PARIS--ITS PUBLIC BUILDINGS.
With whatever sentiments a stranger might enter Paris at the time we
did, his feelings must have been the same with regard to the monuments
of ancient magnificence, or of modern taste, which it contained. All
that the vanity or patriotism of a long series of Sovereigns could
effect for the embellishment of the capital in which they resided; all
that the conquests of an ambitious and unprincipled Army could
accumulate from the spoils of the nations whom they had subdued, were
there presented to the eye of the stranger with a profusion which
obliterated every former prejudice, and stifled the feelings of
national emulation in exultation at the greatness of human genius.
The ordinary buildings of Paris, as every traveller has observed, and as
all the world knows, are in general mean and uncomfortable. The height
and gloomy aspect of the houses; the narrowness of the streets, and the
want of pavement for foot passengers, convey an idea of antiquity, which
ill accords with what the imagination had anticipated of the modern
capital of the French empire. This circumstance renders the admiration
of the spectator greater when he first comes in sight of its _public
edifices_; when he is conducted to the Place Louis Quinze, or the Pont
Neuf, from whence he has a general view of the principal buildings of
this celebrated capital. With the single exception of the view of London
from the terrace of the Adelphi, there is no point in our own country
where the effect of architectural design is so great as in the
situations which have now been mentioned. The view from the former of
these combines many of the most striking objects which Paris has to
present. To the east, the long front of the Thuilleries rises over the
dark mass of foliage which covers its gardens; to the south, the
picturesque aspect of the town is broken by the varied objects which the
river presents, and the fine perspective of the Bridge of Peace,
terminating in the noble front of the palace of the Legislative Body; to
the west, the long avenues of the Elysian Fields are closed by the
pillars of a triumphal arch which Napoleon had commenced; while to the
north, the beautiful façade of the Palace itself, leaves the spectator
only room to discover at a greater distance the foundation of the Temple
of Glory, which he had commenced, and in the execution of which he was
interrupted by those ambitious enterprises to which his subsequent
downfall was owing. To a painter's eye, the effect of the whole scene is
increased by the rich and varied foreground which everywhere presents
itself, composed of the shrubs with which the skirts of the square are
adorned, and the lofty poplars which rise amidst the splendour of
architectural beauty; while recent events give a greater interest to the
spot from which this beauty is surveyed, by the remembrance, that it was
here that Louis XVI. fell a martyr to the revolutionary principles, and
that it was here that the Emperor Alexander and the other princes of
Europe took their station, when their armies passed in triumph through
the walls of Paris.
The view from the Pont Neuf, though not so striking upon the whole,
embraces objects of greater individual beauty. The gay and animated
quays of the city covered with foot-passengers, and with all the varied
exhibitions of industrious occupation, which, from the warmth of the
climate, are carried on in the open air;--the long and splendid front of
the Louvre and Thuilleries;--the bold projection of the Palais des Arts,
of the Hotel de la Monnaie, and other public buildings on the opposite
side of the river;--the beautiful perspective of the bridges, adorned by
the magnificent colonnade which fronts the Palace of the Legislative
Body;--and the lofty picturesque buildings of the centre of Paris
surrounding the more elevated towers of Notre Dame, form a scene, which,
though less perfect, is more striking, and more characteristic, than the
scene from the centre of the Place Louis Quinze, which has been just
described. It conveys at once a general idea of the French capital; of
that mixture of poverty and splendour by which it is so remarkably
distinguished; of that grandeur of national power, and that degradation
of individual importance, which marked the ancient dynasty of the French
nation. It marks too, in a historical view, the changes of the public
feeling which the people of this country have undergone, from the
distant period when the towers of Notre Dame rose amidst the austerity
of Gothic taste, and were loaded with the riches of Catholic
superstition, to that boasted æra, when the loyalty of the French people
exhausted the wealth and the genius of the country, to decorate with
classic taste the residence of their Sovereigns; and lastly, to those
later days, when the names of religion and of loyalty have alike been
forgotten; when the national exultation reposed only on the trophies of
military greatness, and the iron yoke of imperial power was forgotten in
the monuments which record the deeds of imperial glory.
