_July 8th._--Here I am in heaven, as it were--in _Colombes_!--in a
_perfect paradise_! More of that hereafter. I am sitting scribbling
at last in a handsome room, all to myself! But to begin at the
beginning. This morning was (as usual of late) very fine and very
hot. At an early hour we received orders to hold ourselves in
readiness to march, and understood that we were about to move on the
Loire, where the French army had mustered in force and refused to
acknowledge the capitulation. Hitchins and I had just found a very
pretty little house vacant near our bivouac, and little damaged.
Into this we proposed getting to-day, and were rather disappointed
when the order for moving came. It was no small comfort, however,
to escape from Garges and all its horrors of plundered houses and
bad water. The filth of the bivouac, from such long occupation, was
becoming intolerable, and the water, bad as it was, was failing fast.
Being sufficiently occupied, I did not notice at what hour we
marched, but it must not have been late; for, notwithstanding delays,
we arrived here early in the afternoon--the distance probably six or
seven English miles. A column of cavalry, composed of our brigade
and some other regiments of heavy dragoons, preceded us, and all
together took the road to St Denis. Arrived at the point of junction
of the three chaussées, instead of marching through the town we
struck off to the right. This was not the road to the Loire, and we
were puzzled. Wherever we were going the road was beautiful, and
the cool shade of the green vault under which we marched peculiarly
agreeable in so hot a day. All the country right and left was like a
garden; laid out in little square plots of vegetables or roses, an
astonishing quantity of which flower is grown in this neighbourhood.
Passing through the pretty village of Epinay on the banks of the
Seine, we soon after came to a singular ridge of chalky hills
separating the road on which we marched from the river. Here then we
quitted the chaussée for a cross-road skirting those hills on the
side next the river, which we now understood was to be crossed by a
pontoon bridge thrown across a little lower down.
Quitting the delicious shade of the elms for the open fields, and
these lying on a southern slope, the heat was intense, and when,
getting between vines and fig-trees (of which we found whole fields
here), the little air there was became shut out from us, it was quite
suffocating. The ripe, cool, juicy figs with which the trees were
loaded, relieved us, however; the poor fellows placed to watch these
looked on rather piteously, but we committed no waste nor destruction
beyond eating a few as we went along. These were the first peasantry
we had found in the fields since passing Senlis. All along our route
dead horses in abundance poisoned the air, and marked the line of
operations of Blucher’s army. The bridge was at Argenteuil, another
pretty village; but on arriving there we found so many corps to
pass before us, that, having got into a shady spot, we dismounted
and disposed ourselves to rest. The Seine here appeared to me such
another river as the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge. The ground on our
side sloped rapidly down to it; on the other the banks were low and
rushy, an extent of flat meadow-land lay beyond, and thence arose
gently swelling hills, covered with shrubberies, villages, villas,
&c. The scenery was animated by the masses of our troops and the
novelty of the pontoon bridge, together with the interest excited by
a number of women and pretty girls who brought us in abundance (for
sale) flowers and very fine cherries.
What a change from the sickening, desolated, deserted country we
have left, where everything breathed war! Suddenly we enter a land
of peace, plenty, and happiness, fields covered with luxuriant crops
of various kinds of vegetables, amongst which the large, dark-tinted
leaves of the artichoke predominate; vines, figs, and myriads of
roses are extended over the face of the hills; whilst the meadows
beyond the river exhibit a vast tract of the richest pasture.
Innumerable villages, all full of people; their dwellings comfortable
and in good order. No desertion here; no sign of military exaction or
plundering; no apprehension betrayed at our approach. We are received
as countrymen might be. The people are confiding and happy; nor would
one imagine that the blast of war had passed so near and left them
scathless.
At length our turn to pass arrived, and we crossed the Seine. It
seems there were not pontoons enough by half for this bridge,
consequently what they had were placed at double distance; the
bridge was therefore so weak that the utmost precaution was necessary
in passing it, and our guns and detachments (the latter dismounted
and leading their horses in file) were obliged to go over separately;
but it was also necessary to take the three pair of leaders (eight
horses to a gun) off, and let the wheel horses alone take over the
guns. Even then, each pontoon sank until its gunwale was within two
or three inches of the water as the gun passed over it.
My tutelary genius, Major M’Donald, met me in the meadows, and, as
we rode along together, pointed out a village on a rising ground
peeping through the trees as my destination--the village of Colombes.
“Are we to halt there to-night?” I asked. “Yes, a good many nights;”
and then, for the first time, I learned that our army was going into
cantonments. On entering the village I found we were not to have
it all to ourselves. Bull’s and M’Donald’s troops were here before
me; but as it is very large, and there are plenty of good houses,
we have all got abundance of rooms and capital quarters. The place
consists principally of two long streets, with a good many detached
country-houses of citizens; and as the houses of these streets are
generally two or three storeys, it holds us well. We have divided
the village into three districts: Bull has all the upper end towards
Courbevoie; M’Donald has a fine chateau and park at the bottom of the
hill, in the meadows, with the adjacent parts; I have the end where
the two streets join on the road to Nanterre--by far the pleasantest.
The peasantry all remain here quietly; but whether fled in alarm, or
that it is not the fashion to be seen in the country at this season,
I know not; but, certes, all the villas and better description of
houses are either entirely empty or only a few servants left in them.
Such is the case with this house I now write in. My men and horses
are all well put up with the cultivateurs, and the officers are
superbly lodged in the different _quintas_. My own is charming; and
no one can imagine the delight of such a residence, nor the pleasure
I enjoy at again having a place to myself, and that, too, such a
paradise. One drawback there is; I have been obliged to park my guns
in my own pleasure-grounds--a sad invasion of my privacy this; but
I have made it as little annoyance as possible by forming the park
close to the further gate, with orders to the sentry to allow no one
to pass beyond; and as there is a thick shrubbery between that part
of the grounds and the house, it is completely excluded. Another
very sad one was the loss of my poor old dog Bal, who had been my
companion day and night about eleven years, always sleeping under
my bed or by my side. In 1807 he accompanied us to South America.
