Hebricourt was the next great town upon our route, and here we found
another church consecrated to Reason. The cap of Liberty, appropriately
placed upon the weather-cock, veered round with every different gust of
wind--over the door of the church the words “Temple de la Raison” were
inscribed.
At Bréteuil, twenty-three miles from Amiens, we dined, or rather
starved, at the Hôtel de l’Ange. They made a thousand apologies for the
wretched fare put before us, and explained that there was a fair in the
town, and the crowd of country people flocking to it had completely
demolished every vestige of provision.
After the plates were removed from the table and we had finished our
apology for a meal, we visited the fair. There was a great concourse of
people, but no noise or disorder. The women were in holiday clothes,
wearing close caps. The men were decently attired, but with cocked
hats, which gave them a most puritanical appearance. I did not see a
single person intoxicated, nor much show of articles of trade. There
were many Merry Andrews, quack doctors and puppet shows.
During the greater part of our journey from Amiens to Bréteuil we
observed lands in much better order and farmhouses neater and more
comfortable than any we had seen in France; the country is agreeably
diversified, and woods appear in every direction.
After Bréteuil the country becomes flat and the soil chalky. We changed
horses at Wavigny, St. Just and Clermont, the latter being twenty-seven
miles from Bréteuil. The road was paved and in excellent order, the
country pleasing and fertile, and woods frequent.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO CHANTILLY]
A little before we reached Clermont we passed the grounds and
plantations of the Duke de FitzJames.[1] The elegant Château was
completely destroyed by the Revolutionists, and is at this time a heap
of ruins. But the name of the duke has just been erased from the list
of émigrés, and all his estates restored to him. He is now in Paris,
making arrangements for his future life. The return of their old master
is eagerly awaited by the country people, and it is hoped that this
beautiful spot will once more flourish.
At Clermont there is a manufactory of painted linen; the environs of
the town are gay and picturesque, the neighbouring hills afford several
pleasing landscapes, and the culture of the vine gave a charming
variety to the scenery. To the left is Liancourt, the magnificent seat
of the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.[1] This nobleman, well known for his
useful writings on agricultural subjects and his travels in North
America, has returned from exile, and is improving and embellishing his
patrimonial estate.
Cultivation here is more diversified than in the northern Department,
through which we have just travelled. Besides vineyards there are
fields of lucerne, wheat, clover and corn, and a large quantity of
fruit trees. From Longueville, the next post town, we had a delightful
ride through the park of Chantilly. On our arrival at Chantilly we
slept at the post-house, where a neatness prevailed we had not yet
observed in France. The kitchen and stables, usually filthy in a French
establishment, were clean and well arranged.
On the next morning we sent to see Chantilly, so famed for its
magnificent gardens and for the heroes of Montmorency and Condé who
have inhabited it. Alas! it is now one vast heap of ruins. After the
fatal August 1792, a horde of Paris miscreants ransacked, pillaged and
destroyed the greater part of the chefs d’œuvres of art. The servants,
faithful to their ancient master, concealed a number of valuable
articles in the woods, and found means to convey most of them to the
Prince de Condé.
Of the fidelity and affection of the Prince’s domestics we heard a
great deal, and nothing can exceed the respect in which his memory is
held by the villagers. On more than one occasion we saw the honest tear
start from their eyes at the mention of his name, and the solicitude
they expressed for his welfare and their many tender inquiries
respecting his present situation in England, convinced us these poor
people were sensible they had lost their best friend. When I told
them the Prince de Condé[1] lived near London, and was in fairly easy
circumstances and kindly received by the King and Royal Family and by
the Ministers of State, they were so greatly affected as to excite
in our minds a sympathetic emotion of soul, and on the ruins of the
Château of Chantilly, on the very spot where once stood the statue
of the Great Condé, we shed tears over the fate of his forsaken and
proscribed descendant.
No one can be sensible of the desolation of Chantilly unless they
saw the gardens, _jets d’eau_ and variegated plantations there
previous to 1792.
The Palace is now completely destroyed, there is not even a vestige
remaining, all is ruin. As we approached its sight several troops of
cavalry were exercising on the lawn. The stables, upon the left, have
escaped the fury of the Revolutionists. It is a magnificent building,
with all the appearance of a Palace itself. It was originally built for
240 horses. But 400 animals belonging to the Chasseurs stationed at
Chantilly are now quartered there without inconvenience.
