_August 5th._--I had intended seeing some of the sights to-day--so
accordingly, after breakfast, mounted on Nelly, cigar in mouth, and
followed by my smart orderly, Fitzgerald, I paraded slowly through
the village, crossed the fields to St Denis, having passed which I
had already got over half the dreary road to La Chapelle, when Nelly
suddenly fell dead lame. Upon examination we found a great nail which
had run into her foot (off hind), between the frog and bars. This put
an end to my day. So I returned quietly, put the mule into the stable
with Cossack and the brown horse, Nelly into the mule’s box, sent to
St Denis for Mr Coward, who is veterinary surgeon to our division,
made Farrier Price meantime pare her sole almost to the quick, put
on a bran poultice, and have at last sat down to amuse myself by
scribbling something about Paris--observations, description, or what
else it may be. To proceed, then. I shall not soon forget my first
ride to Paris from Colombes. Although already noticed in its place,
I like to dwell on a subject to me of so much pleasure, and shall
ever recall with emotion my feelings on first passing the Barrière de
l’Etoile and gaining a _coup d’œil_ of the magnificent avenue beyond,
terminated by the venerable palace of the French monarch--its noble
trees, its crowds of carriages, horsemen and footmen, and all the
_et ceteras_ of such a scene. Arriving by this side, the head filled
with preconceived ideas of filthy narrow streets without _trottoirs_,
what was my surprise on passing through the Place Louis Quinze
and entering the magnificent Rue Royale. My previous knowledge of
Paris, picked up in books of travel, &c., has all proved erroneous.
Some travellers are extravagant in its praise; but I think the
greater part have dwelt too much on the dark side of the picture,
otherwise why these unfavourable impressions that occupied my brain?
The natives, on the contrary, are too extravagant in its praise;
and knowing their gasconading style, one is slow to believe their
highly-coloured descriptions, and particularly their saying, “Qui n’a
vû Paris, n’a rien vû”--a sentiment now become a proverb with them.
But this same, or something very similar, is said of many other
cities, if I mistake not--Vienna, Rome, Naples, Florence, Madrid,
Lisbon, &c. However, like everything else, this has two sides--both
parties are right, both are wrong. In the same manner as any other
city, Paris has its clean and its dirty quarters, its St Giles and
its Grosvenor Street, its fine and its mean buildings, its poverty
and its opulence--in short, its _agrémens_ and its _désagrémens_. I
can’t translate these words. Agreeables and disagreeables won’t quite
do. Everything depends on the good or bad humour of the traveller, or
the reception he meets with in the country he undertakes to describe.
It generally, therefore, is either a Pays de Cocagne or a Tierra del
Fuego.
Divided into twelve _arrondissements_ or _mairies_, and every
_arrondissement_ into several _quartiers_, one finds such a
difference between these divisions--in the manners, habitudes,
and physiognomy of their inhabitants--as scarcely to believe they
form part of the same community. Thus les Quartiers des Tuileries,
des Roule, des Champs Elysées, &c. &c.--in which are situated the
court, the hotels of all the _grand seigneurs_, &c., consequently
the richest, smartest, and best shops--distinguished for elegance,
cheerfulness, and cleanliness. Le Quartier de la Chaussée d’Antin
is the residence of the rich bankers, as in like manner that of the
Palais Royal is of merchants, brokers, &c. The Marais is inhabited
principally by people of moderate incomes, fond of quiet and
tranquillity; and among these are to be found the principal remaining
specimens of the _bon vieux temps_--good, easy, old-fashioned people.
The Pays Latin--as the neighbourhood of the Rues St Jacques, de la
Harpe, &c., is called, from containing the College de la Sorbonne,
the schools of the University, &c. &c.--is the cradle of science,
and the residence of almost all the bookbinders, parchment-makers,
&c., of Paris. Here reside professors and students of theology,
medicine, law, natural history, &c. &c. All is here quiet gloom, and
some small degree of filth. Les Halles present the singular spectacle
of a rural population in the heart of a great city. The other parts
of Paris, inhabited by various classes of artisans, are not only
different from all those already spoken of, but differ even amongst
themselves, according to the business pursued in them. Thus the Rue
de Clery is one complete magazine of furniture and cabinet-work,
&c.; and most of the work in silk, such as curtain-fringe, &c., is
done in la Rue de la Feronnerie and Marché des Innocens, &c.--but
of the more distant quarters of this description I only speak from
hearsay, the temper of their population being such as to render it
dangerous for an Englishman to appear there as an idler; therefore
have I never yet seen the Quartier de St Antoine, nor the Place
Royale--the very focus of this spirit. It is clear, therefore, that
Paris cannot be characterised by a _trait de plûme_--as clean or
dirty, grand or mean, &c. Handsome, and what we should call fine,
streets there are, and others which, without any pretension to these
names, are yet striking from their extent and bustle of business,
&c. &c. Of the former are the Rues de la Paix, Royale, de Rivoli,
de Mont Blanc, de la Place Vendome, du Faubourg St Honoré, &c. &c.