On arriving at Colombes he was first missed. I sent Milward back
to Garges, but never heard more of him. _My establishment_ appears
to be small; I have only seen one old man-servant as yet, though I
know there are more. He is extremely obsequious and attentive to my
wants, apparently somewhat alarmed, and not quite certain whether
I mean to eat him up alive or not. He gave me an excellent dinner
to-day and delicious wine--so that he hopes his fate is deferred. A
most luxurious-looking bed tempts me, and as I am somewhat tired,
and more lazy just now, I shall consign myself to it without delay,
and describe my house, &c., to-morrow, when I shall have had time to
examine it more leisurely.
_July 9th._--Hot, beautiful day. A haziness in the atmosphere--the
effect of this great heat--makes the distance quite _dreamy_. After
so many bivouacs and cottage-beds, the delicious sensation with
which I took possession of my voluptuous couch last night is not
to be set forth in words, any more than the puzzled astonishment
with which I gazed around on awaking this morning. It was some time
ere I could clearly recollect where I was--surrounded by everything
rich, beautiful, and luxurious. From my bed, too, I could see the
meadows below, the silver current of the Seine, and the vine-clad
hills beyond. It was impossible to jump up in my usual abrupt manner
immediately on waking. I was loath to bring so much pleasure to a
conclusion, convinced as I was that it must be less keen to-morrow;
so I lay on until hunger reminded me that there were other duties to
attend to--other pleasures to be enjoyed.
I have now completed the inspection of my domain, and a right lovely
one it is. Let me try and preserve a _souvenir_ of it. Architectural
pretension the house has none--its charm consisting in the elegant
and luxurious fitting-up of its interior, together with the exterior
accessories by which it is surrounded. A neat (not small) house
of two storeys, with dormitories under the usual very high roof
characterising most French houses, seated on the very brink of the
rather steep _coteau_, and thus overlooking the meadows, the Seine,
the country beyond; and having in the foreground, and immediately
below it, the fine massed foliage of the noble trees in the park
occupied by Major M’Donald’s troop. From the village you enter by
a _grande porte cochère_ into a neat gravelled courtyard--having
the house in front, offices on the left, and a range of excellent
light airy stables, and one or two coach-houses on the right.
The lower floor of the _corps de logis_ consists of a suite of
handsomely-furnished saloons, in one of which is a billiard-table--a
most delightful solace in such a situation. The end room, having a
large window opening to the floor upon a flight of steps leading
down to a pretty terrace, is ornamented with some good statues. The
corresponding rooms up-stairs are all fitted up as bed-rooms. The
opposite side of the house from the court looks upon a charming
garden presenting every variety of parterre and shrubbery, among
which wind cool and shady walks; whilst the innumerable flowers of
the parterres fill the air with their perfume; and the sparkling
waters of a fountain continually playing under the windows impart
a refreshing coolness and throw an air of romance over the whole.
A broad terrace, overshadowed by linden-trees and acacias, runs
along the edge of the _coteau_ from the end of the house, as above
mentioned, to the extremity of the grounds, commanding a charming
prospect through its whole length, but particularly from its
termination, where, from a picturesque little _kiosk_ seated on an
artificial tumulus-shaped mound, the eye wanders down the sweet
scenery of the valley until in the extreme distance it rests on the
palace and park of St Germain-en-Laye. Masses of roses, carnations,
lavender, geraniums, and a multitude of other flowers, planted in
beds along the upper side of the terrace, contribute their fragrance
to enhance the delight of this lovely walk. Immediately beneath the
terrace, enclosed by a wall covered with vines, and roofed or coved
with large picturesque tiles, is a spacious kitchen and fruit garden,
covered just now by its luxuriant crop of all kinds. The more distant
part of the grounds is laid out in lawns of smooth turf, interspersed
with a variety of shrubs and forest-trees, scattered about singly,
in clumps, or sometimes in close thickets or open groves. A lofty
stone wall encloses three sides of this domain, the terrace forming
a fourth, and a gateway in the further part permits access to my
park without trespassing on my _homestead_. The house is elegantly
furnished with articles of the most costly and luxurious description,
and exquisite statues of white marble decorate the corridors,
staircases, and the large saloon before mentioned. The apartment I
have chosen for myself is immediately over and corresponding to this,
and is a perfect _bijou_; it is fitted up with a taste and splendour
that bespeak the inhabitant at once voluptuous and refined. Separated
from the other apartments by a small antechamber, it occupies the
whole extremity of the house, overlooking the Seine, &c. In this end,
like the saloon below, one large window opening to the floor, but
into an iron balcony, commands a most delicious view. Immediately
below is my well-stocked rich-looking garden; beyond that, yet still,
as it were, under me, the finely-rounded luxuriant masses of foliage
of the stately elms in the park; then stretch out, like a verdant
carpet, the spacious meadows, the sameness of their level expanse
diversified and rendered interesting by thickets of underwood,
bushes, and occasional clumps of trees. These are bounded by the
silvery waters of the Seine, above which rises rather abruptly a
curious chain of hills, round-topped, and broken in places by gypsum
cliffs, their slopes clothed with vineyards, and separated from a
similar isolated hill,[11] evidently a continuation, by a singular
gap, through which is seen a rich country extending far back, and in
the extreme distance the chateau and park of the Montmorenci. The
contrast between the purply haze enveloping this country, and the
more vivid colouring of the nearer landscape, gives it a dreamy and
indescribably mysterious appearance. At the foot of the hills on the
river-bank, and immediately opposite my window, the white buildings
