ENVIRONS OF PARIS.
St Cloud was the favourite residence of Bonaparte, and, from this
circumstance, possesses an interest which does not belong to the other
imperial palaces. It stands high, upon a lofty bank overhanging the
Seine, which takes a bold sweep in the plain below; and the steep
declivity which descends to its banks is clothed with magnificent woods
of aged elms. The character of the scenery is bold and rugged;--the
trees are of the wildest forms, and the most stupendous height, and the
banks, for the most part, steep and irregular. It is here, accordingly,
that the French gardening appears in all its genuine deformity; and that
its straight walks and endless fountains display a degree of formality
and art, destructive of the peculiar beauty by which the scene is
distinguished. These gardens, however, were the favourite and private
walks of the Emperor;--it was here that he meditated those schemes of
ambition which were destined to shake the established thrones of
Europe;--it was under the shade of this luxuriant foliage that he formed
the plan of all the mighty projects which he had in contemplation;--it
was in the splendid apartments of this palace that the Councils of
France assembled, to revolve on the means of permanently destroying the
English power:--It was here too, by a most remarkable coincidence, that
his destruction was finally accomplished;--that the last convention was
concluded, by which his second dethronement was completed;--and that the
victorious arms of England dictated the terms of surrender to his
conquered capital.
When we visited St Cloud, it was the head-quarters of Prince
Schwartzenberg; and the Austrian grenadiers mounted guard at the gates
of the Imperial Palace. The banks of the Seine, below the Palace, were
covered by an immense bivouack of Austrian troops, and the fires of
their encampment twinkled in the obscurity of twilight amidst the low
brushwood with which the sides of the river were clothed. The
appearance of this bivouack, dimly discerned through the rugged stems of
lofty trees, or half-hid by the luxuriant branches which obscured the
view;--the picturesque and varied aspect of the plain covered with
waggons, and all the accompaniments of military service;--the columns of
smoke rising from the fires with which it was interspersed, and the
innumerable horses crowded amidst the confused multitude of men and
carriages, or resting in more sequestered spots on the sides of the
river, with their forms finely reflected in its unruffled
waters--presented a spectacle which exhibited war in its most striking
aspect, and gave a character to the scene which would have suited the
romantic strain of Salvator's mind.
St Germain, though less picturesquely situated than St Cloud, presents
features, nevertheless, of more than ordinary magnificence. The Palace,
now converted into a school of military education by Napoleon, is a mean
irregular building, though it possesses a certain interest, by having
been long the residence of the exiled house of Stuart. The situation,
however, is truly fitted for an imperial dwelling; it stands on the edge
of a high bank overhanging the Seine, at the end a magnificent terrace,
a mile and a half long, built on the projecting heights which edge the
river. The walk along this terrace is the finest spectacle which the
vicinity of Paris has to present. It is backed along its whole extent by
the extensive forest of St Germain, the foliage of which overhangs the
road, and in the recesses of which you can occasionally discern those
beautiful peeps which form the peculiar characteristic of forest
scenery. The steep bank which descends to the river is clothed with
orchards and vineyards in all the luxuriance of a southern climate; and
in front, there is spread beneath your feet the wide plain in which the
Seine wanders, whose waters are descried at intervals through the woods
and gardens with which its banks are adorned; while, in the farthest
distance, the towers of St Denis, and the heights of Paris, form an
irregular outline on the verge of the horizon. It is a scene exhibiting
the most beautiful aspect of cultivated nature, and would have been the
fit residence for a Monarch who loved to survey his subjects' happiness:
but it was deserted by the miserable weakness of Louis XIV., because the
view terminated in the cemetery of the Kings of France, and his
enjoyment of it would have been destroyed by the thoughts of mortal
decay.
Versailles, which that monarch chose as the ordinary abode of his
splendid Court, is less favourably situate for a royal dwelling, though
the view from the great front of the palace is beautifully clothed with
luxuriant woods. The palace itself is a magnificent building of great
extent, loaded with the riches of architectural beauty, but destitute of
that fine proportion and lightness of ornament, which spread so
indescribable a charm over the Palace of the Louvre. The interior is in
a state of lamentable decay, having been pillaged at the commencement of
the revolutionary fury, and formed into a barrack for the republican
soldiers, the marks of whose violence are still visible in the faded
splendour of its magnificent apartments. They still shew, however, the
favourite rooms of Marie Antoinette, the walls of which are covered with
the finest mirrors, and some remains of the furniture are still
preserved, which even the licentious fury of the French army seems to
have been afraid to violate. The gardens on which all the riches of
France, and all the efforts of art, were so long lavished, present a
painful monument of the depravity of taste: but the _Petit Trianon_,
which is a little palace built of marble, and surrounded by shrubberies
in the English style, exhibits the genuine beauty of which the
imitation of nature is susceptible. This palace contains a suite of
splendid apartments, fitted up with singular taste, and adorned with a
number of charming pictures; it was the favourite residence of Maria
Louisa, and we were there shewn the drawing materials which she used,
and some unfinished sketches which she left, in which, we were informed,
she much delighted, and which bore the marks of a cultivated taste.