To the general observation on the inferiority of the common buildings in
Paris, there are some remarkable exceptions. The Boulevards, the remains
of the ancient ramparts of the city, are in general beautiful, from
their circular form, from their uniform breadth, from the magnificence
of the detached palaces with which they abound, and from the rows of
fine trees with which they are shaded. In the skirts of the town, and
more especially in the Fauxbourg St Germain, the beauty of the streets
is greatly increased by the detached hotels or villas, surrounded by
gardens, which are everywhere to be met with, in which the lilac, the
laburnum, the Bois de Judeé, and the acacia, grow in the most luxuriant
manner, and on the green foliage of which the eye reposes with singular
delight amidst the bright and dazzling whiteness of the stone with
which they are surrounded.
The Hotel des Invalides, the Chelsea Hospital of France, is one of the
objects on which the Parisians principally pride themselves, and to
which a stranger is conducted immediately after his arrival in that
capital. The institution itself appears to be well conducted, and to
give general satisfaction to the wounded men who have there found an
asylum from the miseries of war. We were informed that these men live in
habits of perfect harmony among each other; a state of things widely
different from that of our veterans in Greenwich Hospital, and which is
probably chiefly owing to the cheerfulness and equanimity of temper
which form the best feature in the French character. There is something
in the style of the architecture of this building, which accords well
with the object to which it is devoted. The front is distinguished by a
simple manly portico, and a dome of the finest proportion rises above
its centre, which is visible from all parts of the city. This dome was
gilded by order of Bonaparte: and however much a fastidious taste may
regret the addition, it certainly gave an air of splendour to the whole,
which was in perfect unison with the feelings of exultation which the
sight of this monument of military glory was then fitted to awaken
among the French people. The exterior of this edifice was formerly
surrounded by cannon captured by the armies of France at different
periods: and ten thousand standards, the trophies of victory during the
wars of two centuries, waved under its splendid dome, and enveloped the
sword of Frederic the Great, which hung from the centre, until the 31st
of March 1814, when, as already observed, they were all burnt by order
of Maria Louisa, to prevent their falling into the victorious hands of
the allied powers.
If the character of the architecture of the Hotel des Invalides accords
well with the object to which that building is destined, the character
of the Louvre is not less in unison with the spirit of the fine arts, to
which it is consecrated. It is impossible for language to convey any
adequate idea of the impression which this exquisite building awakens in
the mind of a stranger. The beautiful proportions, and the fine symmetry
of the great façade, give an air of simplicity to the distant view of
this edifice, which is not diminished, on nearer approach, by the
unrivalled beauty of its ornaments and detail; but when you cross the
threshold of the portico, and pass under its noble archway into the
inner-court, all considerations are absorbed in the throb of admiration
which is excited by the sudden display of all that is lovely and
harmonious in Grecian architecture. You find yourself in the midst of
the noblest and yet chastest display of architectural beauty, where
every ornament possesses the character by which the whole is
distinguished, and where the whole possesses the grace and elegance
which every ornament presents:--You find yourself on the spot where all
the monuments of ancient art are deposited;--where the greatest
exertions of mortal genius are preserved--and where a palace has at last
been raised worthy of being the depository of the collected genius of
the human race.--It bears a higher character than that of being the
residence of imperial power; it seems destined to loftier purposes than
to be the abode of earthly greatness; and the only forms by which its
halls would not be degraded, are those models of ideal perfection which
the genius of ancient Greece created to exalt the character of a heathen
world.