of Argenteuil, mingled with foliage, form a pleasing object, its
church-tower decorated by the sacred _pavillon blanc_, which waves
continually from its upper window. To the left the picturesque little
village of Bezons and its ruined bridge, and beyond a wide extent
of open, not picturesque, though rich country, covered with wheat,
vines, and fig-trees, extends to St Germain--the sombre trees of
whose park terminates the view in that direction. The other windows
look over the garden, and the bubbling, sparkling fountain throws its
glittering drops quite up to them, if not actually cooling the air,
at least refreshing to the imagination. Here the view is bounded by
the thick foliage of the shrubbery; but the contrast between this
and the extended view from the balcony only serves to enhance the
one and the other. The balmy fragrance arising from the parterres,
the splashing of the water, and the cheerful songs of innumerable
birds, with which the trees are filled, make this a most luscious
apartment. But for the interior!--the walls are nearly covered with
large mirrors, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, encased in
frames richly carved and gilt. The compartments between these are
filled up with fine engravings or drawings. In a recess (as the
French fashion is) stands a spacious and sumptuous bed, which may be
concealed at pleasure by curtains of green silk with deep rich yellow
fringe. The bedstead is of mahogany, highly varnished, sculptured,
and enriched with gilt ornaments, but looks unfinished to an English
eye not yet accustomed to the absence of posts and curtains. The bed
itself the most luxurious and fastidious must be content with; the
silk counterpane matches the curtains of the recess; the enormous
pillows, encased in the finest and most delicately white linen, are
edged with rich lace; the sheets are as the pillow-cases, and in
texture rival cambric. An elegant little table, standing between the
two side windows, serves as a stand for beautiful vases of Sevres
porcelain, holding large bouquets of the choicest productions of
the garden; a large round table of mahogany, covered with oil-cloth
and edged with gilt bronze, occupies the middle of the floor;--the
rest of the furniture, in short, is of a piece, and the accessories
of a bedroom are of porcelain or fine crystal. A little door beside
the recess opens into a narrow passage leading round to the rear of
the house, where a small cabinet, lined with mahogany and lighted
by an _œil de bœuf_, leaves no want on the score of conveniences
unsupplied. At the other end of the room a small closet, fitted as a
library, contains a collection of the most splendid editions of the
best French authors. Here, however, the voluptuary was conspicuous;
the licentiousness of Voltaire, Louvet, and others, is innocence
itself compared to many works in this collection. My establishment
consists of the old butler (Monsieur Ferdinand), the gardener, the
cook, and, I believe, a girl as a scrub. These, with the addition of
William and my two grooms, make up a snug little family. M. Ferdinand
is attentive, and seems solicitous to please. Cook sent me up
yesterday a remarkably nice dinner; and the gardener brought a fine
fresh bouquet this morning for my vases, which he promises to do
daily, also fruit for my dessert. My larder seems well stocked, and
so does my cellar, for I had a bottle of excellent wine yesterday;
therefore I have every reason to be satisfied with my good fortune.
The houses in which my officers lodge are all either entirely or
nearly deserted; so that, having the only convenience for the
purpose, I have acceded to their request, and allowed our mess to be
established here, though it is hardly fair upon the proprietor, on
whose resources we shall draw largely; however, I have given orders
for the dinner to be prepared to-day, and M. Ferdinand has made no
scruples.
_July 10th._--Splendid morning, but heat excessive. Sorry to say that
at the parade this morning I found we had no less than thirty horses
with sore backs. This is terrible! but I know others are worse.
Yesterday we dined together, and a capital dinner and excellent wine
we had. After dinner, the evening being so fine, Hitchins, Breton,
and I, mounted our horses for an exploration. We first crossed the
meadows to the river, and rode a little way along the banks; at the
ferry we found the ferryman asleep in his boat, and I could not
prevent Breton from launching him into the stream--how far he went
down we have not yet heard. This was childish, certainly. Quitting
the river-bank we made for a high hill, whence we expected a view
of Paris. _Chemin faisant_, we stumbled on some singular quarries,
immense caverns cut in the soft calcareous stone, and going farther
in than we thought it prudent to follow. These were in the middle of
the fields, in the low ground between Colombes and Nanterre. As we
enjoy the privilege of travelling over fields, &c., and are therefore
quite independent of roads, we made straight for the hill, and gained
its summit just as the sun was setting in all the glory of a fine
summer’s evening. We had judged rightly, for Mont Valerien (so it is
called in my map) commands a most lovely view. Before us all Paris
lay extended as in a plan; we could see every part of it, and even
the far-away country beyond. Here was no dingy, orange-coloured
smoke, like that which obscures the London atmosphere, and blackens
the country for miles round. _Au contraire_, the clearness of the
Parisian atmosphere was scarcely deteriorated by the very light
transparent vapour floating over the city, which rather increased
the interest and beauty of the scene by the softened outlines, and
by the rich purply tint communicated to all parts of the landscape
seen through it. The country immediately around, and the slopes
of the hill itself on which we stood, had the appearance of one
vast and productive garden, being divided into rectangular patches
planted with rose-bushes, cherry-trees, vines, fig-trees, artichokes
and several other sorts of culinary vegetables, all growing in the
greatest luxuriance, and presenting a most extraordinary mass of
verdure. Amongst all this, the white walls and red-tiled roofs of
several neat villages and picturesque villas harmonised charmingly.
The foot of the hill towards Paris was washed by the gently-flowing
waters of the Seine, on whose placid bosom a few boats occasionally
appeared.