All these are scrupulously clean and very cheerful, full of fine
hotels (_not inns_), fine shops, and for the most part have good and
spacious _trottoirs_. The first two in particular are very handsome
streets. Of the latter description are the Rues de St Denis, de St
Martin, de l’Université, du Faubourg St Denis, Neuve des Petits
Champs, and many others. These are generally long streets, some of
them very wide, but almost all of them without _trottoirs_. Beyond
these the streets are generally very narrow, dirty, and dark. This
obscurity is caused by the enormous height of the houses in the
old parts of the town, and their sombre hue--I was going to say
_their being blackened by smoke_, but that can scarcely be possible,
since from using so much wood one never sees that thick canopy of
smoke hanging over Paris that usually shuts out the feeble rays of
the winter’s sun from the citizens of our metropolis. The close
confined streets, indeed all the older streets of Paris, are redolent
at all times of a most disagreeable odour. Evelyn, 160 years ago,
said the streets of Paris smelt of sulphur. The innumerable lamps
swinging from ropes over the centre of these streets give them, in
my eyes, a very mean appearance. I don’t know why, but they seem,
too, in the way. These ropes lead down the wall on one side of the
street in a sort of wooden case, the key of which being kept by the
lamp-lighter, mischievous people are unable to get at the lamps
without breaking open these cases--an operation requiring time, and
not performed without noise, therefore almost impossible with such a
vigilant police. But the greatest ornament of the town, and no doubt
that which contributes most to its salubrity, is the great avenue
which, under various names, is called generally the Boulevards,
from occupying the site of the ancient ramparts of Paris. Since the
increase of the faubourgs has placed these in the midst of the town
as it were, a second concentric circle, called the New Boulevard,
has been formed; but this seems a mere circular road, not much
frequented: and along it is the only enclosure Paris now possesses--a
simple stone wall, connecting the barriers, and thereby insuring
the fiscal duties. Of the old Boulevards I spoke some days ago; it
were needless, therefore, to fill my journal with repetition. They
must be acknowledged as a most agreeable and amusing lounge. After
the streets, the quays of Paris naturally attract our attention--a
feature so ornamental, so commodious, so salubrious, that we wonder
our own metropolis should be destitute in this respect. What a noble
thing it would be were our fine river bordered by such quays as
those de Buonaparte, des Tuileries, de Voltaire, de la Conference,
&c., instead of being enclosed as it is between such a set of shabby
wooden or brick warehouses!
But if London is inferior to Paris in this respect, how superior she
is in public squares! The costly iron railings, the masterly statues
that decorate some, and the pleasant shrubberies, smooth, well-kept
turf, and well-rolled walks which characterise most of them, are
nowhere to be seen in Paris. The Place Louis Quinze is not what we
should call a square in London; it is a sort of esplanade, separating
the ramparts and gardens of the Tuileries from the Champs Elysées;
the third side is closed by the river, and the fourth is the only
side having buildings--those of the Garde Meuble. It is an agreeable
esplanade, but is no square. The Place Royale is, I believe, the
largest square in Paris; but, for the reasons before mentioned,
I have as yet never seen it. From all that I have heard, it is
surrounded by very lofty, and perhaps once handsome houses, which
then were the habitations of the principal _noblesse_, though now of
a numerous population of artisans. In the middle of it, I understand,
is a fountain, some trees, &c., in the manner of our squares. The
Place Vendome is the next in size to the former; it is octagonal,
and the houses, all uniformly built, are of a respectable class,
but the style of them is heavy and dull: the want of a _trottoir_,
the houses standing as they do with their ground-floors unscreened
or unprotected from the carriage-way, spite of the splendid column
springing from its centre, give this places a mean, _triste_
appearance. I could not divest myself of the idea of its being a
mews. The Place des Victoires, meant to be circular, is only a small
concern, neither handsome nor ornamental, and perhaps only useful as
admitting light and air into a very thick and closely-built part of
the town. These are, strictly speaking, the only real public squares;
for the Parvis Nôtre Dame, Place du Carrousel, &c. &c., are only
esplanades in front of the Cathedral and Tuileries. On the whole,
however, Paris is a much more cheerful place than London. In this
respect there is no comparison between them.
8 P.M.--Rambled up the road to Garges, which is still nearly as
deserted as ever; but the rags and tatters, and broken glass,
&c., with which the street was strewed, have in a great measure
disappeared. After dinner, Cossack being still rather lame, I rode
Mula through the vineyards to Pierrefitte. The country is much
prettier on that side than with us, being hilly, whereas we are
on a dead level. Our waggon-train officers are doing cavalry with
a vengeance, and making a great swagger among the natives. Took a
round by Villetaneuse--through vineyards, plantations of artichokes,
&c.--and passing along the enclosure of a very handsome domain, with
a fine house of brick, let Mula find her own road home, which she
did very cleverly and very directly. I think (at least on smooth
ground) mules are not so sure-footed as is usually believed and
asserted--perhaps amongst rocks and mountains they may be.
_6th._--Sunday.
_7th._--To town as usual this morning for sight-seeing. From the Rue
de Malte took my course through the court of the Louvre and the Place
de Jena, still boarded up, crossed the Pont Neuf, “where it always
blows,” and accordingly did blow there to-day certainly, more than
elsewhere. Henri IV., with his manly countenance and pointed beard,
smiled on me as I made my way through the crowd and plunged into
the gloomy and shabby streets of the Pays Latin. Stopped at a mean,
rather dirty restaurant in the Rue St Jacques, where I got a bad
lunch, of course, and a bottle of sour wine; but for this there was
no remedy, as I did not know of any better in the neighbourhood, to
which I am a stranger. After doubling and threading my way through a
number of dirty obscure streets, which no stranger could have done
in London, I at last came out on the Quai St Bernard, where suddenly
I found myself among hundreds, if not thousands, of pipes of wine
ranged in tiers. It is the Marché aux Vins; and whilst seated upon
one of these pipes enjoying the busy scene around, I mentally bless
the ingenious system of numbering the houses and naming the streets
that has enabled me to steer through such a labyrinth as I have just
passed, and which might so well and so easily be applied in London.
