Chapter III: Introduction: By Richard Davey (3)

My inquiries, conversations and labours, are directed to that end. On the final result of this examination of the state of the French Republic depends my future resolutions and my future destiny.

After twelve years of active engagement on the disturbed theatre of public life; after having seen the rise and fall of contending factions at home and abroad; after having beheld the theories I had studied completely belie themselves in practice, I may, I think, be entitled to give an opinion on political occurrences and public establishments.

On such considerations I proceed to describe the governments, laws, institutions, manners, relative form, internal resources and ultimate view of a people, whom I have seen at one time frivolous, abject and superstitious; at another period starting like Lazarus from a dead repose, roused to a vindication of national liberty; afterwards the base tools of sanguinary demagogues, furious, vindictive and cowardly, renouncing their obligations to God and man, and astounding the civilised world by their folly and their crime--next sighing after that regulated freedom and social order for which they had shed the blood of millions, but never been worthy or able enough to establish; lastly, conscious of their unfitness to be free, relapsing again into the bosom of that ancient despotism, which they had disdainfully trodden under foot, with all the superadded terrors of military government, and a suspicious administration; laughing at the very names of public virtue and public liberty, and themselves the terror and the mockery of Europe. These are great events, worthy of solemn investigation; they have no parallel in the history of mankind. The principal agents in these scenes merit alternate pity and indignation, but the scenes themselves illustrate and present to our minds during the short space of ten years the history of men for ages.

XI

DESCRIPTION OF LONGCHAMPS. BOIS DE BOULOGNE
AND THE BOULEVARDS

Strangers in Paris are always recommended to visit the theatres and places of public amusements. Arts, manufactures, courts of justice, useful institutions and distinguished characters in the literary and political worlds rarely trouble. We arrived in good time to see the Easter Promenade de Longchamps in the Bois de Boulogne. This ceremony is for the time uppermost in the heads of the Parisians, it was the only subject of conversation; and every one quitted his house and shop to take a share in the spectacle. The uninitiated might therefore conclude that this favourite diversion of the public was a grand and splendid scene, rivalling the marriage of the Adriatic or the Carnival at Rome.

[Sidenote: BOIS DE BOULOGNE]

It is on the contrary an insipid and contemptible show, consisting merely in the procession of a long string of coaches, cabriolets, carts and horsemen; with a few boobies mounted on asses, making wry faces, and a number of Merry Andrews playing fantastic antics for the diversion of the populace. There was much noise but no real mirth.

The Bois de Boulogne has been extolled, but it presents no object or _coup d’œil_ either agreeable or attractive. The roads are miserable tracks of sand, and the _Wood_ (?) contains no lofty trees, it consists of an extensive copse, composed of shrubs, none of which exceed eight feet in height. There is a sheet of water laden with boats, which plain calculating English Islanders would call a duckpond.

On our return from this excursion we drove round the Boulevards of Paris. They are by far the most pleasant, neat and lively parts of the capital. Indeed, the expressions I have employed do not convey an adequate idea of their beauty and elegance. They extend around the city 12,100 yards in length, and are at least eighty feet wide, bordered by four rows of trees, which form three alleys, the middle for the use of carriages and horsemen and the two collateral ones for passengers on foot.

On the Northern Boulevards the fashionable and idle resort to while away their time in theatres and puppet shows--at Tivoli, Frascati, public baths and eating-houses; but especially at an exhibition of waxwork, so horrible and disgusting that its mere description would make the hair of the most abandoned English libertine stand on end.

I feel no hesitation in saying that I would rather a child of mine should inhabit hell itself than be a spectator of what I have seen there.

The Southern Boulevard is more agreeable and serene; it has more moral views, and though no meretricious forms render it the haunt of fashionable votaries, there is an air of tranquillity about it, which denotes the absence of guilt and the resort of innocence. This is the part frequented by the industrious tradesman and his family. There are two public gardens on the Northern Boulevard, which from the decorum observed there are justly deserving of encomium, especially when contrasted with other public places in Paris. I mean Tivoli and Frascati.

Tivoli is celebrated for its mineral waters and baths as well as its garden. The French compare its walks to those of our Vauxhall, but the comparison is ridiculous, as well compare the sun to a farthing rushlight. In the first place there are no variegated lamps. The gardens are not lighted at all except the platform appropriated to dancing.

The _sheet of water_ is about sixty yards long and three yards broad. Upon this the gay Parisians perform their nautical exploits or _promenade sur l’eau_. The illuminations and fireworks are on such an inferior scale that the price of admission, three livres (or half a crown), is absolutely exorbitant. Frascati, at the corner of the rue de la Loi, on the boulevard, is the most elegant lounge in Paris. The garden is small but well lighted--along each walk are busts of the French and English poets, and at the extremity of the principal one is a pretty little hermitage, arranged with great taste. Nothing is paid for admission, the proprietors are amply compensated by the prices the fashionable company of Paris pay for the exquisite ices in the form of peaches and other refreshments supplied at no very immoderate price. There is no place of public amusement here which unites so much elegance with decency, and I was never satisfied with the fascinations of Frascati _below stairs_. Above the apartments are reserved for gamblers.