The lively verdure of a long narrow strip of meadow-land lying on
the opposite bank of the river, and the white walls of several
large-windowed Italian-like houses bordering on them, contrasted
strongly with the sombre tones of the Bois de Boulogne behind
them, amongst whose thickets several columns of blue smoke, and a
line of white tents seen here and there on the lawns, attested the
presence of some part of our army. Along the line of the river were
the villages of St Cloud, with its bridge; Suresnes, Puteaux, and
Neuilly, from the end of whose bridge a most superb avenue of elms
stretched away toward the city. Beyond could clearly be discerned
the column of Austerlitz, the dome of the Pantheon, Nôtre Dame, with
its high-pointed façade, circular window, and two flanking Gothic
towers. A little to our right the elegant dome of the Invalides,
its gilded decorations glittering in the last rays of the setting
sun; the cream-coloured portico of the Hotel de Bourbon; and the
more deep-toned architecture of the Hotel des Monnaies and its dome.
Still further to the right the scene was closed by the wooded heights
of Bellevue, which appeared continuous with the Park of St Cloud.
These, wrapped in deep shadow, formed a mass of sombre verdure,
balancing well the other parts of this brilliant picture. In the
distance beyond the city were the smiling heights of Belleville,
covered with villages and country-houses, gradually descending into
the vale of the Seine, of whose waters an occasional glimpse might
be caught winding their tortuous way like silver threads through
the rich plain. To the left the buildings of the city spread up
the steep slopes of Montmartre, the summit of which presented a
formidable appearance with its lines of fortifications. Windmills
and a telegraph occupied the higher end of its ridge, whilst that
next us terminated in a perpendicular precipice, the white face
of which overhung the tufted groves of Monceaux and Clichy. Still
further to the left extended the plains of St Denis, yellow with the
golden harvest, beyond which arose the town and abbey. The horizon
on this side was bounded by a low range of blue hills, of pleasing
though not very varied outline. The balmy softness of the evening
air--the varied noises, softened by distance, arising from the
village below--the sounds of music, mirth, and revelry coming up
more distinctly,--all contributed to heighten the interest of this
charming panorama. Long did we linger on Mont Valerien, until the
coming shades of night reminded us that we were strangers to the
intricate maze of vineyards, &c., which we must traverse to regain
Colombes, and we turned our backs on the lovely scene.
_July 13th._--This is our first wet day. Hitchins and I went to Paris
this morning; but the rain set in so much in earnest that we returned
forthwith, and I have devoted the remainder of the day to bringing
up my leeway; for, between much occupation and much idleness, I have
let my journal drop astern, and now I hardly know how to begin what
I have to record, which, though trifling for others, is to me worth
its weight in gold--at least will be so years hence.
_Imprimis_, then, I have discovered my landlord to be a M.
L’Eguillon, who is an old bachelor (seventy-four years of age), and
resides in a handsome town-house, Rue des Enfans Rouges. He is said
to be very rich, but I cannot find out whether he has or had any
employment under Government. I find that I can in some measure repay
him for my good living here by sending his hay, oats, or anything
else he may want, under an escort, as otherwise it would not be
allowed to pass the _barrière_.[12] I suppose Ferdinand has reported
us as good people, for I have received a most polite and obliging
note asking this favour, and at the same time assuring me that
Ferdinand has orders to pay us every attention. I sent Bombardier
Ross up the other day, as he speaks French, with a load of hay, and
he reported that nothing could exceed the kindness with which he was
treated, and that the old gentleman’s town residence is a magnificent
one. A very pretty girl of sixteen (Mademoiselle Ernestine), whom
the servants call his niece, lives with him. There seems a mystery,
however, in the matter, for the gossips of the village declare she is
not his niece. It is Mademoiselle Ernestine’s apartment which I have
taken possession of, it seems.
Up to the present moment nothing could have been more delightful
than my residence here--so much so, that it was some time before I
could tear myself away from it to go to Paris, though only about
six English miles distant, and then with reluctance. To me the
country at all times has so many charms, and the city so few, that
it is never without regret that I exchange the one for the other.
Situated as I am here, during this fine season, and surrounded by
luxuries, it is a hard task to think of sacrificing even a single
day to the close, disagreeable streets of a large town. Rinaldo
in the gardens of Armida was not more completely enthralled than
I am in this little paradise. On first awaking in the morning, my
delighted ear is saluted by the melodious warble of innumerable
pretty songsters in the shrubbery, which comes accompanied by the
soft murmurs and splash of the fountain. My toilette occupies a much
longer time here than it ever did anywhere else, so great is the
luxury of wandering about in a dressing-gown: finished, however,
it must be, and then I descend to my stable, talk nonsense to my
horses, examine poor Cossack’s wounds, which were not improved by
our lengthened march, and then stroll into my garden, cool my palate
with some of the delicious fruit, take a turn or two on the terrace
under the linden-trees, look at St Germain, think of the unfortunate
James who died there in exile, then at Argenteuil, where Heloise
pined for her mutilated lover, return to my penetralia and find
that William has arranged a delicious little breakfast. A parade of
the troop in the village street follows; a visit to the quarters,
stables, &c.; an inspection of carriages; concluding with a little
peroration with Farrier Price and Wheeler Rockliff. All this occupies
the first part of the morning; the remainder is passed in lounging
about the village, visiting the other troops, or wandering about my
own delightful grounds; sometimes a game at billiards, sometimes a
little scribbling. So pass my mornings. Five o’clock usually finds
us all assembled in the _salle de compagnie_ awaiting M. Ferdinand’s
annunciation, “On vient de servir, M. le Commandant,” throwing open
the _battants_ with a bow and an air worthy a groom of the chambers.
Dinner consists of a _potage_ and several other dishes, always
excellent; it is followed by a dessert of fine fruit from my _own_
garden. Our wines, too, are not only of the best quality, but we
have an astonishing variety--in short, we live like fighting-cocks.