All streets running to the Seine are numbered in _black_; all those
parallel, or nearly so, to the river in _red_. Starting from the
river, the numbers commence in a double series in these transverse
streets; and in the longitudinal streets the series of numbers follow
the course of the stream,--equal numbers always on the right, unequal
on the left. In the same manner the names at the corners of the
streets are of a similar colour to the numbers; and moreover, some
remarkable object, giving a designation to the quarter, is painted
at the corners. The Jardin des Plantes, or du Roi, is adjoining
the Marché aux Vins, and thither I went, walking in amongst other
company without let or hindrance of any kind. In this garden, the
Menagerie, and the Cabinet d’Histoire Naturelle, I passed nearly the
whole afternoon in the most agreeable manner possible. Much as I
had heard of this establishment, the reality rather surpassed than
fell short of it--and sorry I am to say we can boast of nothing at
all equal to it in England; nor, if we did, could our populace be
admitted to it with the same freedom as the more volatile yet more
considerate _badauds_ are to this. Everything would soon be ruined.
The men would trample over the beds, the boys would break down the
hedges and fences; knives would operate in all directions; even
the women would find some means of doing mischief;--in short, it
would never do. Here, on the contrary, it was with pleasure that I
observed people of all classes of society, even beggars, conducting
themselves with a modesty and decency of manner not to be surpassed.
The choice of ground has been very judicious, as the plan presents
a pleasing undulation of surface that gives infinite interest to a
promenade. The botanical part is flat and even, divided by walks
into compartments, each forming a small distinct garden by itself.
These are either enclosed by well-kept hedges, or by rails and rustic
fences of every possible useful fashion--which may serve as models
for those in want of such things.
These little gardens each contains some family of shrubs or plants,
and are all arranged according to their respective climates. The
dividing walks form most agreeable promenades, as was evinced by the
number of people I found lounging in them, many evidently not taking
any interest in the botanical treasures around. This flat space is
bounded on one side by a magnificent avenue of elms, under the shade
of which are numerous _vendeurs de boissons_ and _de pâtisserie_,
as well as one or two regular restaurateurs. On the other side, the
ground, swelling gently into hill and dale as it were, is fitted
by enclosures of simple rail or strong stockade, as occasion may
require, for the confinement of an elephant or a deer. Here in little
paddocks, with room to move about and a house to shelter them,
we find a number of animals, who, perhaps, well fed as they are,
little regret the loss of liberty. The elephant even has a pond to
wallow in, to the great amusement of the _badauds_ who constantly
throng the stockade. The more savage beasts (_genus Felis_, &c.)
are confined as with us, in dens. It was only in looking over the
catalogue of the menagerie, and finding the beasts enclosed in the
paddocks classed as ruminant and _fauve_, that I remembered we have
no term to translate the latter word. This part of the establishment
is very entertaining, and I lounged away a great part of my time in
wandering about the winding walks between the enclosures, amused by
the curiosity and _naïveté_ of many of the visitors. The menagerie
is separated from the gardens by a rampart and ditch. In the latter
are the bears, great favourites with the public, particularly the
boys, of whom numbers are always hanging on the wall, watching
the heavy animals climbing a high pole set for the purpose. The
hothouses contain all sorts of things; but what interested me were
the palms--some of these I saw out of doors. Just by the hothouses
is a high mount, ascended by a spiral path, bearing a sort of temple
on the top, whence there is an extensive and much-vaunted view over
the city and neighbourhood; but not half so extensive as, nor in any
way comparable to, those from Belleville, Montmartre,[24] and, above
all, from Mont Aurelian. The School of Comparative Anatomy is very
interesting: it contains perfect skeletons of almost every species of
animal, bird, or fish, from the most diminutive to the largest--from
the minnow to the whale, from the shrew-mouse to the mastodon, from
the humming-bird to the condor.
Evening was drawing on, and I ran hastily through the two floors of
the Cabinet of Natural History, that I might get home before dark.
The entrance to the Jardin des Plantes, by a handsome _grille_ from
the quay opposite the Pont d’Austerlitz, is very good, but I could
not stop to admire it; and hurrying along the _quais_, instead of
blundering amongst the streets, succeeded again in just getting home
in time.