[Sidenote: THE BOULEVARDS]

Chantilly, in the Champs Elysées, is a lower kind of Tivoli, a franc is the price of admission, which includes refreshments. The inferior orders in France conduct themselves with more propriety and are less riotous than the Londoners who assemble at Bagnigge Wells and the so-called tea gardens of our Metropolis.

On the other side of the water, near the residence of the British Minister, in the Faubourg S. Germain, is a fashionable walk in the Garden of Biron. But that which gave me most pleasure was the solitary and unfrequented garden of the Luxembourg. To this solitude I fled when I wished to avoid the noise of Paris. It was also a place of conversation with my friends. Here I learnt the _true_ history of the French Revolution from personages who had distinguished themselves in that wonderful event, here I was instructed in the characters of those who now govern France; this was the rendezvous of concealed Royalists and avowed Republicans. I shall never forget the walks in the Gardens of the Luxembourg. We were too remote from the office of Fouché for our whispers to reach it, and we were too well guarded to become objects of suspicion.

The Government are now repairing the Palace, and the new Senate is to hold its sittings there. The garden will then be cleared and beautified.

There are three or four other public walks in Paris. The Gardens of the Arsenal, the Soubise and the Temple, but they are totally deserted. The garden of the Tuileries, attached to the residence of the First Consul, the Garden of the Palais Royal and the Jardin des Plantes I have not yet described. Each of these gardens has been the scene of extraordinary events and deserve a detailed account and description.

XII

GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES.
FOUNDATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC.
ANECDOTE OF MLLE. THÉROUANNE.
KNIGHTS OF THE POIGNARD.
NATIONAL CONVENTION.
TRIAL OF LOUIS XVI.
ATTEMPT TO SAVE HIM

The garden of the Tuileries is large and handsome. It evokes the memories of the glorious efforts of the brave Swiss Guard, murdered for their fidelity to their trust on August 10, 1792. I have been informed on very good authority that if the King could have been persuaded to remain in the Palace, surrounded by his faithful guards, the victory would have terminated in favour of the Royal cause. Several persons who were then members of the Legislative Assembly have assured me the majority of the Convention never dreamt of a deposition until they perceived their victim at their mercy. The King’s fatal resolution determined those who were yet undecided. But even then it was supposed Royalty would be continued in different hands. The Orleans faction were, however, afraid to exert their power. Those engaged in the conspiracy of the Duke neglected to seize the moment and thus secure their object. They were duped by men who had no share in their treachery, a convincing proof that in political matters too much refinement and fine-spun preliminaries will never avail against unity of principle.

Above a month elapsed before the Orleans faction and the Republican party felt their mutual strength. The former were employed in sounding the minds of others and in treaty; the latter, while they held out encouraging hopes to the former, were concentrating their forces and preparing to strike a decisive blow. Thus they compelled the Orleans party to become their blind instruments.

[Sidenote: FOUNDATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC]

At length the National Convention assembled on September 21; the Orleans party awaited with eager expectation that some distinguished member of the other side, with whom they had been tampering, should move the deposition of King Louis. They then intended to propose a Regent should be nominated in the person of Philippe of Orleans.[1] The Republicans, however, expected a motion for the total abolition of Royalty.

A solemn pause ensued. How the heart of Orleans must have palpitated! On a sudden the thunder burst from an unexpected quarter; it was reserved for an ecclesiastic to pronounce the doom of a throne which had existed for centuries. Gregoire,[1] Bishop of Blois, exclaimed:

Why debate when all are agreed? Kings are in the moral economy
of the world what monsters are in the natural; Courts are the
repositories of crimes and the dens of tyrants. The history of
Kings is the martyrology of nations. As we are all convinced of
these truths, why, I repeat, should we debate?

This speech operated like an electric shock upon the Convention, the members rose _en masse_, and called for _the question_. This proposition was then decreed: ROYALTY IS ABOLISHED IN FRANCE. Thus vanished the prospects of Orleans and his abettors, and so was a Republic established in France.

The fears and listlessness of Louis XVI. were the proximate causes which led to his ruin and overthrow. As a corroborating proof of this statement I give the evidence of a young and beautiful but fanatical girl, Mademoiselle Thérouanne de Mirecourt,[1] who has repeatedly declared to me _que c’était la poltronnerie seule du tyran qui sauva la France_.

[A] See Appendix.