After passing a reasonable time at table, and drinking a reasonable
allowance of M. Eguillon’s wine, we break up for the evening. Some
resort to the billiard-room, some to the neighbouring troops, and I
either take a ride or saunter about my terrace as I did in the avenue
at Strytem, smoking some of the few remaining excellent cigars I
have brought all the way from Brussels--doubly precious now, since I
find there are none such to be got in Paris. Cigars are, I think, a
government monopoly here as in Spain--at least there is some mystery
which I don’t understand further than that the French Government has
been concerned in forcing the lieges to smoke bad cigars or none at
all. Only two kinds are procurable here: the one, a little black
thing made of the commonest tobacco, they call Dutch, _des cigars
Hollandais_; the other, a large cigar of very common bad tobacco
also, has a wheaten straw stuck into it to suck the smoke through;
and this, besides the villanous taste of the tobacco, burns your
palate horribly.
The other evening I had retired after dinner to the terrace to enjoy,
as usual, the charms of a fine sky and fine landscape. Twilight crept
gradually over the valley, and, by obscuring the distant parts,
allowed play to imagination, and gave additional interest to the
scenery. Light airs from time to time sighed amongst the overhanging
foliage; the joyous laugh of the villagers comes softened on the
breeze, united with the monotonous splash of the fountain. I had
seated myself in the little _kiosk_ at the end of the terrace; the
smoke of my cigar arose lazily in the air; my eyes were fixed on the
silver Seine, and my mind travelling over again the events of the
last three or four weeks, drawing comparisons between the feverish
excitement prevailing through the former but greater part of that
time, and the delicious tranquillity of the present, when suddenly
the grating sound of angry voices wounded my ear and dissipated my
reverie. I listened; the speakers appeared to be at our park, or near
it. There were English voices and foreign of some sort. A quarrel
between my men and the natives, no doubt. But how came the latter
in the grounds? The voices became louder and fiercer; there was a
rattling of sabres, too. Good heavens! are the French renewing the
Sicilian Vespers? Whilst asking myself this question, I was already
hurrying along the tortuous path leading to that part of the grounds,
and soon came upon the scene of action. Here I found Quartermaster
Hall and several gunners struggling with our hussars of Brunswick,
whose horses, bridled and saddled, seemed the objects of contention
from the way in which they were alternately seized by one or the
other and most unceremoniously dragged about by both.
High words and threatening gestures, pulling and scuffling, seemed
the order of the day, but no blows were interchanged. Both parties
seemed equally enraged, but neither understood the other,--for one
swore in German, the other in English; the gestures, however, spoke a
sort of universal language which all parties comprehended perfectly.
At the moment of my arrival one of the hussars, having rescued his
horse from the grip of his opponent, had raised his foot to the
stirrup, and was in the act of mounting, when an athletic gunner,
seizing him by the waist, swung him to some distance, rolling on
the turf. The fellow, springing up again, had half drawn his sabre
as I emerged from the shrubbery with an authoritative “_Halt da!_”
which was instantly obeyed by all; whilst old Hall, the moment he
saw me, cried, “They are off, sir--they are going off.” The hint was
sufficient. I despatched a gunner with orders to the guard to shut
the iron gates and allow none to pass, then proceeded to investigate
the origin of this quarrel. I had placed these people in the grounds
from the first, that they might be more under surveillance. They
have a tent for themselves, and their horses are picketed near our
guns. This I have found necessary, from the sulky mutinous spirit
they have always evinced since the first day of joining us. They
have always been a source of considerable worry to me, and have been
getting worse lately. According to their own account, they are all
_volunteers_ and _gentlemen_; therefore they feel very severely the
degradation of their present position, particularly being put under a
vile commissary, whom they affect to treat with the utmost contempt.
Their present complaint was about their bread, which they said “was
not even fit for _common soldiers_;” and they accused Mr Coates of
having purposely given them this bread as an insult. In their rage
they had saddled their horses with the intention of returning home,
or the Lord knows where, when Hall interfered, and the scuffle took
place. The corporal (a fine young man) was particularly indignant,
and held forth most vehemently on what was due to a gentleman, partly
in German, partly in French. Hall’s insolence he spoke of with great
bitterness, giving me to understand that he expected my men should
pay him somewhat of the same deference as to their own officers.
My answer to all this was short: “The bread is of the same quality
as that served out to our own men; therefore, if the _gentlemen_
disliked it, they might leave it. As to their rank in civil society,
I know nothing about it; they were put under my orders as any other
soldiers, and as such should do their duty.” Two or three of the
most refractory I made prisoners of, and if they still remained
discontented, they at least remained quiet. This disturbance,
however, spoilt my evening; so, having consumed my cigar whilst
lecturing the gentlemen, I retired to my room and spent an hour or
two over Voltaire’s ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’
Notwithstanding the raptures in which our people spoke of Paris,
which some of them visited the very first evening of our coming
here, yet it was only a day or two ago that I could tear myself from
the country and go thither. The village and _les villageois_ had
not yet lost the freshness of novelty. Strolling about the street
gossiping with the people has been a source of infinite amusement
to me, and I have been much interested in observing their peculiar
manners and habits. The harvest, which has just commenced, causes
considerable stir in the village, as all the produce of the fields
is brought to be stored in their granaries here. The villages round
Paris have anything but a rural aspect: houses of stone, roofed
either with tiles or slates, from two to three and even four storeys
high; large windows, like those of town houses; the attics are their
granaries, hay-lofts, &c., and a window or door, furnished with a
crane and tackle similar to those of our merchants’ stores, furnishes
the means of hoisting in the sheaves, bundles of hay, &c. The
consequence of this is, that our streets are all in a bustle--loaded
carts continually arriving from the fields, and drawing up under
the entrance-window of their respective houses. Bundles and sheaves
are mounting into the air, and various gossiping groups are formed
below. The peasantry in this neighbourhood are almost all of them
proprietors of the lands they cultivate. As with us, the law obliges
every man to put his name, &c., on his cart; so we see continually
“Jacques Bonnemain, cultivateur,” “Jean le Mery, propriétaire,” &c.
