing with variegated splendour; the bands commenced
playing several lively French airs, and the area was occupied with
groups of waltzing and quadrilling votaries. As the evening darkened,
lamps began to glisten in every direction, and the well-lighted cafés
resembled so many Chinese lanterns; and these, aided by the discordant
sounds of scores of instruments, gave the whole scene an air of
enchantment, or rather a slight resemblance to one of its exorcisms. The
effect was, however, improved by distance. Accordingly, I stole through
a solitary shrubbery walk, which wound round the hill, and at length led
me to a forest-like spot, or straggling wood, which flanked the whole of
the carnival. Viewed from hence, it was, indeed, a fantastical
illustration of French gaiety, and it momentarily reminded me of some of
Shakspeare's scenes of sylvan romance, with all their fays and fairy
population.
The English reader who has not witnessed one of the fêtes of St. Cloud,
may probably associate them with his own Vauxhall; but the resemblance
is very slight. At one of these entertainments in France, there is much
less attempted, but considerably more effected, than in England; and all
this is accomplished by that happy knack which the French possess of
making much of a little. Of what did this fête consist--a few hundred
lamps--a few score of fidlers, and about as much decoration as an
English showman would waste on the exterior of his exhibition, or
assemble within a few square yards. There were no long illuminated
vistas, or temples and saloons red hot with oil and gas--but a few
slender materials, so scattered and intermixed with the natural beauties
of the park, as to fascinate, and not fatigue the eye and ear. Even the
pell-mell frolics of St. Cloud were better idealities of enjoyment, than
the splendid promenade of Vauxhall, in the days of its olden celebrity;
for diamonds and feathers are often mere masquerade finery in such
scenes--so distant are the heads and hearts of their wearers.[6]
[6] We are not permitted to allude to the fête of St. Cloud as a
scene of _pastoral_ amusement, or of the primitive simplicity
which is associated with that epithet. The French are not a
pastoral people, although they are not less so than the English;
neither are the suburbs of a metropolis rural life. They are too
near the pride of human art for pastoral pleasures, and no
aristocracy is more infested with little tyrants than the
neighbourhood of great cities, the oppressors being too timid to
trust themselves far out of the verge of public haunts, in the
midst of which they would be equally suspicious.
Amusements are at all times among the best indications of
national character; a truth which the ancients seem to have
exaggerated into their maxim _in vino veritas_. Here the
national comparison is not "odious." Three Sunday fairs are held
within six miles of Paris, in a park, as was once the custom at
Greenwich: the latter, though a royal park, does not boast of
the residence of royalty, as does St Cloud. The objection to the
day of the French fêtes is cleared by another argument. But what
would be the character of a week-day fair, or fête, in
Kensington Gardens? The intuitive answer will make the moral
observer regret that man should so often place the interdict on
his own happiness, and then peevishly repine at his uncheery
lot.
Night, with her poetic glooms, only served to heighten the lustre of the
fairy fête; and as I receded through the wood, the little shoal of light
gleamed and twinkled through "branches overgrown," and the distant
sounds began to fall into solitary silence--even saddening to
meditation--so fast do the dying glories of festive mirth sink into
melancholy--till at once, with the last gleam and echo, I found myself
in a pleasant little glade on the brow of the hill. The day had been
unusually hot--all was hushed stillness. But the darkening clouds were
fast gathering into black masses:--
The rapid lightning flames along the sky.
What terrible event does this portend?
The stifling heat of the atmosphere was, however, soon changed by slight
gusts of wind; the leaves trembled; and a few heavy drops of rain fell
as harbingers of the coming storm; the pattering ceased; an impressive
pause succeeded--broken by the deepening roar of thunder.
The threatening storm hastened my return to the focus of the carnival.
The partial sprinkling had already caused many of the dancers to
withdraw to the cafés, and to the most sheltered parts of the park. The
lightning became more and more vivid; and, at length, the thousands who
had lingered in these groups of gaiety, were fairly routed by pelting
rain; and the park, with a few lamps flickering out, and decorative
finery drenched with rain, presented a miserable contrast with the
festivities of the previous hour. The crowd streamed through the
park-gate into the village, where hundreds of competitors shouted
"Paris, Paris;" and their swarms of diligences, cabriolets, and
curtained carts, were soon freighted. One of these charioteers engaged
to convey me to Paris for half a franc, in a large, covered cart, with
oil-skin curtains to protect the passengers in front. To my surprise I
found the vehicle pre-occupied by twelve or fourteen well-dressed
persons--male and female, who appeared to forget their inconvenient
situation in sallies of laughter, which sometimes bordered on boisterous
mirth. The storm increased; lamps gleamed and flitted across the road;
many of the horses plunged with their heavy loads, and swept along the
line in resistless confusion; for nothing can be less characteristic of
timidity than French driving.
On reaching Paris, the streets resembled so many torrents, and in most
places were not fordable, notwithstanding scores of persons, with the
alacrity of mushrooms after rain, had placed themselves at the narrowest
parts of the streams, with raised planks, or temporary bridges for
crossing. Our load was _landed_ under the arcade of the Hotel de Ville;
but the driver, in the genuine spirit of a London hackney-coachman, did
not forget to turn the "ill-wind" to his own account, by importuning me
for a double fare.
I learned that the storm had been less tremendous in its consequences at
St. Cloud and Paris than at Versailles, the lightning having consumed a
farm-house and barns near that town. It is an event worthy of notice,
from its being part of the phenomenon of what is termed a returning
stroke of lightning, the circumstances of which are recorded in a recent
number of Brande's philosophical journal.--_Abridged from "Cameleon
Sketches," by the author of the "Promenade round Dorking."_
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