Placed in a more elevated spot, and destined to a still higher object,
the Pantheon bears in its front the traces of the noble purpose for
which it was intended.--It was intended to be the cemetery of all the
great men who had deserved well of their country; and it bears the
inscription, above its entrance, _Aux grands Hommes La Patrie
reconnoissante_. The character of its architecture is well adapted to
the impression it is intended to convey, and suits the simplicity of the
inscription which its portico presents. Its situation has been selected
with singular taste, to aid the effect which was thus intended. It is
placed at the top of an eminence, which shelves in a declivity on every
side; and the immediate approach is by an immense flight of steps, which
form the base of the building, and increase the effect which its
magnitude produces. Over the entrance is placed a portico of lofty
pillars, finely proportioned, supporting a magnificent entablature of
the simplest order; and the whole terminates in a dome of vast
dimensions, forming the highest object in the whole city. The impression
which every one must feel in crossing its threshold, is that of
religious awe; the individual is lost in the greatness of the objects
with which he is surrounded, and he dreads to enter what seems the abode
of a greater Power, and to have been framed for the purposes of more
elevated worship. The Louvre might have been fitted for the gay scenes
of ancient sacrifice; it suits the brilliant conceptions of heathen
mythology; and seems the fit abode of those ideal forms, in which the
imagination of ancient times embodied their conception of divine
perfection; but the Pantheon is adapted for a holier worship, and
accords with the character of a purer belief; and the vastness and
solitude of its untrodden chambers awaken those feelings of human
weakness, and that sentiment of human immortality, which befit the
temple of a spiritual faith.
We were involuntarily led, by the sight of this great monument of sacred
architecture in the Grecian style, to compare it with the Gothic
churches which we had seen, and in particular with the Cathedral of
Beauvais, the interior of which is finished with greater delicacy, and
in finer proportions, than any other edifice of a similar kind in
France. The impression which the inimitable choir of Beauvais produced,
was widely different from that which we felt on entering the lofty dome
of the Pantheon at Paris. The light pinnacles, the fretted roof, the
aspiring form of the Gothic edifice, seemed to have been framed by the
hands of aerial beings, and produced, even from a distance, that
impression of grace and airiness which it was the peculiar object of
this species of Gothic architecture to excite. On passing the high
archway which covers the western door, and entering the immense aisles
of the Cathedral, the sanctity of the place produces a deeper
impression, and the grandeur of the forms awakens profounder feelings.
The light of the day is excluded, the rays of the sun come mellowed
through the splendid colours with Which the windows are stained, and
cast a religious light over the marble pavement which covers the floor;
while the eye reposes on the harmonious forms of the lancet windows, or
is bewildered in the profusion of ornament with which the roof is
adorned. The impression which the whole produces, is that of religious
emotion, singularly suited to the genius of Christianity; if is seen in
that obscure light which fits the solemnity of religious duty, and
awakens those feelings of intense delight, which prepare the mind for
the high strain of religious praise. But it is not the deep feeling of
humility and weakness which is produced by the dark chambers and massy
pillars of the Pantheon at Paris; it is not in the mausoleum of the dead
that you seem to wander, nor on the thoughts of the great that have gone
before you that the mind revolves; it is in the scene of thanksgiving
that your admiration is fixed; it is with the emblems of Hope that your
devotion is awakened, and with the enthusiasm of gratitude that the
mind is filled. Beneath the gloomy roof of the Grecian Temple, the
spirit is concentrated within itself: it seeks the repose which solitude
affords, and meditates on the fate of the immortal soul; but it loves to
follow the multitude into the Gothic Cathedral, to join in the song of
grateful praise which peals through its lengthened aisles, and to share
in the enthusiasm which belongs to the exercise of common devotion.
The Cathedral of Notre Dame is the only Gothic building of note in
Paris, and it is by no means equal to the expectations we had been led
to form of it. The style of its architecture is not that of the finest
Gothic; it has neither the exquisite lightness of ornament which
distinguishes the summit of Gloucester Cathedral, nor the fine lancet
windows which give so unrivalled a beauty to the interior of Beauvais,
nor the richness of roof which covers the tombs of Westminster Abbey.