The figures composing these street-groups are sturdy well-made men;
much more active and springy than our clowns, although sufficiently
rustic. Their costume, too, widely differs from everything we
are accustomed to associate with rusticity. The bronzed visage,
surrounded by its setting of black locks, surmounted by the _bonnet
de nuit_, usually white, or having once been so, round jackets of
blue-striped cotton stuff, and trousers of the same--bare feet,
thrust into a pair of clumsy _sabots_, complete the costume. Amongst
the young men and boys I have remarked a much greater proportion
of handsome intelligent faces than one usually sees in any English
village; our rustics are generally coarse-featured, and have a most
unintellectual expression of face. The French peasant not only has
the advantage in point of person and carriage, but infinitely so in
his address. The women partake of the labours of the field, and enter
largely into the composition of our village groups. Their general
costume is not unpicturesque. They are always without gowns, the
exposed stays (not always very clean) sometimes laced up, sometimes
quite loose and open; blue and white, or pink-striped petticoats;
neck partially covered by a coloured handkerchief (_fichu_[13]);
the head by another, gracefully turned round it, something in the
shape of a turban;[14] large gold or silver hoops in the ears, and a
small cross of the same suspended by a black ribbon from the neck;
stockings of grey or blue thread, or bare legs; large _sabots_,
the insteps frequently garnished with a strip of rabbit-skin. Such
are our village belles. At a superficial glance one does not see
amongst them such gradations from youth to age as among our own
women. All are either old or young, hideously ugly, or pretty, or
very pretty. About the age of puberty (which seems to be earlier than
with us), they become masculine and coarse, though still handsome.
But about thirty (or earlier, if they have children) they lose all
pretensions to good looks, and immediately assume the appearance
of old age--wrinkled, skinny, with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes--and
such necks! Like the men, these women are vastly superior to our
female peasantry in carriage of person and in manners. The former is
invariably erect and commanding, giving to the ugliest old woman an
air of dignity never or very rarely to be met with among our working
classes, and not always amongst our ladies. Some of the young ones,
well made and tall, with their firm determined step, are really
majestic creatures.
The ordinary diet of these people seems little calculated to enable
them to go through the portion of hard labour that falls to their
lot. Bread, black, coarse, dry, and diabolically sour, a bit of
hard tasteless cheese, compose the usual breakfast and dinner, with
the occasional addition of haricots, or some other vegetables; for
supper, broth (_potage aux herbes_), in which a bit of lard or some
kind of grease is melted to give it richness and perhaps flavour.
Their beverage is a poor sort of _vin du pays_, very sour, and
very inferior to the sound rough cider used in our apple-counties,
Hereford and Devon. In the _cabarets_ beer is to be had of a pleasant
quality, although not strong. The _bonne double bierre de Mars_ is of
a superior caste, and, when bottled (as it is sold), a refreshing,
agreeable drink in hot weather.
March is to their brewers what October is to ours. This _bierre de
Mars_ (from the month, I presume) one would suppose exclusively
military, from the numerous coloured prints stuck on the
window-shutters of most _cabarets_, representing officers and
soldiers in the acts of drawing, pouring out, or drinking this
favourite tipple. The most common of these represents two officers
in _grande tenue_, plumed hats, swords by their sides, spurs on
the heel, &c., seated at a small round table. Each holds in the
right hand an uncorked bottle, in the left a tumbler, the _bierre_
rising in a jet from the bottles, forming two intersecting arches,
terminating precisely in the opposite and apposite tumblers. The
shutters frequently bear both pictorial and scriptorial annunciations
not a little amusing. I have seen numbers on our march, but thought
no more of them; and it was only the other day, at Courbevoie, that
“_audevie à vandre_” upon a shutter gave rise to the idea of making a
collection of them. The universal “_Ici on loge à pied et à cheval_”
is parallel to our entertainment for man and horse.
I have before noticed that on arriving here we found all the gentry
fled. That was not quite the truth. A few days since I discovered
that a certain handsome house, in Bull’s quarter of the village,
is still inhabited by the proprietor, an old lady of seventy (la
Marquise de * * *), very partial to, because somehow connected with,
the English, and therefore remaining at home in full confidence of
good treatment. She has judged rightly; not a soul has trespassed
upon her except as visitors, of which she is very proud, and holds
a sort of daily levee, which we sometimes find a convenient lounge.
Brought up in the Court of Louis XVI., Madame la Marquise is a strict
observer of all the etiquette of the old _régime_. A light active
figure, and a natural (or perhaps assumed) sprightliness of manner,
added to a very juvenile costume, give her at a little distance
quite the appearance of a girl. A nearer approach, however, spite of
rouge, &c., most liberally applied, betrays the _septuagénaire_. At
my first visit I found this extraordinary old woman alone, dressed,
and evidently expecting visitors. I introduced myself, and was
received with almost affectionate kindness. Our _tête-à-tête_ was a
long one, for she would make me listen to the whole of her family
history, and how one of her ancestors, having married some English
lady of rank, she considers herself _à moitié Anglaise_. She was not
content with telling me her history, but showed me her whole house
and gardens (both very handsome and in excellent order), even her
own boudoir, _chambre à coucher_, &c. On taking leave she exacted
a promise of being a good neighbour, which I have endeavoured to
perform by devoting to her a small portion of my leisure time. It
is to her that I am obliged for breaking the spell that bound me to
the village, and at last _visiting Paris_. The other morning she
expressed such unfeigned astonishment at my want of curiosity that
I resolved to see the place forthwith, if only for a few minutes.
