défendu, cette partie la plus défendue" was most assuredly what I
should have eagerly chosen had choice been offered. M. de
Châteaubriand's journey to Prague furnishes as interesting an
historical scene as can well be imagined; and I do not believe that
any author that ever lived, Jean-Jacques and Sir Walter not excepted,
could have recounted it better--with more true feeling or more
finished grace: simple and unaffected to perfection in its style, yet
glowing with all the fervour of a poetical imagination, and all the
tenderness of a most feeling heart. It is a gallery of living
portraits that he brings before the eye as if by magic. There is no
minute painting, however: the powerful, the painfully powerful effect
of the groups he describes, is produced by the bold and unerring touch
of a master. I fancied I saw the royal race before me, each one
individual and distinct; and I could have said, as one does in seeing
a clever portrait, "That is a likeness, I'll be sworn for it." Many
passages made a profound impression on my fancy and on my memory; and
I think I could give a better account of some of the scenes described
than I should feel justified in doing as long as the noble author
chooses to keep them from the public eye. There were touches which
made us weep abundantly; and then he changed the key, and gave us the
prettiest, the most gracious, the most smiling picture of the young
princess and her brother, that it was possible for pen to trace. She
must be a fair and glorious creature, and one that in days of yore
might have been likely enough to have seen her colours floating on the
helm of all the doughtiest knights in Christendom. But chivalry is not
the fashion of the day;--there is nothing _positif_, as the phrase
goes, to be gained by it;--and I doubt if "its ineffectual fire" burn
very brightly at the present time in any living heart, save that of M.
de Châteaubriand himself.
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
LECTURE À L'ABBAYE-AUX-BOIS.
London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1835.]
The party assembled at Madame Récamier's on this occasion did not, I
think, exceed seventeen, including Madame Récamier and M. de
Châteaubriand. Most of these had been present at the former readings.
The Duchesses de Larochefoucauld and Noailles, and one or two other
noble ladies, were among them. I felt it was a proof that genius is
of no party, when I saw a granddaughter of General Lafayette enter
among us. She is married to a gentleman who is said to be of the
extreme côté gauche; but I remarked that they both listened with as
much deep interest to all the touching details of this mournful visit
as the rest of us. Who, indeed, could help it?--This lady sat between
me and Madame Récamier on one sofa; M. Ampère the reader, and M. de
Châteaubriand himself, on another, immediately at right angles with
it,--so that I had the pleasure of watching one of the most expressive
countenances I ever looked at, while this beautiful specimen of his
head and his heart was displayed to us. On the other side of me was a
gentleman whom I was extremely happy to meet--the celebrated Gérard;
and before the reading commenced, I had the pleasure of conversing
with him: he is one of those whose aspect and whose words do not
disappoint the expectations which high reputation always gives birth
to. There was no formal circle;--the ladies approached themselves a
little towards THE sofa which was placed at the feet of Corinne, and
the gentlemen stationed themselves in groups behind them. The sun
shone _delicately_ into the room through the white silk
curtains--delicious flowers scented the air--the quiet gardens of the
Abbaye, stretched to a sufficient distance beneath the windows to
guard us from every Parisian sound--and, in short, the whole thing
was perfect. Can you wonder that I was delighted? or that I have
thought the occurrence worth dwelling upon with some degree of
lingering fondness?
The effect this delightful morning has had on us is, I assure you, by
no means singular: it would be easy to fill a volume with the
testimonies of delight and gratitude which have been offered from
various quarters in return for this gratification. Madame Tastu, whom
I have heard called the Mrs. Hemans of France, was present at one or
more of the readings, and has returned thanks in some very pretty
lines, which conclude thus fervently:--
"Ma tête
S'incline pour saisir jusques aux moindres sons,
Et mon genou se ploie à demi, quand je prête,
Enchantée et muette,
L'oreille à vos leçons!"
Apropos of tributary verses on this subject, I am tempted to conclude
my unmercifully long epistle by giving you some lines which have as
yet, I believe, been scarcely seen by any one but the person to whom
they are addressed. They are from the pen of the H. G. who so
beautifully translated the twelve first cantos of the "Frithiof Saga,"
which was so favourably received in England last spring.
H. G. is an Englishwoman, but from the age of two to seventeen she
resided in the United States of America. Did I not tell you this, you
would be at a loss to understand her allusion to the distant dwelling
of her youth.