Its character is that of massy greatness; its ornaments are rich rather
than elegant, and its interior striking more from its immense size than
the beauty of the proportion in which it is formed. In spite of all
these circumstances, however, the Cathedral of Notre Dame produces a
deep impression on the mind of the beholder; its towers rise to a
stupendous height above all the buildings which surround them; while
the stone of every other edifice is of a light colour, they alone are
black with the smoke of centuries; and exhibit a venerable aspect of
ancient greatness in the midst of the brilliancy of modern decoration
with which the city abounds. Even the crowd of ornaments with which they
are loaded, and the heavy proportion in which they are built, are
forgotten in the effect which their magnitude produces; they suit the
gloomy character of the building they adorn, and accord with the
expression of antiquated power by which its aged forms are now
distinguished.
To those who have been accustomed to the form of worship which is
established in Protestant countries, there is nothing so striking in the
Catholic churches as the complete oblivion of rank, or any of the
distinctions of established society, which there universally prevails.
There are no divisions of seats, nor any places fixed for any particular
classes of society. All, of whatever rank or station, kneel alike upon
the marble pavement; and the whole extent of the church is open for the
devotion of all classes of the people. You frequently see the poorest
citizens with their children kneeling on the stone close to those of the
highest rank, or the most extensive fortunes. This custom may appear
painful to those who have been habituated to the forms of devotion in
the English churches; but it produces an impression on the mind of the
spectator which nothing in our service is capable of effecting. To see
the individual form lost in the immensity of the objects with which he
is surrounded; to see all ranks and ages blended in the exercise of
common devotion; to see all distinction forgotten in the sense of common
infirmity, suits the spirit of that religion which was addressed to the
poor as well as to the rich, and fits the presence of that Being before
whom all ranks are equal.
Nor is it without a good effect upon the feelings of mankind, that this
custom has formed a part of the Catholic service. Amidst that
degradation of the great body of the people, which marks the greater
part of the Catholic countries--amidst the insolence of aristocratic
power, which the doctrines of the Catholic faith are so well suited to
support, it is fitting that there should be some occasions on which the
distinctions of the world should be forgotten; some moments in which the
rich as well as the poor should be humbled before a greater power--in
which they should be reminded of the common faith in which they have
been baptized, of the common duties to which they are called, and the
common hopes which they have been permitted to form.
We had the good fortune to see high mass performed in Notre Dame, with
all the pomp of the Catholic service, for the souls of Louis XVI. Marie
Antoinette, and the Dauphin, on May 16, 1814, soon after the King's
arrival in Paris. The Cathedral was hung with black in every part; the
brilliancy of day wholly excluded, and it was lighted only by double
rows of wax tapers, which burned round the coffins, placed in the centre
of the choir. It was crowded to excess in every part; all the Marshals,
Peers, and dignitaries of France, were stationed with the Royal Family
near the centre of the Cathedral, and all the principal officers of the
allied armies attended at the celebration of the service. The King was
present, though without being perceived by the vast assembly by whom he
was surrounded; and the Duchess d'Angouleme exhibited, in this
melancholy duty, that mixture of firmness and sensibility by which her
character has always been distinguished.
It was said, that there were several persons present at this solemn
service who had voted for the death of the King; and many of those
assembled must doubtless have been conscious that they had been
instrumental in the death of those for whose souls this solemn service
was now performing. The greater part, however, of those whom we had an
opportunity of observing, exhibited the symptoms of genuine sorrow, and
seemed to participate in the solemnity with unfeigned devotion. The
Catholic worship was here displayed in its utmost splendour; all the
highest prelates of France were assembled to give dignity to the
spectacle; and all that art could devise was exhausted to render the
scene impressive in the eyes of the people. To us, however, who had been
habituated to the simplicity of the English form, the variety of
unmeaning ceremony, the endless gestures and unceasing bows of the
clergy who officiated, destroyed the impression which the solemnity of
the service would otherwise have produced. But though the service itself
appeared ridiculous, the effect of the whole scene was sublime in the
greatest degree. The black tapestry hung in heavy folds round the sides
of the Cathedral, and magnified the impression which its vastness
produced. The tapers which surrounded the coffins threw a red and gloomy
light over the innumerable multitude which thronged the floor; their
receding rays faintly illuminated the farther recesses, or strained to
pierce the obscure gloom in which the summits of the pillars were lost;
while the sacred music pealed through the distant aisles, and deepened
the effect of the thousands of voices which joined in the strains of
repentant prayer.