_August 8th._--It seems as if I were destined always to fall under
the Duke’s displeasure, and to be the victim of his injustice. When
I called on Sir Augustus Frazer this morning at the Hotel du Nord,
the first greeting I got on entering the room was, “_Mercer, you
are released from arrest!_” At first I thought this a joke, but Sir
Augustus assured me seriously that I had not only been in arrest,
but _that_, too, ever since our review on the 24th ultimo. He then
told me that I had not been the only unfortunate. Himself and Major
M’Donald had been supposed under arrest at the same time and for the
same _crime_; and what was this?--this very grave crime for which
two field officers and a captain had actually been under ignominious
punishment for a whole fortnight? In the column of review on the
24th ultimo, my troop was on the extreme left (or rear), except
the two brigades of 18-pounders. Our order of marching past was
in column of divisions (we have three divisions), and my post for
saluting was considerably in front of the leading one, to leave room
for the division officers at open order, consequently I was fully
a hundred yards distant from my rear-division when passing the
Duke. Now it so fell out that, at that very moment, a horse of one
of the rear-division carriages got his leg over a trace. The limber
gunners, with their wonted activity, were off, cleared the leg,
remounted, all in sufficient time for the division to pass his Grace
steadily and in good order. But this little halt, momentary as it
was, checked the 18-pounders; and Ilbert, or whoever commanded them,
ignorant of the saluting-point, trotted up to regain his distance,
until suddenly, seeing the sovereigns and their suite, he resumed
his walk too late, and passed them in confusion. The Duke fell into
one of his furious passions, asked how this happened, and (what he
did with the foot-artillery I know not) immediately despatched the
Adjutant-General to put Sir Augustus Frazer, Major M’Donald, and
myself under arrest. The two former, however, had departed; and
whilst the Adjutant-General was struggling through the crowd after
me, I had cleared the Rue Royale, and setting off at a trot down the
Boulevard, had turned down the Rue de Clichy, consequently was out
of sight ere he reached the Boulevard, where he gave up the pursuit
and said no more about it. Whether the Duke forgot us, or whether he
purposely kept us in arrest, we are left to conjecture--certain it
is, that we three actually appear by name in the General’s orders of
yesterday as released from our arrest. _Mens conscia recti_--I snap
my fingers at the disgrace.
Leaving Sir Augustus, I accompanied Bell to his pretty lodging in
the Rue Mont Blanc. I don’t know who the people are, but it is an
uncommonly genteel, well-furnished, well-appointed house. A young
gentleman there is who visits Bell occasionally, and a young lady who
serenades him (if I may so apply the term) continually. She touches
the piano well, has a musical voice, and sings with taste. “L’Exile”
is the favourite just now, a pretty song, which, from so often
hearing there, I shall always henceforward associate with Bell’s
nicely-furnished apartment, and the little pleasure-ground, of some
thirty or forty feet square, with one or two acacias in it. Frazer,
too, has very handsome rooms in the Hotel du Nord, richly furnished,
with green silk window-curtains, &c. &c. Sir Edward Kerrison and
old Platoff also live there. Passed the remainder of this morning
lounging about the Boulevard, as much amused as on the first day. All
the fun, crowd, &c., I observe, is confined to the right side going
up from the Rue Royale; on the left there is comparatively nobody,
except, perhaps, at the Porte St Denis and St Martin, through which
(or rather by which) a crowd is continually setting, and one is
deafened by the importunate clamours of fifty cabriolet-drivers, all
calling at once, “Voiture, Monsieur--Voiture?” “St Denis, Monsieur?”
“Memorency, Monsieur?” “Garges, Monsieur?” “Arnouville?” &c. &c.
These fellows are most active rogues, and their carriages very
convenient, and far more agreeable than the fiacres; and that is the
opinion of the public in general, I presume, from seeing one fiacre
plying for ten cabriolets or coucous, or whatever name they go by.
The coachmen of the former are so well aware of this, that they
generally are dozing on their boxes, giving themselves no trouble in
looking for customers. Perhaps, however, this may arise from their
being only servants, whilst the others are themselves the proprietors
of the vehicles they drive. Although conscious that these _portes_
are in reality triumphal arches, yet I never pass them without
experiencing something of the same feeling with which one would view
the magnificent bridge built by Philip II. over the dry bed of the
Manzanares if ignorant of the impetuous floods to which that river is
liable. The Boulevard presented if anything a more busy, noisy scene
than usual. The Turk I found with an attentive and apparently much
interested audience, whom he was haranguing with vociferations and
gesticulations truly astounding. In vain I tried to catch the purport
of his harangue--the curious _badauds_ were packed so close, and so
firmly maintained their ground, that it was impossible to approach
one inch into the circle. I lounged on and admired the beautiful
Fontaine de Bondy, or de Lions, I know not which it is called, but
its sheets of falling water are singular, and I think it a beautiful
fountain. What a magnificent air these fountains give to the town!
How refreshing and delightful is the splashing of their waters in
warm weather! and oh! the contrast presented to them by our conduits,
&c.--shapeless masses of masonry or brickwork, with a brass cock
stuck in each side, or mayhap the said brass cock protruding from a
common wall.
The French are an ingenious people, and contrive a thousand
curious, uncommon, and often admirable devices for opening people’s
purses, instead of sticking to the unvaried, dismal chant of our
beggars--although “_Pour l’amour de Dieu_” is not uncommon here.
Our wretches drive one away, but the gentlemen of whom I speak
grasp, retain, and even squeeze their auditors as one would a
lemon. Nor do they always assume the repulsive rags, &c., which
our beggars think so essential to obtain their end. An instance
of this I frequently meet on the Boulevard St Martin--an elderly
man, of a grave physiognomy, well featured, and of rather a genteel
appearance, clad in garments somewhat seedy, though fashionably cut.