Before I quit this subject I cannot avoid noticing the character of this young woman. During the attack upon the Tuileries she headed a body of pikemen and showed absolute fearlessness and marvellous courage. I have often been in her company, and remarked that she possessed by nature a fund of humanity and a tolerable share of information; but that vanity, desire of popularity and fanaticism made her wild, savage and ferocious. One day she invited me to breakfast with her, and on my entering her apartment I beheld a pike, a sword, a brace of pistols, and suspended over the chimney-piece the _bonnet rouge_; scattered about the floor lay above a hundred books and pamphlets, on her bed newspapers, on her table Marat’s _Ami du Peuple_. On my inquiry why a lady of her charms kept such dreadful instruments in her room, she replied: “No compliments, Citizen. Society is undergoing a change, a grand re-organisation, and women are about to resume their rights. We shall no more be flattered in order to be enslaved, these arms have dethroned the tyrant, and conquered freedom. Sit down and take your chocolate.”

With all this severity of character she possessed some attractions and captured the heart of John Sheares,[1] who was executed for treason during the late rebellion. His affection for her was so great that he proposed marriage to her. Had he been gratified in his inclination there is good reason to suppose _he_ might have been now alive, and _she_ in a happy situation. For he often assured me that should his suit prove successful he would abandon politics altogether and retire into private life. He was one of the finest young men I ever beheld, and a handsomer pair would have rarely been seen. But fortune decided their fate should be disastrous. When he tendered his proposals she pulled a pistol from her pocket and threatened to shoot him if he said another word upon the subject. _He_ returned to Ireland, to fall a victim five years later to offended justice. _She_ is now in a miserable state of insanity, confined in a madhouse in the Rue de Sèvre, Faubourg S. Germain.

[Sidenote: KNIGHTS OF THE POIGNARD]

The Garden of the Tuileries brings to my recollection the famous story of the Knights of the Poignard, when on February 23, 1791, a number of the Knights of S. Louis were _supposed_ to have entered into a conspiracy to carry off the King. I was present on the occasion, and a spectator of the scene. An immense concourse of people collected about the Palace, and there was much noisy talk about concealed daggers, but I saw none, nor any blade save that of La Fayette’s[1] sword, who, mounted on his white charger, galloped to and fro as if the fate of the world depended on his actions.

One moment he formed the National Guard into line. At the next he ordered them to file off, then he dismounted and bolted into the Palace--in a trice he was again on horseback--in short he created more alarm among the people than if an Austrian army had reached the barriers. At length, after a great deal of marching, counter-marching, bustling and puffing, the Marquis assured the mob that all was safe. Here followed great applause, and the populace quietly dispersed. Some Knights of S. Louis were present and were very roughly handled by the people, but no other motive had carried them to the Tuileries except an anxious desire to defend the King against attacks by the mob. There is one fact established by this event, that even at that period Louis XVI. was respected by the people, and they considered their security to be identified by his person. I have not the least doubt that a decided majority of the people of France would at this day rejoice in the restoration of their ancient line of Princes.

The Hall used by the National Convention stands on one side of the Tuileries garden. It was formerly the King’s stables. It is the intention of the First Consul to restore it to its original purpose.

Curiosity induced me to enter a place which had been the focus of so many revolutions, where the Republic was declared, the unhappy King tried, and more bloody tragedies performed in one twelvemonth than in all Europe in the space of two hundred years.

I found it completely dismantled, the galleries, the Tribune, the flag of Liberty that was planted over the Bastille and suspended in triumph over the centre of the hall, all have been destroyed, even the floor removed, and we trod upon the bare earth. The place was, however, so familiar to me that I was able to give my companion a very accurate description of it, and to point out the spot on which the unfortunate King was placed during his trial.

Now that I am upon this subject I will mention some circumstances respecting this event which have not, I believe, been ever made known to the public. I was present at the trial and sat very near to the King. Before he was brought to the bar, it was decreed, on the motion of one Legendre,[1] a butcher, that “No person, except the President, should be permitted to speak a word while Louis Capet was present.” Legendre premised his motion by this remark: “Citizen President, I demand that this Assembly preserves the mournful silence of the tomb, so that when the bloody tyrant enters it may strike his guilty soul with horror.” This speech was received with unbounded applause, and the bloodstained hypocrite Barrère,[1] who was President, apostrophised the people on the propriety of observing silence. There were very few people of respectable or even decent appearance in the galleries; they were filled with the vilest rabble. During the night preceding this mock trial the people in the galleries kept themselves awake by singing the Marseillaise hymn, which was vociferated more than a hundred times. The officers of the National Guard provided wine and cakes for those who were willing to purchase them. In the morning the deputies assembled and proceeded upon the order of the day, Santerre,[1] the brewer, being despatched to the Temple to conduct the King to the Convention.

[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL CONVENTION]

It was arranged the President should first read the whole of the charges and then propose them severally to the King, demanding answers. He was authorised to interrogate the monarch, and any refusal to answer was to be construed into a confession of guilt. Santerre now presented himself at the bar, and thus addressed the President:

“Citizen President, Louis Capet awaits your orders.”