Among the exhibitions of art to which a stranger is conducted
immediately after his arrival in the French metropolis, there is none
which is more characteristic of the disposition of the people than the
_Musèe des Monumens François_, situated in the Rue des Petits Angustins.
This is a collection of all the finest sepulchral monuments from
different parts of France, particularly from the Cathedral of St Denis,
where the cemetery of the royal family had, from time immemorial, been
placed. It is said by the French, that the collection of these monuments
into one museum was the only means of preserving them from the fury of
the people during the revolution; and certainly nothing but absolute
necessity could have justified the barbarous idea of bringing them from
the graves they were intended to adorn, to one spot, where all
associations connected with them are destroyed. It is not the mere
survey of the monuments of the dead that is interesting,--not the
examination of the specimens of art by which they may be adorned;--it is
the remembrance of the deeds which they are intended to record,--of the
virtues they are destined to perpetuate,--- of the pious gratitude of
which they are now the only testimony--above all, of the dust they
actually cover. They remind us of the great men who formerly filled the
theatre of the world,--they carry us back to an age which, by a very
natural illusion, we conceive to have been both wiser and happier than
our own, and present the record of human greatness in that pleasing
distance when the great features of character alone are remembered, when
time has drawn its veil over the weaknesses of mortality, and its
virtues are sanctified by the hand of death. It is a feeling fitted to
elevate the soul; to mingle the thoughts of death with the recollection
of the virtues by which life had been dignified, and renovate in every
heart those high hopes of religion which spring from, the grave of
former virtue.
All this delightful, this purifying illusion, is destroyed by the way in
which the monuments are collected in the Museum at Paris. They are there
brought together from all parts of France; severed from the ashes of the
dead they were intended to cover; and arranged in systematic order to
illustrate the history of the art whose progress they unfold. The tombs
of all the Kings of France, of the Generals by whom its glory has been
extended, of the statesmen by whom its power, and the writers by whom
its fame has been established, are crowded together in one collection,
and heaped upon each other, without any other connexion than that of the
time in which they were originally raised. The Museum accordingly
exhibits, in the most striking manner, the power of arrangement and
classification which the French possess; it is valuable, as containing
fine models of the greatest men whom France has produced, and exhibits a
curious specimen of the progress of art, from its first commencement to
the period of its greatest perfection; but it has wholly lost that deep
and peculiar interest which belongs to the monuments of the dead in
their original situation.
Adjoining to the Museum, is a garden planted with trees, in which many
of the finest monuments are placed; but in which the depravity of the
French taste appears in the most striking manner. It is surrounded with
houses, and darkened by the shade of lofty buildings; yet, in this
gloomy situation, they have placed the tomb of Fenelon, and the united
monument of Abelard and Eloise: profaning thus, by the barbarous
affectation of artificial taste, and the still more shocking imitation
of ancient superstition, the remains of those whose names are enshrined
in every heart which can feel the beauty of moral excellence, or share
in the sympathy with youthful sorrow.
How different are the feelings with which an Englishman surveys the
untouched monuments of English greatness!--and treads the floor of that
venerable building which shrouds the remains of all who have dignified
their native land--in which her patriots, her poets, and her
philosophers, "sleep with her kings, and dignify the scene," which the
rage of popular fury has never dared to profane, and the hand of
victorious power has never been able to violate; where the ashes of the
immortal dead still lie in undisturbed repose, under that splendid roof
which covered the tombs of her earliest kings, and witnessed, from its
first dawn, the infant glory of the English people.--Nor could the
remembrance of the national monuments we have described, ever excite in
the mind of a native of France, the same feeling of heroic devotion
which inspired the sublime expression of Nelson, as he boarded the
Spanish Admiral's ship at St Vincent's--"Westminster Abbey or Victory!"