This man I stumbled on to-day at the corner of the Rue du Temple
lecturing on moral philosophy. Like the Turk, he had a numerous and
attentive audience, but, generally speaking, composed of a better
description of people. To a clear, sonorous voice, he added a
manner demonstrative without being dogmatic, and persuasive without
betraying doubt of his own powers. He defined the motives and rules
of human actions, and showed that these rules are immutable--that we
cannot violate them with impunity. He then went at some length into
the morals of the ancients, touched on the doctrine of expediency,
on the desire of distinction, ambition, &c., and very naturally,
though cautiously, introduced as an illustration Napoleon. No one
could mistake the sensation produced by this magic name--a sensation
which, having produced, he proceeded to neutralise by gradually
slipping into the connection between religion and morality. I left
him explaining the insufficiency of natural religion, &c. Although
this man does not beg, there is no doubt he makes a good trade of
preaching; numerous were the offerings silently put into his hand
and quietly pocketed without once interrupting the thread of his
discourse. Another actor of the same description is a man who usually
frequents the northern entrance of the Passage Feydeau: an immense
power of grimace, and amazing execution on the violin, are the means
by which he gains his daily bread. Clad in an old threadbare frock,
that once was brown, with a pair of enormous spectacles riding
astride on his prominent nose, he takes his stand on the steps at
the entrance of the passage. Heels close together, body drawn up at
attention, and with his gaze directed upwards at the window of the
fourth storey of the opposite house, he appears perfectly unconscious
of the presence of the admiring crowd assembled round him, whilst
he executes with astonishing justness, feeling, and rapidity, the
most difficult passages from some of the favourite composers of the
day--distorting his face all the time in a manner so wonderfully
ludicrous that his really excellent music is almost drowned by the
uncontrollable laughter of the surrounding multitude. These are some
of the many means employed in this gay metropolis for extracting
coin out of the pockets of their fellow-men. Gay, however, as it is,
misery exists here as well as elsewhere, and I shudder even now at
the harrowing tale Bell told me this morning of suicide, to which
he was witness a day or two ago. Passing through the Place Vendome,
he observed several people looking anxiously up at the Column of
Austerlitz, and naturally turning his eyes in the same direction,
beheld a man in the act of climbing over the rails of the gallery,
having effected which, he deliberately lowered himself down until he
hung suspended by the arms over the frightful depth below. In this
position he remained a few seconds, perhaps as if repenting him of
the rash act he was about to perpetrate; but, unable to recover the
gallery, he eventually let go his hold, and was dashed to pieces on
the pavement at the foot of the column: the very idea is harrowing!
A trait of the times, and a very striking one too, which a person
meets with at almost every step in walking about Paris, is the
announcement of the change of dynasty--from an empire to a
kingdom--exhibited in the titles of shops, _lycées_, and every other
establishment; the old word _imperiale_ slightly painted over to
make way for the more humble _royale_--_lycée royale_, &c.--which
is sometimes painted over it, but more frequently by the side of it,
leaving the former word quite legible through the thin daub of paint
laid over it. The postilions, too, are changing their imperial green
livery for the royal blue; yet this change goes on but slowly, for
we still see many of the numerous English equipages daily arriving
brought in by postilions in green livery jackets. In the palaces and
other public buildings, the letter N was abundantly introduced into
all the architectural decorations, besides the armorial bearings
of the Emperor: workmen have been some time employed effacing or
altering all these. Wherever it is possible, the obnoxious letter is
removed altogether; but where that is not the case, which happens
frequently, it is changed into an H and the numeral IV. added. These
and many other changes incident to the present state give a curious
aspect to the nation, and afford much food for speculation and
contemplation. Met my old schoolfellow Courtnay Ilbert coming out of
town, and we rode together to St Denis, where his 18-pounder brigade
is stationed. On reaching home found that M. Fauigny has been here.
Poor man! he is not likely to get much from me.
_August 9th._--Not quite well this morning, but I went to town to
meet Hitchins, and make a sight-seeing day of it. Accordingly we have
done pretty well, galloping through the Luxembourg, Les Monumens, and
wandering over almost the whole southern part of Paris. I can’t say,
however, that this has been to me a day of much interest; I prefer
a thousand times wandering about the town by myself--observing the
habits, manners, &c., of the people--to all the sight-seeing; but I
allowed Hitchins to shame me out of the idea of leaving Paris without
seeing everything. Much, however, I fear I shall have to blush for,
if that be necessary, and amongst others the theatres, not one of
which have I ever entered yet. The Luxembourg is a fine palace,
and I like its style of architecture much better than that of the
Tuileries, though it is vilely situated. The gardens are much the
same--parterres, ponds, ramparts--_voilà tout_. The great attractions
here are the Chamber of Peers, and the Galleries of Rubens, Vernet,
and of the French Raphael Le Sueur. The first I cannot bear, spite of
his beautiful colouring and well-managed _chiaro-oscuro_--allegory
is my abomination; the pictures of the second are more to my taste;
but the blue works of the French Raphael I could not appreciate.
Besides these, we saw a multitude of other masterpieces; and I was
particularly pleased at having an opportunity of seeing some by
David, of whom I have heard so much. Here disappointment awaited me,
and a glance at the “Judgment of Brutus” satisfied me--all yellow
and glare, and extravagant attitudes. Surely the human spine would
never admit of being doubled in the manner of the fainting female
introduced in the foreground of this picture--a perfect parabola. To
reach the Chamber of Peers, we passed through a grove of orange-trees
in boxes, and then mounted a very fine staircase ornamented with
statues of great men, among which two were very spirited--those of
Condorcet and of General Dessaix, said to be likenesses; I had no
idea the latter was so young. The Chamber itself is a very handsome
semicircular hall, having the President’s desk in the centre of
the chord, and those of the members round the curve. Beyond this
is the Salle de la Paix, a very handsome room, the walls of which
are covered with paintings by David, representing the victories of
Napoleon, weakly enough hid with green baize, and not allowed to be
seen.