Before Barrère[1] had time to reply, Mailhé, one of the Secretaries, exclaimed: “Bring him in!” The King attended by several of the officers of the Paris Etat[AAÉtat?]-Majeur, and followed by Santerre, then advanced to the bar, standing erect and firm, and casting (as it seemed to me) a look of defiance upon the silent Assembly. A little before the King entered a member of the Convention said to an Englishman who was present: “This will give you a correct idea of your country in the last century.” To which he replied with uncommon spirit: “No, indeed, we shall see too many tricks here.”

I watched the King with the minutest attention, and I observed that in looking round the assembly, he cast his eye upon the standards taken from the Austrians and Prussians, and gave a sudden start, from which, however, he recovered himself in an instant.

A wooden chair was brought, upon which Barrère invited him to be seated. He then read the whole of the charges, during which the King fixed his eyes attentively upon him. To every charge he answered directly, without premeditation, and with such skilful propriety that the audience were astonished.

When he was accused of shedding the blood of Frenchmen he raised his voice with all the conscientiousness of innocence, and replied: “No, sir, I have never shed the blood of any Frenchman.” His spirit was evidently wounded at this charge, and I perceived a tear trickle down his cheek; but, as if unwilling to give his enemies an opportunity of weakness in his conduct, he instantaneously wiped his face and forehead to denote he was oppressed by heat.

After all his answers had been obtained several papers were handed to him, with some degree of politeness, by one of the Huissiers. This civility was a contrast to the brutal behaviour of Mailhé,[1] the Secretary, who was afterwards desired to present some papers to the King. These papers were said to have been signed by the monarch, and to have been found in a box concealed in a secret part of his cabinet. Their contents were not of great importance, but the object of the Convention was to identify the King’s handwriting. A chair was placed for Mailhé close to the King, but within the bar. Immediately he was seated the unfeeling monster turned it completely round, so as to face the President and show his back to the King. The insulted monarch felt the affront, and showed by the manner in which he resented it a proud superiority over his dastardly enemy. He rose from his seat and remained on his legs during the whole of the examination. Mailhé retained his position, and, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, read aloud each paper and then handed it over his right shoulder to the sovereign, accompanied each time by the query: “Louis, is that your handwriting?” The unfortunate monarch snatched it abruptly from his hand and answered indignantly: “No, it is _not_ my writing.”

A multitude of papers were presented on the one part and denied on the other, in the same style.

Finally Mailhé rose from his seat, exclaiming dramatically, “Louis denies everything! Louis recollects nothing at all!”

A voice from the boxes, behind the Deputies, shouted: “Take off his head!” but it was not noticed.

Thus far victory was on the side of the King. Never were charges more completely refuted by a forsaken individual, deprived of the support of friends or counsel.

The President was at a loss how to proceed. Barbaroux[1] and several Deputies rushed up to his chair and whispered in his ear. This confused him the more. At length Manuel,[1] nicknamed the Solon or Solomon or Socrates of France (I forget which), advanced into the area of the hall, and in a bungling manner said: “President, the representatives of the people have decreed that none of us shall speak while the King--Louis, I mean--is amongst us. Now I propose that Louis be made to withdraw for a little while, so that every member may deliver his opinion.”

[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL CONVENTION]

No words can give an idea of the silly appearance of Manuel when he found the word _King_ had escaped from his lips. At the sound of that name I perceived Legendre,[1] his body writhing and distorted, preparing to bellow. As he was sitting down he gave Bourdon l’Oise[1] a tremendous box on the ear for calling him to order, which the other returned by a sound blow in the face.

Several Deputies parted them. In the midst of this confusion, when all the members were talking together, Barrère rang his bell and told the King he might withdraw. The King then said to the President: “I request to have the assistance of counsel,” and then withdrew before an answer could be given.

That artful and infernal villain, Barrère, during this trial affected great sympathy towards his injured sovereign, articulated all the charges in a faltering accent, and remained uncovered during the whole time the King was present. Most of the members wore their hats. The Duke of Orleans, who seated himself in full view of his fallen relative, was, however, uncovered.

The King was plainly dressed in an olive silk coat, and looked remarkably well. Barrère wore a dark coat and scarlet waistcoat, lead-coloured kerseymere breeches and white silk stockings. Robespierre wore black. Orleans was habited in blue. The majority of the members looked like blackguards. Legendre wore no neckcloth, but an open collar _à la_ Brutus.

Manuel was much agitated by the misapplication of the word King. Not so the monarch, who dropped a similar expression. As he was giving an account of the invitation to the entertainment at Versailles, which the Queen had received from the Gardes de Corps, he caught up his words and said: “La ci-devant Reine, ma femme.” The rest of this affecting spectacle is sufficiently known. I have mentioned the incidents above because I have never seen them in any printed accounts of that melancholy day.

It has been generally asserted that no effort was made to rescue the captive monarch. This assertion is false. I am personally acquainted with a man who had 15,000 livres deposited in his hands for the purpose of rescuing the King. This sum was so prudently distributed and the plan so judiciously made, that if Santerre had not ordered drums to beat, to drown the forcible appeal the Royal sufferer was making to the people, I surely believe it would have been carried into effect. There were persons on the fatal spot prepared to seize the moment of opportunity, had the fickle character of the Parisian populace, who would send up shouts to Heaven to-morrow at the execution of the First Consul, whom they adore to-day, made it likely that they would have joined or divided in the enterprise.