We frequently enquired concerning the character and occupations of this
Empress, at all the palaces where she usually dwelt, and uniformly
received the same answer:--She was everywhere represented as cold,
proud, and haughty in her manner, and unconciliating in her ordinary
address. Her time was much spent in private, in the exercise of
religious duty, or in needle-work and drawing; and her favourite seat at
St Cloud was between two windows, from one of which she had a view over
the beautiful woods which clothe the banks of the river, and from the
other a distant prospect of the towers and domes of Paris.
Very different was the character which belonged to the former Empress,
the first wife of Bonaparte, Josephine: She passed the close of her life
at the delightful retreat of Malmaison, a villa charmingly situated on
the banks of the Seine, seven miles from Paris, on the road to St
Germain. This villa had been her favourite residence while she continued
Empress, and formed her only home after the period of her divorce;--here
she lived in obscurity and retirement, without any of the pomp of a
court, or any of the splendour which belonged to her former
rank,--occupied entirely in the employment of gardening, or in
alleviating the distresses of those around her. The shrubberies and
gardens were laid out with singular beauty, in the English taste, and
contained a vast variety of rare flowers, which she had for a long
period been collecting. These shrubberies were to her the source of
never-failing enjoyment; she spent many hours in them every day, working
herself, or superintending the occupations of others; and in these
delightful occupations seemed to return again to all the innocence and
happiness of youth. She was beloved to the greatest degree by all the
poor who inhabited the vicinity of her retreat, both for the gentleness
of her manner, and her unwearied attention to their sufferings and their
wants; and during the whole period of her retirement, she retained the
esteem and affection of all classes of French citizens. The Emperor
Alexander visited her repeatedly during the stay of the allied armies
in Paris; and her death occasioned an universal feeling of regret,
rarely to be met with amidst the corruption and selfishness of the
French metropolis.
There was something singularly striking in the history and character of
this remarkable woman:--Born in a humble station, without any of the
advantages which rank or education could afford, she was early involved
in all the unspeakable miseries of the French revolution, and was
extricated from her precarious situation only by being united to that
extraordinary man, whose crimes and whose ambition have spread misery
through every country of Europe: Rising through all the gradations of
rank through which he passed, she everywhere commanded the esteem and
regard of all those who had access to admire her private virtues; and
when at length she was raised to the rank of Empress, she graced the
imperial throne with all the charities and virtues of a humbler station.
She bore, with unexampled magnanimity, the sacrifice of power and of
influence which she was compelled to make: She carried into the
obscurity of humble life all the dignity of mind which befitted the
character of an Empress of France; and exercised, in the delightful
occupations of country life, or in the alleviation of the severity of
individual distress, that firmness of mind and gentleness of
disposition, with which she had lightened the weight of imperial
dominion, and softened the rigour of despotic power.
The Forest of Fontainbleau exhibits scenery of a more picturesque and
striking character than is to be met with in any other part of the north
of France. It is situated 40 miles from Paris, on the great road to
Rome, and the appearance of the country through which this road runs, is
for the most part flat and uninteresting. It runs through a continued
plain, in a straight line between tall rows of elm trees, whose lower
branches are uniformly cut off for firewood to the peasantry; and
exhibits, for the most part, no other feature than the continued riches
of agricultural produce. At the distance of seven miles from the town of
Fontainbleau, you first discern the forest, covering a vast ridge of
rocks, stretching as far as the eye can reach, from right to left, and
presenting a dark irregular outline on the surface of the horizon. The
cultivation continues, with all its uniformity, to the very foot of the
ridge; but the moment you pass the boundaries of the forest, you find
yourself surrounded at once with all the wildness and luxuriance of
natural scenery. The surface of the ground is broken and irregular,
rising at times into vast piles of shapeless rocks, and enclosing at
others small vallies, in which the wood grows in endless beauty,
unblighted by the chilling blasts of northern climates. In these
vallies, the oak, the ash, and the beech, exhibit the peculiar
magnificence of forest scenery, while, on the neighbouring hills, the
birch waves its airy foliage round the dark masses of rock which
terminate the view. Nothing can be conceived more striking than the
scenery which this variety of rock and wood produce in every part of
this romantic forest. At times you pass through an unbroken mass of aged
timber, surrounded by the native grandeur of forest scenery, and
undisturbed by any traces of human habitation, except in those rude
paths which occasionally open a passing view into the remoter parts of
the forest. At others, the path winds through great masses of rock,
piled in endless confusion upon each other, in the crevices of which the
fern and the heath grow in all the luxuriance of southern vegetation;
while their summits are covered by aged oaks of the wildest forms, whose
crossing boughs throw an eternal shade over the ravines below, and
afford room only to discern at the farthest distance the summits of
those beautiful hills, on which the light foliage of the birch trembles
in the ray of an unclouded sun, or waves on the blue of a summer
heaven.