This address, as you will perceive, is not as an acknowledgment for
having been admitted to the Abbaye, but an earnest prayer that she may
be so; and I heartily hope it will prove successful.
TO M. LE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.
In that distant region, the land of the West,
Where my childhood and youth glided rapidly by,
Ah! why was my bosom with sorrow oppress'd?
Why trembled the tear-drop so oft in mine eye?
No! 'twas not that pleasures they told me alone
Were found in the courts where proud monarchs reside;
My knee could not bend at the foot of a throne,
My heart could not hallow an emperor's pride.
But, oh! 'twas the thought that bright genius there dwelt,
And breathed on a few holy spirits its flame,
That awaken'd the grief which in childhood I felt,
When, Europe! I mutter'd thy magical name.
And now that as pilgrim I visit thy shore,
I ask not where kings hold their pompous array;
But I fain would behold, and all humbly adore,
The wreath which thy brows, Châteaubriand! display.
My voice may well falter--unknown is my name,
But say, must my accents prove therefore in vain?
Beyond the Atlantic we boast of thy fame,
And repeat that thy footstep has traversed our plain.
Great bard!--then reject not the prayer that I speak
With trembling emotion, and offer thee now;
In thy eloquent page, oh! permit me to seek
The joys and the sorrows that genius may know.
H. G.
LETTER LXI.
Jardin des Plantes.--Not equal in beauty to our Zoological
Gardens.--La Salpêtrière.--Anecdote.--Les
Invalides.--Difficulty of finding English Colours
there.--The Dome.
Another long morning on the other side of the water has given us
abundant amusement, and sent us home in a very good humour with the
expedition, because, after very mature and equitable consideration, we
were enabled honestly to decide that our Zoological Gardens are in few
points inferior, in many equal, and in some greatly superior, to the
long and deservedly celebrated Jardin des Plantes.
If considered as a museum and nursery for botanists, we certainly
cannot presume to compare our comparatively new institution to that of
Paris; but, zoologically speaking, it is every way superior. The
collection of animals, both birds and beasts, is, I think, better, and
certainly in finer condition. I confess that I envy them their
beautiful giraffe; but what else have they which we cannot equal? Then
as to our superiority, look at the comparative degree of beauty of the
two enclosures. "O England!" as I once heard a linen-draper exclaim
in the midst of his shop, intending in his march of mind to quote
Byron--
"O England! with all thy faults, I can't help loving thee still."
And I am quite of the linen-draper's mind: I cannot help loving those
smooth-shaven lawns, those untrimmed flowing shrubs, those meandering
walks, now seen, now lost amidst a cool green labyrinth of shade,
which are so truly English. You have all this at the Zoological
Gardens--we have none of it in the Jardin des Plantes; and, therefore,
I like the Zoological Gardens best.
We must not say a word, my friend, about the lectures, or the free
admission to them--that is not our forte; and if the bourgeoisie go on
much longer as they do at present, becoming greater and more powerful
with every passing day, and learning to know, as their mercantile
neighbours have long known, that it is quite necessary both
governments and individuals should turn all things to profit;--
"Car dans le siècle où nous sommes,
On ne donne rien pour rien;"--
if this happens, as I strongly suspect it will, then we shall have no
more lectures gratis even in Paris.
From the Jardin des Plantes, we visited that very magnificent
hospital, La Salpêtrière. I will spare you, however, all the fine
things that might be said about it, and only give you a little
anecdote which occurred while we stood looking into the open court
where the imbecile and the mad are permitted to take their exercise.
By the way, without at all presuming to doubt that there may be
reasons which the managers of this establishment conceive to be
satisfactory, why these wretched objects, in different stages of their
dreadful calamity, should be thus for ever placed before each other's
eyes, I cannot but observe, that the effect upon the spectator is
painful beyond anything I ever witnessed.
With my usual love for the terrible, I remained immovable for above
twenty minutes, watching the manner in which they appeared to notice
each other. If fancy did not cheat me, those who were least wildly
deranged looked with a sort of triumph and the consciousness of
superiority on those who were most so: some looked on the mad
movements of the others and laughed distractedly;--in short, the scene
is terribly full of horror.