Though the streets in Paris have an aged and uncomfortable appearance,
the form of the houses is such, as, at a distance, to present a
picturesque aspect. Their height, their sharp and irregular tops, the
vast variety of forms which they assume when seen from different
quarters, all combine to render a distant view of them more striking
than the long rows of uniform houses of which London is composed. The
domes and steeples of Paris, however, are greatly inferior, both in
number and magnificence, to those of the English capital.
The gardens of the Thuilleries and the Luxembourg, of which the
Parisians think so highly, and which are constantly filled with all
ranks of citizens, are laid out with a singularity of taste, of which,
in this country, we can scarcely form any conception. The straight
walks--the clipt trees--the marble fountains--are fast wearing out in
all parts of England; they are to be met with only round the mansions of
ancient families, and even there are kept rather from the influence of
ancient prejudice, or from the affection to hereditary forms, than from
their coincidence with the present taste of the English people. They are
seldom, accordingly, disagreeable, with us, to the eye of the most
cultivated taste; their singularity forms a pleasing variety to the
continued succession of lawns and shrubberies which is every where to be
met with; and they are regarded rather as the venerable marks of
ancient splendour, than as the barbarous affectation of modern
distinction. In France, the native deformity of this taste appears in
its real light, without the colouring of any such adventitious
circumstances as conceal it in this country. It does not appear there
under the softening veil of ancient manners; its avenues do not conduct
to the decaying abode of hereditary greatness--its gardens do not mark
the scenes of former festivity--its fountains are not covered with the
moss which has grown for centuries. It appears as the model of present
taste; it is considered as the indication of existing splendour; and
sought after, as the form in which the beauty of Nature is now to be
admired. All that association accordingly had blended in our minds with
the style of ancient gardening in our own country, was instantly
divested by its appearance in France; and we felt then the whole
importance of that happy change in the national taste, whereby variety
has been made to succeed to uniformity, and the imitation of nature to
come in the place of the exhibition of art.
In every country, and in every department of taste, the earliest object
of art is, the display of the power of the artist; and it is in the last
period of its improvements alone, that this miserable propensity is
overcome. It is hence that the imitation of Nature is not what is at
first attempted; that the forms which she presents are uniformly
neglected, and the merit of the artist is thought to consist in such
artificial designs as bear the most unequivocal marks of his individual
dexterity. The forms of nature are every where to be met with--they are
open to the most vulgar capacity; the power of art, therefore, it is at
first thought, must be shown in the complete subjugation of natural
form, or the complete abandonment of natural beauty. It is hence that
florists uniformly take delight in double flowers and monsters, which
are the farthest removed from the forms of nature; and it is hence that
gardeners always evince so great an anxiety to conduct strangers to the
most ridiculous contortion of natural form, which their domains can
exhibit. There is nothing unnatural or vulgar in this propensity; it
pervades all branches of taste at a certain stage of its progress, and
all ranks of society, to whom a limited capacity of mind is granted. It
is hence that every society exhibits examples of individuals, who aim at
singularity of manners, merely that they may be different from the
generality of mankind; it is hence that many persons, even of a
cultivated mind, shut their eye to the charms of beauty in every
department of taste, merely that they may display their own wretched
vanity in criticising its imperfections; it is hence that painters
select the moment of passion or exertion, for no other reason than for
the display of their anatomical knowledge, or their skill in the
delineation of extraordinary emotion; and that poets have so often
neglected what is really pathetic in the scenes, either of nature or of
man, to present the artificial conceptions of their learning or fancy.
In all these instances, the degradation of taste arises from the vain
anxiety of men to display the power of the artist, and their utter
forgetfulness of the end of the Art.
The remarkable characteristic of the taste of France is, that this love
of artificial beauty continues with undiminished force, at a period
when, in other nations, it has given place to a more genuine love for
the beauty of nature. In them, the natural progress of refinement has
led from the admiration of the art of imitation to the love of the
subjects imitated. In France, this early prejudice, continues in its
pristine vigour at the present moment: They never lose sight of the
effort of the artist; their admiration is fixed not on the quality or
object in nature, but on the artificial representation of it; not on the
thing signified, but the sign. It is hence that they have such exalted
ideas of the perfection of their artist David, whose paintings are
nothing more than a representation of the human figure in its most
extravagant and phrenzied attitudes; that they are insensible to the
simple display of real emotion, but dwell with delight upon the vehement
representation of it which their stage exhibits; and that, leaving the
charming heights of Belleville, or the sequestered banks of the Seine,
almost wholly deserted, they crowd to the stiff alleys of the Elysian
Fields, or the artificial beauties of the gardens of Versailles.