It is an immense oblong, well paved, with mangers and racks on either
side. In the centre is a spacious dome with several apartments now
occupied by the smiths of the regiment. All the stags’ heads which
ornamented the interior of the building have been struck off, only
stumps being left behind. There was formerly a pretty emblematical
figure over the reservoir of water under the dome, this has been
completely annihilated.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO CHANTILLY]
To the left of the stables is the _ménage_, an open circular
piece of ground, encircled by Doric pillars. Here we found the
subaltern officers of the regiment instructing their men in the art of
riding. The French soldiers, in general, keep their seats well, but
their position does not appear so easy as that of the English. They
ridicule our long trot as ungraceful, perhaps with some reason; but
horses and riders using it are better able to support a long journey
than a Frenchman, erect as a post, jogging on a dancing horse.
On one side of the _ménage_ is the court for carriages and
grooms, and a few yards behind the tennis court, as large as the one
at Versailles, enclosed in a noble stone building. A merchant has
purchased this place, and is resolved to reconvert it to its original
purpose. From these edifices, which are all in fair order, we advanced
to the scene of horror. The Palace is a heap of ruins; it was purchased
by two persons, who demolished it for the sake of the materials, which
they sold for above ten times the original purchase money. It is
just the name of these Vandals should descend to posterity, they are
Damois, an ironmonger of the Faubourg St. Antoine, Paris, and Boulet, a
carpenter of Compiègne.
The Château d’Enghien has escaped, and is now used as a barrack for
Chasseurs. The Château of the Duc de Bourbon, where the family,
except on State occasions, formerly resided, was in the days of the
Revolutionary Tribunal converted into a prison, 750 prisoners were
therein confined; men and women intentionally herded together in the
same apartments, in defiance of decency. The Château of Bourbon has
been completely stripped of decorations and furniture, only the bare
walls remain. The beautiful bridge of La Volière, which formed the
communication between the Palace and the Island of Love, was broken
down lest the prisoners should escape over it.
We traversed the lonely apartments, and were shown the study of
the exiled Prince de Condé, a room the former beauty of which the
mutilated paintings still remaining gave a lively idea. The gallery of
Conquest, formerly filled with pictures representing the achievements
of Montmorencies and Condés, exhibits now merely a dead wall. As we
descended the staircase we observed the walls covered by inscriptions
of the names of prisoners, often accompanied by verses alluding to
their forlorn condition.
The gallery of marble vases opposite to the Pavilion of Apollo,
consisting of twenty-two rams’ heads, which spouted into basins beneath
them, is utterly destroyed. The Island of Love is a bog, and the
Pavilion of Venus no more.
At the foot of the grand staircase was once a _jet d’eau_,
remarkable for its size and beauty. It had a superb marble column in
the centre, around which swans sailed in majestic order, while immense
quantities of tench played upon the surface of the water. The column,
the _jet d’eau_ and the swans have vanished--the water drawn off
and the tench devoured by the Revolutionary army. The romantic cottage
by the mill has been pulled down--the carcase of the dairy is still
standing, but every article it contained was pillaged, for our guide
remarked, “The Jacobins never slept as long as there was anything left
to seize.” The small cascade, situated opposite the menagerie, was
demolished for the sake of the leaden pipes, profitable articles of
sale, indeed _all_ the leaden conduits were removed, so that the
numerous communications between the different reservoirs of water and
the court being destroyed, the waters in rainy weather overflow their
basins and pour upon the adjacent ground. Every step we went we trod in
water, and to this circumstance the wretched appearance of the Island
of Love is due.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO CHANTILLY]
There was formerly a great menagerie on the opposite side of the
court. The Revolutionary army condemned to death the beasts and birds
which inhabited it, on the ground that they were agents in the alleged
conspiracy of Condé to starve the people. But as they were apprehensive
these animals might make a rally, and feeling their courage unequal
to the shock of a pitched battle, and being afraid to butcher the
animals in detail, they stationed a couple of pieces of artillery on
the neighbouring height, and the onslaught commenced. A heavy fire was
opened on the imprisoned sovereigns of the forest by the sovereign
people--after a breach had been effected the drums beat a general
charge, the centre of the Revolutionary army advanced, bayonets fixed,
while the right and left wings kept up a smart fire of musketry upon
the invisible enemy. The army entered the breach, and the whole
garrison being put to the sword, the majesty of the people shone forth
in all its glory.
A person who was an eye-witness of the affair described to me in detail
this patriotic act of carnage.