There is not a spot in this Hall of Convention which does not revive a thousand sublime and painful recollections.

I remember seeing Mirabeau,[1] Barnave[1] and the Lornettes,[1] and on the same side of the Hall those conspicuous members who thundered against the Clergy, the Feudal Laws, and the despotism of the Throne. I have heard the virtuous Mounier[1] pour forth the language of generous indignation against the motion of Barnave on the emigration of the aunts of the King. Methinks I hear again the nervous eloquence of Cazalis[1] on behalf of his King and the established laws of the country. Here I have heard Mirabeau on the Veto; the celebrated speech of Cardinal Moury[1] on Avignon and the Comtal Venaissin,[1] the gloomy metaphysics of Condorcet[1] and the eloquent if mistaken enthusiasm of Grégoire.

[Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE]

I have also beheld, O wretched change!--this Hall polluted by monsters breathing nothing but death and devastation. I have heard in that Tribune the sanguinary suggestions of Danton and Robespierre, the howlings of Marat--the ravings of Brissot, Anarcharsis Cloots[1] and Gondet,[1]1 and the _calembours_ of the Gascon Barrère.

There, too, I have seen Tom Paine[1] stand up like a post, while another read a translation of his speech. What noise, what uproar and cabals have originated within these walls! They seem besmeared with human blood. The images they excite arise in dreadful succession, and stalk before my imagination like the shades of Banquo’s line.

Never shall I forget the day when in the midst of a solemn speech Gensonne[1]1 was delivering, the impudent little Marat,[1]1 who could scarcely reach his throat, gave him a box on the ear. The other took him in his arms and threw him neck and heels out of the Tribune.

XIII

GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE. MANNERS OF THE PEOPLE

The greatest beauty in the world becomes by pollution an odious and repulsive creature. Health and charm flourish only in the practice of virtue and in the abodes of innocence. The prostitute is shunned by every woman of honour and reputation, and dens of vice are avoided by every man to whom virtue is not an empty word.

I am now about to treat of the Palais Royale, that hot-bed of revolution and crime, that nursery of every loathsome vice, that abomination of all virtue and profanation of all religion.

This infernal sink of iniquity is situated in the very centre of Paris, and by certain vicious inhabitants of the capital is considered its brightest ornament, just as the Devils in Milton’s “Paradise Lost” admired the Palace of the Pandemonium. In my last letter I mentioned that Duke of Orleans, who styled himself Philippe Egalité, during the Revolution. This wretch was the proprietor of the Palais Royale. His great grandfather, who was nearly though not quite as great a scoundrel as his great grandson, was the first who made this place the focus for his illicit pleasures; it has ever since been dedicated to Cabal, Bloodshed, Rapine and Debauchery.

During the first moments of the Revolution it was the rendezvous of the desperate, the ambitious and the cut-throat. Political mountebanks, mounted on tables, harangued the people on the Rights of Man. The Palais Royale became the arsenal wherein were forged the instruments of anarchy and murder. Here could an unsophisticated provincial, newly arrived in Paris, listen to provocatives to civil discord and learn those arts by which the repose of France has been disturbed for above ten years. The orators had the words Liberty and Virtue continually in their mouths, but their hearts were rank and rotten to the core, and the real objects they courted were licentiousness and vice.

Their ignorance was only equalled by their effrontery; they talked of subjects they did not understand; they encouraged their countrymen to revolt, they passed their days in exciting the populace to murder, and rioted away their nights in taverns and styes of prostitution. They promoted confusion and civil strife; covetous without economy, and bold without courage, they were deaf to the voice of honour and honesty. The frequenters of this place are in the present day[1] no better than their predecessors. The former march of the Parisian cannibals to Versailles was arranged at and begun from this spot, it was also the rendezvous of the apostles of Marat and the sbirri of Robespierre.

I remember the last interview had in this garden with the mad Colonel Oswald, who asserted that a representation of the people was as great a despotism as absolute monarchy. He asserted as a man could not _eat_ by proxy, so he could not _think_ by proxy. He proposed, therefore, that men and women should assemble in an open plain and there make and repeal laws. I endeavoured to persuade him that his plan was not sufficiently extensive, as he had excluded from this grand assembly the most populous portion of his fellow creatures, _i.e._, cats, dogs, horses, chickens, sheep, cattle, &c.