But to return to my anecdote. A stout girl, who looked more imbecile
than mad, was playing tricks, that a woman who appeared to have some
authority among them endeavoured to stop. The girl evidently
understood her, but with a sort of dogged obstinacy persevered, till
the nurse, or matron, or whatever she was, took hold of her arm, and
endeavoured to lead her into the house. Upon this the girl resisted;
and it was not without some degree of violence that she was at last
conquered and led away.
"What dreadful cruelty!" exclaimed a woman who like ourselves was
indulging her curiosity by watching the patients. An old crone, a very
aged and decrepid pensioner of the establishment, was passing by on
her crutches as she spoke. She stopped in her hobbling walk, and
addressing the stranger in the gentle voice of quiet good sense, and
in a tone which made me fancy she had seen better days,
said--"_Dreadful cruelty, good woman?_... She is preventing her from
doing what ought not to be done. If you had the charge of her, you
would think it your duty to do the same, and then it would be right.
But 'dreadful cruelty!' is easily said, and sounds good-hearted; and
those who know not what it is to govern, generally think it is a sin
and a shame to use authority in any way." And so saying, the old woman
hobbled on, leaving me convinced that La Salpêtrière did not give its
shelter to fools only.
From this hospital we took a very long drive to another, going almost
from the extremest east to the extremest west of Paris. The Invalides
was now our object; and its pleasant, easy, comfortable aspect offered
a very agreeable contrast to the scene we had left. We had become
taciturn and melancholy at La Salpêtrière; but this interesting and
noble edifice revived our spirits completely. Two of the party had
never been there before, and the others were eloquent in pointing out
all that their former visits had shown them. No place can be better
calculated to stimulate conversation; there is so much to be said
about our own Greenwich and Queen Elizabeth, versus Louis le Grand and
the Invalides. Then we had the statue of a greater than he--even of
Napoleon--upon which to gaze and moralise. Some veteran had climbed up
to it, despite a wooden leg, or a single arm perhaps, and crowned the
still-honoured head with a fresh wreath of bays.
While we stood looking at this, the courteous bow and promising
countenance of a fine old man arrested the whole party, and he was
questioned and chatted to, till he became the hero of his own tale,
and we soon knew exactly where he had received his first wound, what
were his most glorious campaigns, and, above all, who was the general
best deserving the blessing of an old soldier.
Those who in listening to such chronicles in France expect to hear any
other name than that of Napoleon will be disappointed. We may talk of
his terrible conscriptions, of poisonings at Jena or forsakings at
Moscow, as we will; the simple fact which answers all is, that he was
adored by his soldiers when he was with them, and that his memory is
cherished with a tender enthusiasm to which history records no
parallel. The mere tone of voice in which the name of "NAPOLEON!" or
the title of "L'EMPEREUR!" is uttered by his veterans, is of itself
enough to prove what he was to them. They stand taller by an inch when
he is named, and throw forward the chest, and snuff the air, like an
old war-horse that hears the sound of a trumpet.
But still, with all these interesting speculations to amuse us, we did
not forget what must ever be the primary object of a stranger's visit
to the Invalides--the interior of the dome. But this is only to be
seen at particular hours; and we were too late for the early, and too
early for the late, opening of the doors for this purpose. Four
o'clock was the hour we had to wait for--as yet it was but three. We
were invited into the hall and into the kitchen; we were admitted,
too, into sundry little enclosures, appropriated to some happy
individuals favoured for their skill in garden craft, who, turning
their muskets into hoes and spades, enjoy their honourable leisure ten
times more than their idle brethren. In three out of four of these
miniature domains we found plaister Napoleons of a foot high stuck
into a box-tree or a rose-bush: one of these, too, had a wreath of
newly-gathered leaves twisted round the cocked-hat, and all three were
placed and displayed with as much attention to dignity and effect as
the finest statues in the Tuileries.
If the spirit of Napoleon is permitted to hover about Paris, to
indulge itself in gathering the scattered laurels of his posthumous
fame, it is not to the lofty chambers of the Tuileries that it should
betake itself;--nor would it be greatly soothed by listening to the
peaceful counsels of his once warlike maréchals. No--if his ghost be
well inspired, it will just glide swiftly through the gallery of the
Louvre, to compare it with his earthly recollections; balance itself
for a moment over the statue of the Place Vendôme, and abide, for the
rest of the time allotted for this mundane visit, among his faithful
invalids. There only would he meet a welcome that would please him.