At the end of the great court a place was erected by the Prince of
Condé for the accommodation of the sick who resorted there to drink the
water of a mineral spring. The spring is filled up, and four mills for
boring cannon supplant the building. The violence of destruction was so
great that the source of these mineral waters cannot now be traced. The
immense kitchen garden has been preserved, and the house, which once
belonged to Monsieur Hatorme, steward or _homme d’affaires_ of
the Prince. It is now inhabited by Damois, the ironmonger, one of the
Vandals who bought and destroyed the Château. When the Jacobins came to
murder Monsieur Hatorme he fortunately escaped by a small secret door
at the back of the house.
No better idea can be given of the general horror and desolation
effected everywhere by the Revolutionists than a sight of Chantilly.
Thistles and grass cover every part of the gardens, here and there a
few solitary tulips peep out of the earth. The fox that peeped through
the crevices of the desolate Castle of Ossian could not give a more
faithful conception of ruin than those lonely and deserted flowers.
It would not be amiss to give here a description of Chantilly, given
fifteen years ago by that acute and intelligent traveller, Mr. Arthur
Young:
“Chantilly! Magnificence is its reigning character. The Château is
great and imposing. The gallery of the great Condé’s victories and the
cabinet of natural history, rich in fine specimens, most advantageously
arranged, demand particular notice. The stable exceeds anything of the
kind I have ever seen. It is 580 feet long and 40 broad, and is filled
with 240 English horses. I came to Chantilly prepossessed against the
idea of a court, but the one here is striking, and gives the effect
which magnificent scenes impress. This arises from extent and from the
right lines of the water uniting with the regularity of the object
in view. Lord Kaimes says the part of a garden contiguous to a house
should partake of the regularity of the building. The effect here
is lessened by the _parterre_ before the Castle, in which the
divisions and the diminutive _jets d’eau_ do not correspond in
size with that of the court.
“The menagerie is very pretty, and exhibits a prodigious quantity of
domestic poultry from every part of the world, one of the best objects
to which a menagerie can be applied. The _hameau_ contains an
imitation of an English garden. The most English idea I saw was the
lawn in front of the stables; it is large, of good verdure and well
kept. The labyrinth, the only complete one I have ever seen. In the
Sylvae are many fine and scarce plants. The great beech is the finest
I ever saw, straight as an arrow, between eighty and ninety feet in
height and twelve feet in diameter, five feet from the ground. Two
others near it are almost equal to this superb tree.”
We were accompanied as guide at Chantilly by a man named Touret,
formerly _garde de chasse_ to the Prince. He is a very sensible
and good-natured man. He was accused of an attachment to his ancient
master, and for that crime pursued by the Jacobins with unrelenting
vigour. He was compelled to fly into the woods, where he subsisted on
acorns, nuts and berries for several days, and concealed himself in
secluded haunts, which from his former situation as gamekeeper were
known to him.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO CHANTILLY]
The contrast between this poor faithful fellow and that of Hautoir,
administrator of the district of Genlis, is great. The former, like
Shakespeare’s Adam, fled to the woods for the love he bore his master;
the latter is an ungrateful miscreant, who rioted on the spoils of his
ancient patron. The Prince of Condé had granted to this fellow, who was
originally a grocer, every species of parental favour and indulgence.
In return for these acts of kindness Hautoir marched at the head of the
Revolutionary army to the superb Château, opened it to the ravages of
those sanguinary vagabonds, and affixed the municipal seal on the doors
of his former benefactor.
Fanaticism in those awful days transported many individuals to the
commission of outrages of which I have heard them now express the
deepest and most heartfelt repentance. This rogue could only plead a
thirst for pillage, which very shortly afterwards was signally proved
by his being publicly detected in a particularly mean theft.
The Bishop of Châlons had a pretty pavilion on the lawn, which I have
already described. This prelate was compelled to fly, and his retreat
occupied by Jacobins. His property was seized and advertised for
sale. Hautoir,[1] as administrator of the district, superintended the
business.
While he was announcing the business of the day he was detected with
having in his pocket a valuable snuffbox belonging to the Bishop,
which he had stolen from the cabinet of the ecclesiastic when placing
seals on the property. He was not arrested owing to his position as
a Revolutionary delegate, but he was severely hissed at the auction,
deprived of his position, and now resides in obscurity at Morli la
Ville.
After having taken leave of Touret, who had attended us from morning
till night during our three days’ excursions in the immense Forest of
Chantilly, which, with its territorial domains, extends to more than
one hundred miles in circumference, we drove from a spot where, from
the charms of the surrounding country, the serenity of the season and
the uncommon attractions of all around us, we had passed the sweetest
days of melancholy we had ever experienced.