Oswald was originally a captain of a Highland regiment in the British service, and when quartered in India lived some considerable time with some Brahmins, who turned his head. From that period he never tasted flesh meat. He did not, however, embrace the whole Brahmin theology, for he was a professed atheist and denied the metempsychosis, and drank plentifully of wine. Such a man, living in a fermented capital, was capable of doing much mischief. He dined on his roots one day at a party of some members of the Convention at which I was present, and coolly proposed, as the most effectual way of averting civil war, to put to death every suspected man in France. I was deeply shocked to hear such a sentiment proceed from the mouth of an Englishman. The expression was not suffered to pass unnoticed, and the famous Thomas Paine remarked: “Oswald, you have lived so long without tasting flesh that you have now a most voracious appetite for blood.”

[Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE]

In consequence of my remarks upon this occasion, Oswald invited me to meet him in the gardens of the Palais Royale. As soon as I arrived I found him already there. He darted forward, drew his sword and exclaimed: “You are not fit to live in civilised society!” Having uttered these words he returned his sword into the scabbard and disappeared in a moment. His regiment was ordered to La Vendée, when, while bravely leading on his men at the battle of Pont-de-Cé, he was killed by a cannon ball; and at the same instant a discharge of grape shot laid both his sons, who served as drummer boys in the corps he commanded, breathless on their father’s corpse. He had two wives, who still reside in Paris. They were both singularly handsome, and, strange to say, lived together in friendship and harmony.

The history of this warrior brings to my recollection a curious rencontre I had in this place with Anarcharsis Clootz, who called himself “Orator of the human race.” For four hours did this man expose his political dreams. In six months the tri-colour flag was to wave over the dome of S. Sophia at Constantinople. A month later it would be seen on Mount Caucasus, and then at St. Petersburg and Pekin.

Paris would be the capital of the world, mankind composed of one family, subordinate to one government, and French be the sole international language.

All this would be accomplished in the short space of three years. Before these wonders could come about Anarcharsis was publicly executed, together with many other fanatics. I have actually heard this man propose at the Jacobin Club that the moment the French army came in sight of the Austrian and Prussian soldiers, they should, instead of attacking the enemy, throw down their own arms and advance towards them, dancing in a friendly manner. Such a measure, he was persuaded, would strike the wretched victims of tyranny with a sentiment of affection, which would be announced by an equally sympathetic movement.

After such a proposition I suspected that the accusation by which he perished, namely that he was a pensioner of the King of Prussia, had some foundation.

Unquestionably Clootz, by his speeches and conduct, cast more ridicule than any man else upon the Revolution. His abominable deification and worship in the Cathedral Church of Notre Dame of an abandoned woman, whom he created Goddess of Reason, and the manœuvres he employed to induce Gobel, Archbishop of Paris, to renounce his character and belief at the bar of the Convention, are proofs either of madness or conspiracy.

[Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE]

The Palais Royale is an immense building, in the form of a parallelogram, within which is a garden distributed into separate gravelled walks. In the piazzas which run along the sides of the edifice are shops, coffee-houses, bagnios, money-changers, gambling-houses, and stockbrokers. The jewellers’ shops are as numerous and brilliant as if neither misery nor miserable human beings existed. You see nothing but chains, half pearl, half diamond. The woollen drapers unfurl from the top of their shops to the floor every kind of stuff. The stuffs are under your hand, no one watching you; and the master is careless and sorry when you ask him the price.

The odour of exquisite ragouts ascends in vapours to the air, the side tables are loaded with fruit, confectionery and pastry, and you may dine to the sound of musical instruments and French horns played by girls who are _not_ nymphs of Diana. Petty gaming-houses support the shops of women who sell garters, lavender water, toothbrushes and sealing-wax. Booksellers’ shops allure the libertine and entrap innocent youth. Pictures from curious collection books, licentious engravings, libidinous novels serve as signs to a crowd of loose women, lodging in the wooden shops. Their nets are ten feet distant from the sauntering youth, idle and already emaciated in the flower of his age. Above the wooden shops are gambling-rooms, where all the passions and torments of hell are assembled.

As soon as the day closes all the arcades are suddenly illuminated, the shops become resplendent and the crowd more numerous. This is the moment when the gaming-houses open under the sanction of the Government and afford it a productive revenue. While the great sharpers are employed in the drawing-rooms above, the lesser ones are at work in the through passages, which communicate with the adjacent street and serve as gliding holes to swarms of pickpockets and money jobbers. Your steps under the arcades are arrested by smoke, which pricks your eyes, it is the kitchen flame of the restaurateurs. Close to them are the balls beginning in subterraneous grottoes. Across the air-holes you see circles of girls, leaping, giggling, rushing on their gallants like Bacchantes. In the auction rooms the brokers, dealers, retailers are all seated. Women’s wigs, chimney pendulums, shawls, handkerchiefs, shirts, beds _â la Duchesse_ were sold to the highest bidder. Spies of the police prowl in every coffee house, but no one dares now talk politics in them. Under the arcades are holes of shops, where young girls attract the passengers by their glances. These places are the assiduous rendezvous of every man fattened by rapine, army contractors, agents, administrators of tontines and lotteries, professors of nocturnal robberies, and stock-jobbers.