Accordingly, after dinner I mounted Nelly, and set off by what I
guessed must be the road thither. The day had been exceedingly hot,
the roads were very dusty, and, half irresolute, I rode slowly over
the uninteresting parched-up plain between Colombes and Courbevoie,
made disgusting, moreover, by the trodden-down corn and carcasses
of horses, &c., which marked the old bivouacs. The handsome cavalry
barracks for the Imperial Guard at the entrance of Courbevoie
detained me a moment, and then I descended the winding shabby street,
and came suddenly on the beautiful Pont de Neuilly. The lovely
scenery here, above and below the bridge, and the magnificent avenue
beyond it, put an end to my Paris trip. For the life of me I could
not resolve to exchange such scenery, and pass such an evening in the
streets of a city, however fine they might be. This bridge, and the
one at St Maxence, are elegant things, certainly; but the straight
line, which is one of their great beauties, must not be claimed by
the architects as an original idea. The Roman bridges at Alcantra and
elsewhere no doubt have been their prototypes. I found here defences
similar to those at St Denis--the road to the bridge broken up and
obstructed by carts, and a sort of abatis; this was commanded by a
2-gun battery, built across the road on the Paris side, secured at
each flank by a stockade. These mementos of war were unpleasing
objects certainly, yet they could not divert the mind from the sweet
scenery on every side. The Seine came gliding tranquilly along
through green meadows, fringed with willows, bordered on each side by
villages and villas; several verdant islands, also, decorated with
large umbrageous willows, divided its stream into different channels,
on which floated boats of various descriptions--some plain and of
coarse construction, laden with goods; others of a more elegant
construction, gaily painted, and filled with joyous light-hearted
people, already forgetful of the downfall of their idolised
Emperor--of their national glory tarnished--even that, in these
their moments of mirth and recreation, they were in the presence of
their conquerors--of their ancient enemy. British soldiers stood on
the river-bank as they passed along--British soldiers occupied the
barracks of the late Imperial Guard, under which lay their course,
and yet the laugh was as joyous, the countenances as bright, as they
could have been after the bulletins of Austerlitz or Jena. Not so, I
ween, on the slimy Thames had England fallen as low, were London the
cantonment of French legions.
A most superb avenue is the road which gradually ascends from the
Pont de Neuilly to the Barrière de l’Etoile, the unfinished works of
which terminate this unrivalled perspective. I forget whether there
are two or four rows of elms on either side--and such trees! This
splendid road was alive with carriages, equestrians, and pedestrians,
as I rode up it to the _barrière_; and here another magnificent
scene burst upon me. Hence the road descended gradually towards the
city, handsome houses, and even rows of houses, intermingling with
the masses of foliage on either side; and far away, in hazy, dreamy
distance, this avenue was terminated by the heavy but imposing mass
of the Tuileries, with the spotless banner of ancient France waving
gracefully in the evening breeze from the elevated central mass. I
returned from this interesting excursion just as the fading tints of
the western sky began to sober down into the greys of twilight. My
curiosity was excited by this peep of Paris, and the next morning
actually found me riding slowly down from the Barrière de l’Etoile
towards the Place Louis Quinze, delighted with the novelty of the
scene by which I was surrounded. On either side of the road, among
the noble trees, were handsome houses, the large open windows and
balconies of which were filled with green shrubs and brilliant
flowers. Beyond these I came to a wide open space everywhere
covered with trees, but poor ones compared to the giants forming
the avenue. Under these a regiment of English hussars, and a band
of Cossacks, were in bivouac together--a novel and amusing scene.
The soldiers and their horses were objects of curiosity (English as
well as Cossacks) to a crowd of idle Parisians who stood by, not in
silent contemplation of the _strange animals_, but chattering like
a pack of monkeys, and explaining what they saw to those of their
neighbours less gifted with the powers of conception. Carriages,
too, as they passed, and groups of young men on horseback (looking
half-military, half-bourgeois, from their mustachioed upper lips,
erect carriage, holstered saddles, and cavalry bridles), paused to
contemplate the foreign bivouac. If these last were amused with my
countrymen and their friends, I was no less so with them. There was
something irresistibly comic in their self-satisfied air as they
paraded their managed cats of steeds before the fair ones in the
carriages, and the affected, contemptuous looks they cast on the
hardy fellows who had so recently chased their own braves (perhaps
some of themselves) from Brussels to Paris. The equipages, too,
were worthy of notice: they reminded me of Ireland--“_Nothing of
a piece_.” Handsome carriage, well-dressed servants, dog-horses
and shabby harness; or shabby servant and beautiful horse, new
harness, and an old jarvey of a carriage--the fair dames within
invariably smart. No comparison can be instituted between French
and English equipages. The neatness and perfect completeness,
beauty, finish, lightness, and goodness--all are on the side of
the latter. Their cabriolet, however, is something _sui generis_,
and worthy of admiration. They are generally drawn by one horse,
sometimes a postilion on a second horse attached as an outrigger.
It was one of these that captivated my fancy near the _barrière_.
Such a turn-out! The carriage was just like other cabriolets, only
a very smart one; and here I must acknowledge an exception to what
I have just written--the whole _was_ of a piece--good, smart, and
respectable; but, _mon Dieu!_ what a spectacle! The heavy harness
under which the horses were almost buried was covered with plated
buckles, bosses, &c. On the outrigger sat a fine, well-made fellow,
six feet if an inch, erect as a grenadier. On his head an enormous
cocked-hat, bound with broad silver lace and loop, stuck square on;
a blue coat, collar, skirts, and sleeves, all covered with silver
lace; the clothing of his nether limbs hid in a tremendous pair of
boots, sticking six inches above his slightly-bent knee, and armed
with a most formidable pair of spurs; like all the rest of them,
riding exceedingly long, consequently bumping along at a moderate
trot with most imperturbable gravity. How I should have liked to see
this equipage trotting down St James’s Street! A passer-by, of whom
I asked the question, informed me that this was Les Champs Elysées.