Of the monuments I have little worth recording. Interesting specimens
there are of French sculpture of every age--all preserved by M.
Lenoir from revolutionary Vandalism. The only thing, however, that
I remember worth noticing, is the tomb of Louis XII. (I think), on
which the corpses of himself and queen soon after death are laid out:
the countenance of the king is expressive of great suffering. The
horrid truth of this sculpture, aided by the colour of the marble--so
completely that of a corpse--leads one to believe that it must by
some means have been actually copied from nature. In a little yard,
about twenty feet square, and surrounded by the high walls of the
neighbouring houses, stands the Paraclete. Its situation is a sad
drawback to the interest one might otherwise take in this specimen
of ancient architecture, for in the history of the Castrato and his
love I can take none. In wandering about the town, amongst other
places we stumbled upon were the poultry or game market, and that
of flowers--two opposite extremes. The first is a very handsome
building on the Quai des Grand Augustins, and this being one of the
days on which the game, &c., arrives, the quantity was prodigious;
but the smell was more than we could stand, and obliged us to a very
precipitate retreat; so, crossing to the Cité, we rambled on, and
quite by accident found ourselves in the empire of Flora, redolent of
mignonette and a thousand other odoriferous plants, and presenting
a _coup d’œil_ not to be excelled: hortensias and camellias appeared
quite common. The Parisian flower-sellers are adepts in making up
nosegays, and, I believe, understand using them as the language of
love like the Turks. Tired with our walk, we returned to Hardi’s,
where, having made an excellent dinner, we separated; and here I am
half asleep recording the day.
_Sunday, 13th._--I have been idle as to writing since Wednesday, but
not so otherwise, having been every day in town; in the mean time,
domestic transactions require some notice. Our vineyards are blessed
this year with a most extraordinary crop of grapes, to secure which
from marauders I have acceded to M. Bonnemain’s petition in behalf
of the villagers, and established a regular patrol of our men--a
precaution certainly most necessary, seeing what neighbours we have:
at Pierrefitte the waggon-train; on the other side, bivouacking
along the chaussée from Garges to St Denis, Jones’s corps of Belgian
waggoners, five hundred in number, men totally unacquainted with the
restraints of military discipline, with full leisure to meditate
mischief, and most persevering foragers for their horses, which
are their own private property; in our rear, at Garges, &c., are
our savage and lawless friends of Nassau, and some Belgians. So
surrounded, vigilance becomes absolutely necessary, not only for
the sake of our villagers, but also for our own; and nothing has
gained their affections, or united us more, than the establishment
of this patrol, especially since it has taken some prisoners. The
other day the _garde champêtre_ detected soldiers stealing along
amongst the vines, but not daring to go near them himself, hurried
into the village and reported it to the sergeant-major, Oliphant,
who lost no time in despatching a corporal and four mounted gunners
in pursuit. The fellows were soon taken and brought in triumph to my
house, the _garde champêtre_ stalking at the head of the procession
in his cocked-hat and broad _bandoulière_, prisoners between the
escort--M. le Maire and some twenty peasants, making more noise with
their _sabots_ than the iron hoofs of the horses, bringing up the
rear. The unfortunates were Belgians, quite lads, so I held a sort of
court-baron in my yard, and upon their expressing great contrition,
and begging a thousand pardons, at M. Bonnemain’s request I forgave
them, but sent the escort to see them home to Garges, whence they
came. The effect on the villagers has been very good--they have all
become the most kindly obliging creatures possible, and our men are
as thick as brothers with them; I trust this harmony may continue. I
have likewise another source of amusement, which makes my residence
here more agreeable--I have hired a very good violin, and bought some
music. The offhanded liberal manner in which Madame Duhan informed
me of the hire, and allowed me to take away the instrument, stranger
as I was to her, without any security, surprised me much. I rather
think none of our musicsellers in London would lend even their worst
instrument to a Frenchman in the same manner. On Thursday last I
went to see the Bibliothèque Royale, a magnificent establishment,
and where I passed a most delightful morning; it is in the Hotel de
Colbert, Rue de Richelieu, from which street the main entrance opens
into a square court surrounded by the building, and having in its
centre a naked statue of Diana in bronze, of fine execution, but in
my opinion misplaced here.
The library occupies two entire and part of a third side of the
quadrangle (about 300,000 volumes), and is on the most liberal
footing. Any well-dressed person is freely admitted, and may range
about unobstructed; but he must touch nothing. Chairs, tables, pens,
and ink, are there for those who wish to write, and servants, in
rich liveries of blue and silver lace, are in attendance to furnish
the books required. These people are positively forbidden to accept
anything from the visitors; and yet no one can be more obligingly
attentive. In the Cabinet des Medailles are many curiosities;
amongst the most interesting, I thought, were the iron chair of King
Dagobert, and a silver disc found in the Rhone, and supposed to have
been the shield of Scipio--I don’t know why. Two enormous globes,
more than 12 feet in diameter, are mounted on the ground-floor, and
circular apertures have been opened in the floor above to admit part
of their circumference through it. The fourth side of the quadrangle
is a most delightful lounge; it is the Cabinet des Gravures. In
this are preserved specimens of the works of every artist of every
nation--from the most ancient period down to the present. The
collection is immense, and is the constant resort of all the artists
of the capital, and a crowd of picture-loving people. I could pass
whole days there, so interesting is the collection, and so great the
facility of using it. This place occupied my morning so completely
that I had barely time to get my _potage à la julienne_, &c., and
come home before dark.