To those who have had the good fortune to see the beautiful scenery of
the Trosachs in Scotland, of Matlock in Derbyshire, or of the wooded
Fells in Cumberland, it may afford some idea of the Forest of
Fontainbleau, to say that it combines scenery of a similar description
with the aged magnificence of Windsor Forest. Over its whole extent
there are scattered many detached oaks of vast dimensions, which seem to
be of an older race in the growth of the Forest,--whose lowest boughs
stretch above the top of the wood which surrounds them,--and whose
decayed summits afford a striking contrast to the young and luxuriant
foliage with which their stems are enveloped. When we visited
Fontainbleau, it was occupied by the old imperial guard, which still
remained in that station after the abdication of Bonaparte; and we
frequently met parties, or detached stragglers of them, wandering in the
most solitary parts of the Forest. Their warlike and weather-beaten
appearance; their battered arms and worn accoutrements; the dark plumes
of their helmets, and the sallow ferocious aspect of their countenances,
suited the savage character of the scenery with which they were
surrounded, and threw over the gloom and solitude of the Forest that
wild expression with which the genius of Salvator dignified the features
of uncultivated nature.
The town and palace of Fontainbleau are situate in a small plain near
the centre of the forest, and surrounded on all sides by the rocky
ridges with which it is everywhere intersected. The palace is a large
irregular building, composed of many squares, and fitted up in the
inside with the utmost splendour of imperial magnificence. We were there
shewn the apartments in which Napoleon dwelt during his stay in the
palace, after the capture of Paris by the allied troops; and the desk at
which he always wrote, and where his abdication was signed. It was
covered with white leather, scratched over in every direction, and
marked with innumerable wipings of the pen, among which we perceived his
own name, Napoleon, frequently written as in a very hurried and
irregular hand; and one sentence which began, Que Dieu, Napoleon,
Napoleon. The servants in the palace agreed in stating, that the
Emperor's gaiety and fortitude of mind never deserted him during the
ruin of his fortune; that he was engaged in his writing-chamber during
the greater part of the day, and walked for two hours on the terrace, in
close conversation with Marshal Ney. Several officers of the imperial
guard repeated the speech which he made to his troops on leaving them
after his abdication of the throne, which was precisely what appeared
in the English newspapers. So great was the enthusiasm produced by this
speech among the soldiers present, that it was received with shouts and
cries of Vive l'Empereur, A Paris, A Paris! and when he departed under
the custody of the allied Commissioners, the whole army wept; there was
not a dry eye in the multitude who were assembled to witness his
departure. Even the imperial guard, who had been trained in scenes of
suffering from their first entry into the service--who had been inured
for a long course of years to the daily sight of human misery, and had
constantly made a sport of all the afflictions which are fitted to move
the human heart, shared in the general grief; they seemed to forget the
degradation in which their commander was involved, the hardships to
which they had been exposed, and the destruction which he had brought
upon their brethren in arms; they remembered him when he stood
victorious on the field of Austerlitz, or passed in triumph through the
gates of Moscow; and shed over the fall of their Emperor those tears of
genuine sorrow which they denied to the deepest scenes of private
suffering, or the most aggravated instances of individual distress. It
is impossible not to regret that feelings so exalting to human nature
should have been awakened by one who shared so little in their
enthusiasm himself; that the sufferings of thousands should have been
forgotten in the fate of one to whom the miseries of others never
afforded a subject of regret; and that the only occasion on which
generous sentiments were manifested by the French army, should have been
the overthrow of that power by which their ambition and their wickedness
had been supported.