These places are to the seraglio what the cookshops are to the restaurateurs. At these latter places you are served by a nod. The dish is placed on the table the moment it is ordered. Private rooms offer you everything to satiate gluttony and sensuality. The glasses which decorate them offer to the libidinous eye of an old satyr the charms of his mistress, and all the seats are elastic. There is a private saloon in which you drink the coolest liquors, and where burnt incense escapes from boxes in light cloudy streams. There you dine _à l’Orientale_! and find on certain days all the pomp and singularity of a repast of Trimalcion. On a signal given the ceiling opens, and from above descended heathen goddesses in classical attire. The amateurs choose, and the divinities, not of Olympus, but the ceiling, join the mortals.

[Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE]

Such is the infected lazar house, placed in the middle of a great city, which has reduced the whole of society to degradation and corruption. Independently of the fatal contagion of gaming, the excuses of cupidity under all its forms, and the licentiousness of morals, blasphemy and infidelity in every mouth, and at every moment, brutal and depraved language has pervaded every condition and made a sport of sacred words heretofore never pronounced without respect. Everywhere you meet troops of children, without order or modesty, who swear, blaspheme, and scandalise chaste and pious ears. At Sodom and Gomorra they would not have allowed such books to circulate as are printed and sold in the Palais Royale. The infamous work of De Sade,[1] “Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtue,” is exposed on every stall, and a hundred other productions, equally distinguished for turpitude and vice, are there to finish the decomposition of what instinctive morality remains in the hearts of young people.

I cannot help expressing the utmost indignation against the compiler of a publication just issued, entitled, “A Practical Guide, during a journey from London to Paris,” in which the writer asserts “that no station, no age, no temper could leave the Palais Royale without an ardent desire to return.” It is proper the English public should not be thus abused by perversions and falsehoods, and on this account I have entered more fully into a detail of the wanton and disgusting scenes at the Palais Royale than their monstrous enormities would otherwise deserve.

Accompanied by an English gentleman, like myself a married man, we visited every part of this Temple of Sin, and we agreed in opinion that as long as it existed it will be vain to look in Paris for any sincere demonstrations of either moral probity, decency in private or honesty in public life. The Government appears sensible of the evil, though they have taken no steps to prevent it. It is believed, and from what I have seen I do not entertain the least doubt upon the subject, that they _protect_ these scenes of voluptuousness for the purpose of enervating the minds and diverting the attentions of the Parisians from the consideration of public affairs.

If this is not the case why should the legislators and the Government be continually preaching up the advantage of morality, and the necessity of establishing a national education system for the encouragement of virtue and the suppression of vice, when they receive at the same time a considerable revenue from the wages of harlots and the profits of gambling-houses? Why is a soldier stationed at the door of every one of these dens of impurity but to demonstrate that they are tolerated? There is another circumstance which is noticeable in the Palais Royale, this is the domineering aspect and conduct of the military, the airs and consequence assumed by the soldiers, and the manifest superiority they affect and maintain over their fellow citizens. Every one makes room for them to pass, the officers strut or saunter along arm in arm, the clinking of their sabres along the pavement announcing their approach warns the servile citizen to make way. The very prostitute, leaning on the arm of the large whiskered regimental pantaloon, feels an importance far above her sisters. She laughs and talks loud, and as she moves exacts from the spectators the ecstatic apostrophe: “_Eh! regardez-là, comme elle est belle!_”

These things are better ordered in our country, which is at once a land of liberty and of paramount laws. The soldier, with us, comprehends the obligation he owes the laws, and while he displays the utmost loyalty to his sovereign he associates under the idea of duty a regard for his fellow subjects. I cannot conclude this subject without noticing a remark made to me by one of the founders of the French Revolution, an ex-Bishop and now a member of the Senate.

The thing [said he] which gives me most pleasure in your English
institutions is the general appearance of moral conduct that
everywhere prevails, the astonishing observance of Sunday
and holy days, the respect for religion, and the orderly and
unaffected manners of your soldiers, who are neither insolent
nor consequential, but who seem to feel they are neither masters
nor slaves.

XIV

EXCURSION TO VERSAILLES

Versailles is four leagues from Paris, and the road leading to it is perhaps the finest and most elegant in the world. I was prompted by curiosity to pass two or three days in a city formerly the seat of government and pleasure, and which now presents a striking contrast with its ancient splendour. When I last saw Versailles it was the pride and boast of the French nation. What a change does it now exhibit! how silent are those streets, formerly the scenes of gaiety, bustle and delight! In consequence of the events of the Revolution and the removal of the Court, its population is reduced from 80,000 to 18,000 souls. It is now, therefore, the cheapest town in France, and to those who are fond of sequestered walks and retired scenery offers a most enchanting residence. There are excellent libraries, quiet and good society, plenty of rational amusements, and the disgusting orgies of vice and sensuality so prevalent in the capital are here unknown.