_Friday._--It sounds oddly to an English ear, smuggling into a town
from the country; but the free circulation that exists throughout our
country is unknown here. Everything is examined at the _barrière_.
What would our farmers and their wives say if they were liable to
be stopped at the gate of every principal town, and their loads of
hay, or baskets of eggs, &c., submitted to the scrutiny of excisemen?
Several loads of hay preceded me this morning as I rode through the
Faubourg St Denis. At the _barrière_ the column was halted, and as
the passage was blocked up, I was obliged to wait patiently and see
every load as it passed in succession probed through and through by
the officers with long iron skewers, to ascertain that nothing was
concealed amongst the hay. The signs exhibited by the various shops
in Paris are often quaint and amusing. A description of them would
fill a volume. The one which calls forth this remark struck me as
I entered the Palais Royal this morning from the Rue Vivienne. I
don’t well know how to designate the sort of shop which exhibits
the sign of the “Gourmand;” they are numerous in this part of the
town, and I think more nearly resemble our Italian warehouse than
any other. Here is to be procured every dainty that can stimulate
the palate--pickles, preserves, hams, tongues, hung-beef, cheese,
dried fruits, nuts of all sorts, sauces, dried and cured fish,--in
short, everything. The _enseigne_ of this shop represents a fat
greedy-looking fellow seated at a table, under which his legs are
spread out. The table is covered with every kind of dainty, which,
whilst discussing a large salmon, he is eagerly devouring with
the eyes. If the Boulevard is amusing for the life and movement
it exhibits, so is the Palais Royal in a high degree, and to the
charms of the former it adds that of an endless variety of rich and
beautiful articles of dress, _vertu_, and a number of others, which
employ me incessantly at the windows. The display of elegant little
toys in Bobon’s window is scarcely to be surpassed--such little
beauties of watches,[25] not larger than half-a-crown, cases most
tastefully chased and set in rich pearls; in other shops rich and
elegant shawls, _fichus_, and silks, of the most splendid colours;
then jewellery, so much taste combined with costliness; then cutlery
and works in steel, &c. &c.; and not the least amusing, the numerous
cafés or restaurants. The crowd under the arcades is as varied as
it is immense. If, on entering from Rue Vivienne, one turns to the
right, not many paces in that direction will bring him in front of
the favourite haunt of Austrian and Prussian officers. It resembles
a great conservatory, being all glass, and is in the garden, not
in the house, whence every refreshment has to be brought across
the piazza. About 2 or 3 every afternoon this is crowded, and it
then reminds me of a glass bee-hive, from the busy stir within, and
the facility of observing this from without. The celebrated Café
aux Milles Colonnes is not far off, up-stairs about half-way down
the next branch. I lounged up to it and was disappointed. A decent
_salle_ enough, which, being everywhere panelled with mirrors, the
green marble columns are reflected so repeatedly as to give some
colour to the appellation assumed by the establishment. There are
several rooms; but whether the place is only frequented at night
on certain days, or that something _fâcheux_ had occurred, I know
not--certain it was not in a state to receive company, wherefore
I made no further advance than to the door, and having peeped in,
wheeled down-stairs again. Amongst other curiosities of Paris I have
often stood and contemplated the air of importance and grave bustle
of an establishment unknown to us in London, where the operation in
question is performed in a very modest manner in the public streets.
This morning I walked into the shop of a fashionable _décrotteur_,
that I might see more perfectly all the detail of this most useful
business. The _salon_, a large room, was lighted by numerous windows
near the ceiling (these, like other artists, affecting a preference
for light coming from above: thus I have seen many receiving it
through skylights). The handsomest establishment of this kind is
in the Passage des Panoramas. A certain degree of taste, too, was
visible in the decorations and arrangement of several large mirrors
(mirrors are indispensable to a Frenchman). A sort of divan, a few
feet broad, extended nearly round the apartment, on which were many
gentlemen seated on chairs, gravely reading the daily papers; whilst
one foot, raised on a sort of iron resembling the scraper at a door,
was being operated on by a journeyman _décrotteur_, who rubbed and
polished away with most admirable despatch and dexterity. In the
middle of the room stood the master-spirit, superintending the
active operations of his myrmidons, receiving the acknowledgment for
services performed, ushering the one out of the shop and the other
up to the divans, conversing with the newly-arrived aspirants, and
doing the amiable everywhere. A good-looking, well-dressed man this
master-shoeblack, who might easily be mistaken for a minister.
Disappointment awaits the man who, having read or heard the French
account of any place in France or the French dominions, expects to
find it realised, or even nearly so. With them all is exaggeration
and bombast; even the accounts of their most respectable and
veracious writers, in all matters relating to France or the French,
must be received _cum grano salis_. Disappointment certainly was
mine after reading and hearing so much of the several gardens (as
Frascatin, Tivoli, the Jardins Turc and du Prince) when I turned
into the latter of these two celebrated places in the Boulevard
du Temple. Certes, I took it _en déshabillé_, for the evening and
by lamp-light is its hour of triumph, and then I am here always.
The guide-book speaks of “un jardin agréable.” What did I find?
