JOURNEY TO S. DENYS, DESCRIPTION OF THAT PLACE
AND THE FEUDAL CASTLE OF ECOUEN.
ARRIVAL IN PARIS
The road to Luzarches from Chantilly is exceedingly pretty. After
passing through part of the Forest we entered upon a magnificent paved
road, bordered by trees and lands, which exhibited on either side a
_little_ better cultivation than those we had hitherto passed.
Luzarches is seven miles from Chantilly. We were compelled to stop for
some time at a miserable inn in this wretched town. One of the wheels
of our carriage was broken, and it was necessary to have it repaired.
In a miserable room, containing two dirty beds, cold and famished
(for we could not touch a morsel that was brought to us), we remained
seven hours. The wheel being repaired we proceeded to Ecouen and from
thence to S. Denys, but we quitted the public road for the purpose of
visiting the Castle of Ecouen, built by Anne de Montmorency, Constable
of France. The Château is completely stripped of furniture, even the
tapestry being torn away. Two hundred unhappy Vendéans were imprisoned
here. It was converted later into a military hospital. Upon the whole
nothing is now left of this stately Castle but the walls. It stands
on an eminence and commands an extensive prospect. There is a large
kitchen garden in front of the grand entrance. A Swiss, formerly in the
service of Spain during the siege of Gibraltar, is entrusted with the
care of the place. He conducted us over every part of the Castle.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO S. DENYS]
It has all the appearance of a modern prison, and does not convey that
appearance of feudal grandeur which distinguishes the Castles on the
banks of the Danube and the Rhine.
We arrived at a late hour at the S. Denys post-house, where we were
well lodged and comfortably entertained, and early the next day went to
visit the Cathedral.
My astonishment was great when the old Swiss, whom I remembered ten
years before, opened the door, and I perceived this once beautiful
gothic edifice was a heap of ruins. My guide entered into my sentiments
of horror and disgust, and certainly did not spare the authors of
this devastation. The tombs and mausoleums of the Kings and Queens
of France, of Guesclin, of Turenne, and of the most illustrious
warriors and great men, were deposited in various compartments of
the Cathedral, and formed a striking and splendid decoration. But
these, together with the oriflamme of Clovis, the sceptre and sword
of Charlemagne, the portrait and sword of the Maid of Orleans, the
bronze chair of Dagobert, the reliques and shrines, royal robes and
crowns, ancient manuscripts and an immense number of curiosities,
sacred and profane--now all vanished; some destroyed: others, by the
industry of Monsieur Le Noir, removed to the museum of French monuments
in Paris. The Cathedral is unroofed, and it is fraught with peril to
traverse any part of it, for stones are continually falling. Our Swiss
described with minute precision where every tomb stood, from Pepin to
Louis XV. A small room formerly used as a sacristy our pious guardian
had converted into an ossory. And here lay in one indistinguished
heap the bones of kings, princes and heroes, who for ages had slept
undisturbed in the mansions of death. I inquired into the cause of
all this ruthless destruction, and was told that the Revolutionary
Committee of S. Denys, composed of twelve citizens, six of whom were
labouring men, decreed that this ancient and noble ornament of their
town should be pulled to pieces for the sake of the lead and iron it
contained. Their determination was carried into effect, on the plea
that arts and science were of no utility to mankind, and that respect
for the habitations of the dead was a mark of puerile superstition.
At that time Lavoisier was executed, being told at his trial that the
French Republic stood in no need of chemists. After we had quitted the
Cathedral we visited the chapel of Mesdames de France. When we entered
Divine service was being celebrated therein. The chapel has been
stripped of all its ornaments, and was scarcely worth the trouble of a
walk to visit it.
S. Denys is not distant more than four miles from Paris.
The approach to the capital is through a wide and magnificent paved
road, bordered with double rows of trees, on either side of which are
extensive and well-cultivated fields of corn and other grain; but none
of those neat and diversified habitations are seen which in our country
denote the fruits of commercial industry and mercantile opulence.
For that order of men, whom we in England denominate country squires
or persons living on their own small estates, the Republic has done
nothing; in truth, there are no such persons in France, neither are
there any country houses erected with a view to their being inhabited
by such a description of beings, much less by merchants and tradesmen.
In the “great nation” nothing is so conspicuous as disparity or in
other words inequality. Magnificence and filth, opulence and beggary
are beside each other. There is no medium in France; in fact, the
great middle class which in our country intervenes between rich and
poor and forms the solid Doric pillar of society, is unknown in any
European country but Great Britain. This class is the most substantial
boon for the consolidation of an enlightened form of government; it is
the nursery of statesmen, freedom, and equal laws; to the want of it
France may ascribe the origin of the greater part of her misfortunes,
to the possession of it England is indebted for her independence, her
regulated power, and her system of jurisprudence.
[Sidenote: JOURNEY TO S. DENYS]
Rational liberty can never flourish where there are no classes but
high and low. Laws can never be executed, except by the point of the
bayonet, in any State where a numerous body of men do not exist who are
sufficiently independent to prevent the oppressions of the great from
trampling the poor under foot and sufficiently strong to repress the
reaction of the poor on the property and security of the great.
Every thinking Englishman must feel the dissolution of this middling
order of men would transform the State into an absolute military power,
or, what is worse, a tyrannical and licentious democracy. This argument
finds an apt illustration in a great commercial city which is under
aristocratic government. Hamburg, by the encouragement afforded to
that body, is one of the best regulated cities of Europe. Multitudes
of country seats belonging to traders are scattered plentifully on
the banks of the Elbe; and even Denmark, although a purely absolute
monarchy, owes much of its happiness and strength to the importance
attached to this order of men--an order which in France has never so
far existed. Hence during the old monarchy despotism wantoned in power,
or was mildly exercised according to the views and inclinations of the
rulers, while during every stage of the Republic the leaders of the
people, drunk with authority, wallowed in the blood of their fellow
citizens. At this very moment an absolute military despot is governing
the country, and the people are, as before, mere slaves, insecure of
property or personal security.
The entrance to Paris from S. Denys is not calculated to give a
foreigner a favourable idea of the capital. The city has every
appearance of filth and poverty, and the Triumphal Arch or Porte S.
Denys, under which we passed, has such a sombre cast as to give the
traveller the impression that he is going into the courtyard of a
prison. I ordered the postillion to drive to the hotel in the Rue
Coquenon, where I resided in 1792 and 1793, and where I had left all my
books.
When we arrived there I saw written in large letters over the
_porte-cochère_ “_Maison de Commission_.” I alighted and
inquired what had become of the former proprietor. I was told that
he had been guillotined. We then drove to the Hôtel Morigny, where I
afterwards learnt a celebrated Corsican, when times went hard with him,
lodged in a small apartment at seven shillings per week. There were,
however, no rooms vacant, we therefore took up our lodgings at the Coq
Heron--an hotel lately established and kept by an Englishman named
Guillandeau, the greatest blackguard in Christendom.
We afterwards removed to private apartments in the Rue Mirabeau,
_ci-devant_ Chaussée d’Antin.