I could hardly credit him. What! the far-famed, much-vaunted,
much-bescribbled Champs Elysées! Impossible!--or, if true, what a
disappointment! I hardly know what sort of an idea I had formed of
the Champs Elysées--certainly nothing like the reality. No turf, no
verdure, in short, no fields, but a gravelly dusty space, surrounded
nearly by buildings, and barely shaded from the scorching sun by a
parcel of miserable-looking half-grown trees, sufficiently powdered
to conceal whatever verdure they might have. If ever the grass had
grown here, every trace was now obliterated. Bivouacs are sadly
destructive of nature’s beauties. “Thus, then,” said I, “here is one
illusion dissipated. Let us see farther, perhaps all will equally
vanish in smoke and dust.” A certain feeling of exultation, a
tumultuous rising of spirits came over me as I rode into the Place
Louis Quinze, and pulling up, regardless of the moving throng of
people, contemplated at my leisure the scene around me. I have now
got a map and a ‘Guide de Paris,’ both of which I have since had
opportunities of elucidating or confirming by inquiry and _vivâ voce_
evidence. Then, I knew not that I stood precisely on the same spot
where the martyrdom of Louis Seize and the fair Marie Antoinette had
been consummated. I knew that the walls in front of me as I entered
the Place from the Champs Elysées were the ramparts of the Tuileries;
that the bowery trees which overtopped them were in the gardens; and
that the immense pile seen again over these was the chateau itself:
but I did not know that the magnificent ranges of buildings, with
their rich sculptures and Corinthian colonnades on my left, were
those of the Garde Meuble; nor that the fine but short perspective
by which they were separated was the Rue de la Concorde; nor that
the handsome bridge on my right was the Pont de la Concorde, and the
imposing portico which reared its lofty Corinthian columns beyond was
the entrance to the Salle des Representatifs. Although ignorant of
the names and destinations of the noble objects, I could not but be
sensible of their effect individually and as an _ensemble_; and I
did acknowledge that nothing could be more imposing, more strikingly
magnificent, than this entrance to the city of Paris.
Every faculty absorbed in the contemplation of the various and
varied novelties around me, I progressed mechanically, and without
knowing or seeking to know where I was going, found my way down
the Rue de Rivoli, and so into the Place Vendome, where the column
of Austerlitz, by its beautiful workmanship, and the historical
recollections associated with it, arrested my course for some time.
Strange, however, that a nation like France should borrow from
Rome--that she could not produce an original idea to commemorate a
great national triumph. It is nevertheless a superb monument; and
at least the idea of using the guns taken in the battle to decorate
the city--was not _that_ an original idea? The Place itself I do not
like. Its houses are certainly fine, and uniformly built, but the
style is heavy, the material dismal, and the want of _trottoirs_
gives the whole the air of a “mews.” In approaching the Place
Vendome by the Rue Castiglione, I crossed the Rue St Honoré, the
busy stream flowing along which would have induced me to follow it,
but the column in front drew me forward like a magnet. The streets
of Paris are infinitely more amusing than those of London, inasmuch
as they everywhere teem with animation, from the pavements to the
roofs. Nowhere do we meet such long, tiresome, dull avenues of brick
and mortar as Baker Street, Gore Street, Gloucester Place, &c. In
London, “home’s home,” &c.--and when people are at home, they like
quietude and retirement. In Paris _au contraire_, people cannot
exist in quietude, and solitude is abominated. To see and be seen
seems the universal maxim. The varied forms of the houses, too, and
the still more varied styles of ornament, render the streets much
more picturesque and interesting in Paris than in London. There is
something very picturesque and interesting, I think, in the immense
long perspectives between the tall houses of such streets as the
Rue de Richelieu, into which I was led by the Rue Neuve des Petits
Champs. This is the Bond Street of Paris, and is a most amusing one.
Here every thing savoured of the fashionable world. Shops of a more
respectable description richly decorated; goods of the most costly
kind arranged for display with a very superior degree of taste and
even elegance. Numerous equipages with liveried attendants driving
about or waiting at the doors. Numberless loungers sauntering up
and down, or philandering in the shops, a striking feature among
these the foreign officers, particularly English, all indicating
the Rue de Richelieu as the focus of fashionable resort. After all,
however, there is something about this as well as all the other
streets of Paris, with a few exceptions--such as the Rue de Rivoli,
de la Concorde, de la Paix, and some part of the Boulevard--that
displeases an Englishman’s eye and nose. The buildings in general
have a worn and shabby appearance; their great height, and the
narrowness of the thoroughfare, throws a degree of darkness and gloom
over everything; but, above all, the olfactory nerves are continually
offended by a certain pervading odour, difficult to be accounted
for, since it is everywhere the same--not arising from any visible
cause, but omnipresent and unvarying. In the Rue de Richelieu not
all the fragrant odours issuing from that _magazin_ of odours, the
Cloche d’Or, and fifty others, were sufficient to overpower this most
unsavoury of smells. It may be said to characterise Paris--to stamp
it as the sulphureous city. My attention was attracted by a broad
avenue crossing one end of it, and along which flowed a dense and
continuous stream of passengers and carriages. I directed my horse’s
head thither, and in a few minutes found myself in the Boulevard
des Italiens. The excitement and interest of that moment will not
soon be forgotten. The breadth of the street, the mixture of trees
and houses, the number and variety of the immense multitude moving
on, all contributed for a moment to electrify me, and I should have
forgotten Colombes and the lateness of the hour had not Hitchins at
that moment rode up and asked me if I was not going home to dinner.
Colombes and M. Ferdinando’s good cheer regained their sway, and we
trotted off together, vowing an early return to explore the wonders
of this mine of novelty and excitement.