We had the good fortune to see the infantry of the old guard drawn up in
line in the streets of Fontainbleau, and their appearance was such as
fully answered the idea we had formed of that body of veteran soldiers,
who had borne the French eagles through every capital of Europe. Their
aspect was bold and martial; there was a keenness in their eyes which
bespoke the characteristic intelligence of the French soldiers, and a
ferocity in the expression of their countenances which seemed to have
been unsubdued even by the unparalleled disasters in which their country
had been involved. The people of the town itself complained in the
bitterest terms of their licentious conduct, and repeatedly said, that
they dreaded them more as friends than the Cossacks themselves as
enemies. They seemed to harbour the most unbounded resentment against
the people of this country; their countenances bore the expression of
the strongest enmity as we walked along their line, and we frequently
heard them mutter among themselves, in the most emphatic manner, _Sacre
Dieu, voila des Anglois!_--Whatever the atrocity of their conduct,
however, might have been, to the people of their own, as well as every
other country, it was impossible not to feel the strongest emotion at
the sight of the veteran soldiers whose exploits had so long rivetted
the attention of all who felt an interest in the civilized world. These
were the men who first raised the glory of the republican armies on the
plains of Italy; who survived the burning climate of Egypt, and chained
victory to the imperial standards at Jena, at Austerlitz, and at
Friedland--who followed the career of victory to the walls of the
Kremlin, and marched undaunted through the ranks of death amid the snows
of Russia;--who witnessed the ruin of France under the walls of Leipsic,
and struggled to save her falling fortune on the heights of Laon; and
who preserved, in the midst of national humiliation, and when surrounded
by the mighty foreign Powers, that undaunted air and unshaken firmness,
which, even in the moment of defeat, commanded the respect of their
antagonists in arms.
Beyond the town of Fontainbleau, there rises a ridge of steep hills,
which prevents any view in that direction into the distant parts of the
forest. The road to their summit lies through the Imperial Gardens, and
is surrounded by the artificial forms and regular walks which mark the
character of the French gardening. When you reach the summit, however,
the character of the scene instantly changes, and you pass at once into
the utmost wildness of desolated nature. The foreground is broken by
barren rock, or covered with the beautiful forms of the weeping birch;
immediately below there lies a lonely valley, strewed with masses of
grey stone, without the slightest trace of human habitation, while, in
the farthest distance, the forest is discerned, clothing the sides of
those broken ridges which rise in endless confusion on the surface of
the horizon. At the moment when we reached this spot, the sun was
setting in the west; the cold grey of the stone which covered the
ravines was dimly discerned through the obscure light which the approach
of night produced, while the rugged outline of the rocks beyond was
projected in the deepest shadow on the bright light of the departing
day.
There is no scenery round Paris so striking as the forest of
Fontainbleau, but the heights of Belleville exhibit nature in a more
pleasing aspect, and are distinguished by features of a gentler
character. Montmartre, and the ridge of Belleville, form those
celebrated heights which command Paris on the northern side, and which
were so obstinately contested between the allies and the French on the
30th March 1814, previous to the capture of Paris by the allied
Sovereigns. Montmartre is covered for the most part with houses, and
presents nothing to attract the eye of the observer, except the
extensive view which is to be met with at its summit. The heights of
Belleville, however, are varied with wood, with orchards, vineyards, and
gardens, interspersed with cottages and villas, and cultivated with the
utmost care. There are few inclosures, but the whole extent of the
ground is thickly studded with walnuts, fruit-trees, and forest timber,
which, from a distance, give it the appearance of one continued wood. On
a nearer approach, however, you find it intersected in every direction
by small paths, which wind among the vineyards, or through the woods
with which the hills are covered, and present at every turn those
charming little scenes which form the peculiar characteristic of
woodland scenery. The cottages half hid by the profusion of
fruit-trees, or embosomed in the luxuriant woods with which they are
everywhere surrounded, increase the interest which the scenery itself is
fitted to produce: they combine the delightful idea of the peasant's
enjoyment with the beauty of the spot on which his dwelling is placed;
and awaken, in the midst of the boundless luxuriance of vegetable
nature, those deeper feelings of moral delight, which spring from the
contemplation of human happiness.
To a northern eye, there is nothing so delightful as this luxuriance of
vegetation, which rises amidst the warmth of southern climates. The
sterile rocks and rugged mountains of northern regions exhibit nature in
her native rudeness, her features bear a harsher aspect, and her forms
are expressive of more melancholy feeling; but under the genial warmth
of a southern sun, she is arrayed in a robe of softer colours, and beams
with the expression of a gentler character. She there appears surrounded
by the luxuriance of vegetable life: she pours forth her bounty with a
profusion which the partizans of utility would call prodigality, and
covers the earth with a splendour of beauty, which serves no other
purpose than to minister to the delight of human existence. Amidst the
riches with which man is surrounded, his destiny appears happier than
in more desolate situations; we forget the sufferings of the individual
in the profusion of beauty with which he is surrounded; and impute to
the inhabitants of these delightful regions, those feelings of happiness
which spring in our own minds from the contemplation of the scenery in
which they are placed.