The whole nation, it is true, dearly love to talk of his greatness;
but there is little now left in common between them and their sometime
emperor.
France with a charter, and France without, differs not by many degrees
so widely as France military, and France bourgeoise and boursière.
Under Napoleon she was the type of successful war; under
Louis-Philippe, she will, I think--if the republicans will let her
alone--become that of prosperous peace: a sword and a feather might be
the emblem of the one--a loom and a long purse of the other.
* * * * *
But still it was not four o'clock. We were next invited to enter the
chapel; and we did so, determined to await the appointed hour reposing
ourselves on the very comfortable benches provided for the veterans to
whose use it is appropriated.
Here, stretched and lounging at our ease, we challenged each other to
discover English colours among the multitude of conquered banners
which hung suspended above our heads. It is hardly possible that some
such should not be there; yet it is a positive fact, that not all our
familiar acquaintance with the colours we sought could enable us to
discover them. There is indeed one torn and battered relic, that it is
just possible might have been hacked and sawed from the desperately
firm grasp of an Englishman; but the morsel of rag left is so small,
that it was in fact more from the lack of testimony than the presence
of it that we at length came to the conclusion that this relic of a
stick might once have made part of an English standard.
Not in any degree out of humour at our disappointment in this search
after our national banner, we followed the guide who summoned us at
last to the dome, chatting and laughing as cheerily and as noisily as
if we had not been exhausting our spirits for the last four hours by
sight-seeing. But what fatigue could not achieve, was the next moment
produced by wonder, admiration, and delight. Never did muter silence
fall upon a talking group, than the sight of this matchless chapel
brought on us. Speech is certainly not the first or most natural
resource that the spirit resorts to, when thus roused, yet
chastened--enchanted, yet subdued.
I have not yet been to Rome, and know not how I shall feel if ever I
find myself under the dome of St. Peter's. There, I conceive that it
is a sense of vastness which seizes on the mind; here it is wholly a
feeling of beauty, harmony, and grace. I know nothing like it
anywhere: the Pantheon (ci-devant Ste. Geneviève), with all its
nobleness and majesty, is heavy, and almost clumsy, when compared to
it. Though possessing no religious solemnity whatever, and in this
respect inferior beyond the reach of comparison to the choir of
Cologne, or King's College Chapel at Cambridge, it nevertheless
produces a stronger effect upon the senses than either of them. This
is owing, I suspect, to the circumstance of there being no mixture of
objects: the golden tabernacle seems to complete rather than destroy
its unity. If I could give myself a fête, it should be, to be placed
within the pure, bright, lofty loveliness of this marble sanctuary,
while a full and finished orchestra performed the chefs-d'oeuvre of
Handel or Mozart in the church.
LETTER LXII.
Expedition to Montmorency.--Rendezvous in the Passage
Delorme.--St. Denis.--Tomb prepared for Napoleon.--The
Hermitage.--Dîner sur l'herbe.
It is more than a fortnight ago, I think, that we engaged ourselves
with a very agreeable party of twenty persons to take a long drive out
of Paris and indulge ourselves with a very gay "dîner sur l'herbe."
But it is no easy matter to find a day on which twenty people shall
all be ready and willing to leave Paris. However, a steadfast will can
conquer most things. The whole twenty were quite determined that they
would go to Montmorency, and to Montmorency at last we have been. The
day was really one of great enjoyment, but yet it did not pass without
disasters. One of these which occurred at the moment of starting very
nearly overthrew the whole scheme. The place of general rendezvous for
us and our hampers was the Galerie Delorme, and thither one of the
party who had undertaken that branch of the business had ordered the
carriages to come. At ten o'clock precisely, the first detachment of
the party was deposited with their belongings at the southern
extremity of the gallery; another and another followed till the
muster-roll was complete. Baskets were piled on baskets; and the
passers-by read our history in these, and in our anxious eyes, which
ceased not to turn with ever-increasing anxiety the way the carriages
should come.
What a _supplice_!... Every minute, every second, brought the rolling
of wheels to our ears, but only to mock us: the wheels rolled on--no
carriages came for us, and we remained in statu quo to look at each
other and our baskets.