Certainly no garden--a yard (gravelled) divided by hedges (such
ones as may be expected in a town) into several compartments, in
which are a few boxes; one side bounded by the _salle_, with its
usual accompaniments--the others, by gables or back walls of the
neighbouring houses; figure irregular, and space very confined.
Having nothing fixed for Friday, I made a wandering day of it.
Up one gloomy street, down another; at last found myself in the
Place des Innocens, in which is held the principal vegetable-market
of Paris. The Place is large but gloomy; houses very high, of a
dark-coloured stone, and in the usual French style, windows open,
and exhibiting all the variety of clothes hanging to dry, flowers,
rich curtains and common ones, &c. &c., incident to buildings
inhabited by so many different families. The area presented a
varied, characteristic, and moreover an interesting picture. The
whole space was covered with large umbrellas, fixed upright over
the different tables, &c., the convex surfaces of which, of all the
hues of the rainbow (pink predominating), reminded me strongly of
the _testudo_ of the ancients. Amidst these arose, to the height
of some forty or fifty feet, the noble Fontaine des Innocens, with
its fine _nappes d’eau_. Not only the Marché itself, but the Rue de
la Ferronnerie, and several adjacent ones, seem quite the focus of
business, such stir and bustle do they present. The profusion of
fruits and vegetables in this market is remarkable, more particularly
when it is remembered that not only Paris itself, but also the whole
neighbouring country, is occupied by countless hosts of foreigners.
The old ladies, seated under their immense umbrellas (formed
generally of alternate pink and white breadths), or stumping about
in their _sabots_, give a very animated air to this scene, which,
however, is rendered less pleasing from the overpowering smell of
decayed and decaying vegetable matter profusely strewed over the
pavement. It is an amusing place this Marché, and although only now
mentioned, I have visited it more than once. Besides this, there are
numerous other markets in different parts of the town, the neatest
of which, and one that I always have pleasure in passing through,
because always clean, is the Marché des Jacobins, off the Rue St
Honoré, and not far from the Place Vendome. Speaking of these markets
reminds me of the Abattoir de Montmartre, which I frequently pass
in my way in or out of town, one of several buildings in different
quarters destined for the slaughter of cattle--a most excellent
arrangement, since the blood and filth which usually pollute the
kennels in the neighbourhood of our slaughter-houses, the disgusting
stench arising from them, and the consequent deterioration and
unhealthiness of the surrounding atmosphere, are completely obviated.
Yesterday (Saturday) I devoted to another visit to the Louvre and
its interesting collections. What crowds of English and other
foreigners! The gallery of pictures exhibits just now a new
feature--French and other artists, with their easels, &c., busily
employed copying many of the pictures of which they are soon to be
deprived. Among them, working with the utmost composure, were two
or three women. But women mix themselves up in every transaction in
this country--even in war, as has been illustrated in the formation
of our Amazonian battalion at Stain. Somehow or another the statues
have more attraction for me than the pictures. The _salles_ are
less crowded than the gallery, consequently one is quieter and more
at liberty to contemplate these admirable sculptures at leisure.
The naming of these, however, appears to me very gratuitous, and I
much doubt whether one half of those in the catalogues are properly
designated. Faun is a very vague term. What absorbing reflections
arise in the mind whilst wandering amongst this collection of cold
marble stones! Even when, as has happened occasionally, I have
been the only individual in the vast apartment, it has been hard
to fancy myself alone, so surrounded by beauteous forms, amongst
which such perfect harmony of expression reigns--not an attitude
or gesture amongst them but what is ease and elegance; nothing
constrained, nothing proud, forced, or unnatural; in all, passion,
emotion, repose and tranquillity, love, anger, joy, sorrow--all, all
expressed by these marble stones in language not to be misunderstood.
How powerful is the imagination! These forms address themselves
peculiarly to it. Some excite a train of thought associated
intimately, I might say inseparably, with historical recollections;
others, again, are associated with sensations of voluptuousness,
which, however repressed, cannot be excluded entirely--beautiful
rounded forms associated with our sense of feeling, and conveying to
the too ready imagination ideas of softness and elasticity. How much
more we should appreciate these splendid specimens of human skill and
conception, could we contemplate them separately and alone, instead
of thus jumbled together and in public. In the Salle d’Apollon,
however, I think this inimitable statue rather favoured by his
company, amongst which are several Egyptian statues, the constrained
positions of which--knees pressed together, arms hanging straight
down by the side, stiff draperies, and angular ornaments--contrast
strikingly with the elegant contour and graceful attitude of this
masterpiece by an unknown hand. In this same _salle_ are two chairs
in beautiful _rouge_ antique, both of them found in the Roman baths,
and said to have been used in the middle ages at the inauguration of
the Popes. Pius VI. restored them to the Museum of the Vatican as
antiques, and thence they came here.
I cannot admire the coloured walls of these _salles_: there is
something in them that does not accord with the severity of statuary,
and it struck me that one uniform tint, perhaps maroon, would
considerably enhance the _éclat_ of these fine statues. Nor do I
admire these imitations of nature being perched upon pedestals: were
the Venus, for instance, placed on the floor, or on a low platform
as the Apollo is, I think it would add considerably to her interest.
Every visit to this splendid collection adds to my wonder and
admiration, and I returned yesterday evening with my mind full of
enthusiasm for the science which could so nobly conceive, and the art
which could so skilfully execute, these exquisite productions of the
chisel.