The effect of the charming scenery on the heights of Belleville is much
increased by the distant objects which terminate some parts of the view.
To the east, the high and gloomy towers of Vincennes rise over the
beautiful woods with which the sides of the hill are adorned, and give
an air of solemnity to the scene, arising from the remembrance of the
tragic events of which it was the theatre. To the south, the domes and
spires of Paris can occasionally be discovered through the openings of
the wood with which the foreground is enriched, and present the capital
at that pleasing distance, when the minuter part of the buildings are
concealed, when its prominent features alone are displayed, and the
whole is softened by the obscure light which distance throws over the
objects of nature. To an English mind, the effect of the whole is
infinitely increased, by the animating associations with which this
scenery is connected;--by the remembrance of the mighty struggle between
freedom and slavery, which was here terminated;--of the heroic deeds
which were here performed, and the unequalled magnanimity which was here
displayed. It was here that the expiring efforts of military despotism
were overthrown--that the armies of Russia stood triumphant over the
power of France, and nobly avenged the ashes of their own capital, by
sparing that of their prostrate enemy.
When we visited the heights of Belleville, the traces of the recent
struggle were visibly imprinted on the villages and woods with which the
hill is covered. The marks of blood were still to be discerned on the
chaussée which leads through the village of Pantin; the elm trees which
line the road were cut asunder, or bored through with cannon shot, and
their stems riddled in many parts with the incessant fire of the grape
shot. The houses in La Villette, Belleville and Pantin, were covered
with the marks of musket shot; the windows of many were shattered, or
wholly destroyed, and the interior of the rooms broken by the balls
which seemed to have pierced every part of the buildings. So thickly
were the houses in some places covered with these marks, that it
appeared almost incredible how any one could have escaped from so
destructive a fire. Even the beautiful gardens with which the slope of
the heights are adorned, and the inmost recesses of the wood of
Romainville, bore throughout the marks of the desperate struggles which
they had lately witnessed, and exhibited the symptoms of fracture or
destruction in the midst of the luxuriance of natural beauty; yet,
though they had so recently been the scene of mortal combat; though the
ashes of the dead yet lay in heaps on different parts of the field of
battle, the prolific powers of nature were undecayed: the vines
clustered round the broken fragments of the instruments of war,--the
corn spread a sweeter green over the fields, which were yet wet with
human blood, and the trees waved with renovated beauty over the
uncoffined remains of the departed brave; emblematic of the decay of
man, and of the immortality of nature.
The French have often been accused of selfishness, and the indifference
which they often manifest to the fate of their relations, affords too
much reason to believe that the social affections have little permanent
influence on their minds. We must, however, admit, that they exhibit in
misfortunes of a different kind--in calamities which really press upon
their own enjoyments of life, the same gaiety of heart, and the same
undisturbed equanimity of disposition. That gaiety in misfortune, which
is so painful to every observer, when it is to be found in the midst of
family-distress, becomes delightful when it exists under the deprivation
of the selfish gratification to which the individual had been
accustomed. Both here, and in other parts of France, where the houses of
the peasants had been wholly destroyed by the allied armies, we had
occasion frequently to observe and admire the equanimity of mind with
which these poor people bore the loss of all their property. For an
extent of 30 miles in one direction, towards the North of Champagne,
every house near the great road had-been burnt or pillaged for the
firewood which it contained, both by the French and the allied armies,
and the people were everywhere compelled to sleep in the open air. When
we spoke to them on the subject of their losses, they answered with
smiles, "Tout est detruit: tout est brulè, tout, tout;" and seemed to
derive amusement from the completeness of the devastation. The men were
everywhere rebuilding their fallen walls, with a cheerfulness which
never would have existed in England under similar circumstances; and the
little children laboured in the gardens during the day, and slept under
the vines at night, without exhibiting any signs of distress for their
disconsolate situation. In many places, we saw groupes of these little
children in the midst of the ruined houses, or under the shattered
trees, playing with the musket shot, or trying to roll the cannon balls
by which the destruction of their dwellings had been
effected;--exhibiting a picture of youthful joy and native innocence,
while sporting with the instruments of human destruction, which the
genius of Sir Joshua Reynolds would have moulded into the expression of
pathetic feeling, or employed as the means of moral improvement.