Then came forth, as always happens on great and trying occasions, the
inward character of each. The sturdy and firm-minded set themselves
down on the packages, determined to abide the eyes of all rather than
shrink from their intent. The timid and more frail of purpose gently
whispered proposals that we should all go home again; while others,
yet listening to
"Hope's enchanting measure,
Which still promised coming pleasure,"
smiled, and looked forth from the gallery, and smiled again--though
still no carriage came.
It was, as I suspect, these young hopes and smiles which saved us from
final disappointment: for the young men belonging to the cortége,
suddenly rousing themselves from their state of listless watching,
declared with one voice and one spirit, that les demoiselles should
not be disappointed; and exchanging _consignes_ which were to regulate
the number and species of vehicles each was to seek--and find, too, on
peril of his reputation,--they darted forth from the gallery, leaving
us with renewed spirits and courage to bear all the curious glances
bestowed upon us.
Our half-dozen aides-de-camp returned triumphantly in a few minutes,
each one in his delta or his citadine; and the Galerie Delorme was
soon left far behind us.
It is lucky for you that we had not to make a "voyage par mer" and
"retour par terre," or my story might be as long--if resembling it in
no other way--as the immortal expedition to St. Cloud. I shall not
make a volume of it; but I must tell you that we halted at St. Denis.
The church is beautiful--a perfect bijou of true Gothic
architecture--light, lofty, elegant; and we saw it, too, in a manner
peculiarly advantageous, for it had neither organ, altar, nor screen
to distract the eye from the great and simple beauty of the original
design. The repairs going on here are of a right royal character--on a
noble scale and in excellent taste. Several monuments restored from
the collection made under the Empire aux Petits Augustins are now
again the glory of St. Denis; and some of them have still much
remaining which may entitle them to rank as very pure and perfect
specimens of highly-antiquated monumental sculpture. But the chiselled
treasures of a thousand years' standing cannot be made to travel about
like the scenery of strolling players, in conformity to the will and
whim of the successive actors who play the part of king, without great
injury. In some instances the original nooks in this venerable
mausoleum of royal bones have again received the effigies originally
carved to repose within them; but the regal image has rarely been
replaced without showing itself in some degree way-worn. In other
cases, the monumental portrait, venerable and almost hallowed by its
high antiquity, is made to recline on a whitened sepulchre as bright
as Parisian masonry can make it.
Having fully examined the church and its medley of old and new
treasures, we called a council as to the possibility of finding time
for descending to the crypts: but most of the party agreeing in
opinion that we ought not to lose the opportunity of visiting what a
wit amongst us happily enough designated "le Palais Royal de la Mort,"
we ordered the iron gates to be unbarred for us, and proceeded with
some solemnity of feeling into the pompous tomb. And here the
unfortunate result of that bold spirit of change which holds nothing
sacred is still more disagreeably obvious than in the church. All the
royal monuments of France that could be collected are assembled in
this magnificent vault, but with such incongruity of dates belonging
to different parts of the same structure, as almost wholly to destroy
the imposing effect of this gorgeous grave.
But if the spectator would seek farther than his eye can carry him,
and inquire where the mortal relics of each sculptured monarch lie,
the answer he will receive must make him believe that the royal dust
of France has been scattered to the four winds of heaven. Nothing I
have heard has sounded more strangely to me than the naïveté with
which our guide informed us that, among all this multitude of regal
tombs, there was not one which contained a single vestige of the
mortal remains of those they commemorate.
For the love of good taste and consistency, these guardians of the
royal sepulchre of France should be taught a more poetical lesson. It
is inconceivable how, as he spoke, the solemn memorials of the
illustrious dead, near which my foot had passed cautiously and my
voice been mute, seemed suddenly converted into something little more
sacred than the show furnishing of a stone-mason's shop. The bathos
was perfect.
I could not but remember with a feeling of national pride the contrast
to this presented by Westminster Abbey and St. George's Chapel. The
monuments of these two royal fanes form a series as interesting in the
history of art as of our royal line, and no painful consciousness of
desecration mixes itself with the solemn reverence with which we
contemplate the honoured tombs.
The most interesting object in the crypts of St. Denis, and which
comes upon the moral feeling with a force increased rather than
diminished by the incongruities which surround it, is the door of the
vault prepared by Napoleon for himself. It is inscribed,
ICI REPOSENT
LES DÉPOUILLES MORTELLES
DE