In the midst of Paris this artificial style of gardening is not
altogether unpleasing; it is in unison, in some measure, with the
regular character of the buildings with which it is surrounded; and the
profusion of statues and marble vases continues the impression which the
character of their palaces is fitted to produce. But at Versailles, at
St Cloud, and Fountainbleau, amidst the luxuriance of vegetation, and
surrounded by the majesty of forest scenery, it destroys altogether the
effect which arises from the irregularity of natural beauty. Every one
feels straight borders, and square porticoes and broad alleys, to be in
unison with the immediate neighbourhood of an antiquated mansion; but
they become painful when extended to those remoter parts of the
grounds, when the character of the scene is determined by the rudeness
of uncultivated nature.
There are some occasions, nevertheless, on which the gardens of the
Thuilleries present a beautiful spectacle, in spite of the artificial
taste in which they are formed. From the warmth of the climate, the
Parisians, of all classes, live much in the open air, and frequent the
public gardens in great numbers during the continuance of the fine
weather. In the evening especially, they are filled with citizens, who
repose themselves under the shade of the lofty trees, after the heat and
the fatigues of the day; and they then present a spectacle of more than
ordinary interest and beauty. The disposition of the French suits the
character of the scene, and harmonises with the impression which the
stillness of the evening produces on the mind. There is none of that
rioting or confusion by which an assembly of the middling classes in
England is too often disgraced; no quarrelling or intoxication even
among the poorest ranks, and little appearance of that degrading want
which destroys the pleasing idea of public happiness. The people appear
all to enjoy a certain share of individual prosperity; their intercourse
is conducted with unbroken harmony, and they seem to resign themselves
to those delightful feelings which steal over the mind during the
stillness and serenity of a summer evening.
Still more beautiful perhaps, is the appearance of this scene during the
stillness of the night, when the moon throws her dubious rays over the
objects of nature. The gardens of the Thuilleries remain crowded with
people, who seem to enjoy the repose which universally prevails, and
from whom no sound is to be heard which can break the stillness or
serenity of the scene. The regularity of the forms is wholly lost in the
masses of light and shadow that are there displayed; the foliage throws
a chequered shade over the ground beneath, while the different vistas of
the Elysian Fields are seen in that soft and mellow light by which the
radiance of the moon is so peculiarly distinguished. After passing
through these favourite scenes of the French people, we frequently came
to small encampments of the allied troops in the remote parts of the
grounds. The appearance of these bivouacks, composed of Cossack
squadrons, Hungarian hussars, or Prussian artillery, in the obscurity of
moonlight, and surrounded by the gloom of forest scenery, was beyond
measure striking. The picturesque forms of the soldiers, sleeping on
their arms under the shade of the trees, or half hid by the rude huts
which they had erected for their shelter; the varied attitudes of the
horses standing amidst the waggons by which the camp was followed, or
sleeping beside the veterans whom they had borne through all the
fortunes of war; the dark masses of the artillery, dimly discerned in
the shades of night, or faintly reflecting the pale light of the moon,
presented a scene of the most beautiful description, in which the rude
features of war were softened by the tranquillity of peaceful life; and
the interest of present repose was enhanced by the remembrance of the
wintry storms and bloody fields through which these brave men had
passed, during the memorable campaigns in which they had been engaged.
The effect of the whole was increased by the perfect stillness which
everywhere prevailed, broken only at intervals by the slow step of the
sentinel, as he paced his rounds, or the sweeter sounds of those
beautiful airs, which, in a far distant country, recalled to the Russian
soldier the joys and the happiness of his native land.