[Sidenote: EXCURSION TO VERSAILLES]

The Palace is built on an elevated site, and is a gorgeous and massy pile. The following is the account given of its origin. Louis XIII. purchased the land of John de Soissy[1] in 1627, and erected upon it a hunting lodge. Louis XIV. was delighted with the site, and decided to erect a magnificent Palace upon this spot. He collected skilful architects and artists, converted the village into a city and the hunting lodge into the finest royal residence in the world. The work commenced in 1673, and was completed in 1680. The artists employed were Mansard[1] for the architecture, André le Nostre[1] for the arrangement of the gardens, and Charles le Brun[1] for the department of painting, sculpture and design. The stables were planned by Mansard, commenced in 1679 and completed in 1685, they are remarkable for the regularity of their structure, and relieved by some good pieces of sculpture.

The entrance to the interior of the Palace by the grand marble staircase is closed. It was the original design of the Government to have converted this Palace into a museum of the French School, by retaining the paintings and ornaments it contained. But since the whole of the Republic is now squeezed to furnish wealth and splendour to the Metropolis, the greater part of those paintings have been removed to Paris. The Cabinet of Natural History has also been stripped of all its beauties for the benefit of the Parisians. We entered by the last staircase on the North Terrace, into the Saloon of Hercules, sixty-four feet long by fifty-four feet broad, superbly decorated. The ceiling is painted with a representation of Olympus and the apotheosis of Hercules. In the middle of this saloon is the marble Cupid formerly in the Temple of Love at Trianon.

The second great apartment is the Hall of Plenty, the ceiling painted by Houdon,[1] then comes the Hall of Diana, painted by Blanchard.[1] The fourth apartment is called the Hall of Mars. Audran[1] has painted this deity in his car, surrounded by all his martial attributes. Here is an ingenious mechanical clock by Moraud, which played a carillon every hour, but since the Revolution the tunes have been altered. Through the Halls of Mercury and Apollo we reach the Saloon of War. Over the chimney-piece is a fine oval bas-relief of Mars on horseback, but as the head of Mars was a copy of the features of Louis XV., the Sovereign People thought proper to knock it off. It is in contemplation to repair this mischief by placing a resemblance of a celebrated Corsican gentleman in the stead of the former master.

It would be folly to dispute the superiority of the French in the art of decoration; their public edifices, without excluding those constructed since the Revolution, exhibit the highest proof of excellence in the ornamental art, and in no part of Europe is there any apartment to compare with the Grand Gallery of Versailles, for both arrangements or magnificence. It is 220 feet in length, 30 in breadth and 32 in height, and contains seventeen large windows, opposite which are as many arcades, filled with looking-glasses that reflect the gardens and their water pieces.

Between the arcades and the windows are forty-eight pilasters of the rarest marbles, the bases and capitals being of gilded bronze.

[Sidenote: EXCURSION TO VERSAILLES]

The Gallery terminates in the Saloon of Peace, which formed part of the apartments of the Queen of France. Beyond this chamber are two apartments, which complete this magnificent suite, they are superbly ornamented with plate glasses, vases, columns and busts. In the last there are twenty-two paintings by Leseuer, brought from the Chartreuse monastery.

Formerly we might have passed through the apartments of the late King and descended by the marble staircase, but these rooms are now all occupied by military invalids. We had to return through the state saloons and descend to the gallery which leads to the Opera House, unquestionably the most magnificent in Europe. This building was commenced in 1753, and it was only finally completed in 1770, being first used for the festivities given in honour of the marriage of the late unfortunate Louis XVI., then Dauphin.

It would be tedious to detail every particular of this elegant hall, suffice it to observe that it combines taste with splendour, and that the orchestra is large enough to contain eighty musicians. The Chapel of the Palace was finished in the year 1710 and is a superb monument. This chapel has been preserved with great care from the havoc of the Revolution, and is in the same state as when it was the daily resort of the Royal family of France.

The Library is detached from the Palace, and consists of a collection of books in different languages, by no means comparable, either for choice or arrangement, to his Majesty’s collection at Buckingham House.

One compartment was peculiarly appropriated to the use of the late King and Queen, and their handwriting is often to be met with in turning over the books. There is a splendid volume in vellum, containing an account of a tournament given by Louis XIV. at the conclusion of a general peace, when the Princes of the blood and the nobility appeared in costumes of different nations and characters. Larcher’s translation of Herodotus is printed on the richest paper I ever beheld. The librarian tells me it was a favourite work of Louis XVI.

The Palace is surrounded to the west by three enclosures the last of which, called the Great Park, is thirty miles in circumference, and comprises the villages of Bac, St. Cyr, Bois d’Arcy Bailly. On the north of this Great Park are Nursery Gardens, and on the south the furthermost ponds and aqueducts which conduct into the reservoirs of the Deer Park. There were very few deer there, but an immense quantity of game, which has been entirely destroyed by the Sovereign People. The circuit of the little park comprises several farms, one of which, the Menagerie, has been presented by Bonaparte to the celebrated Abbé Siezes.[1] This property and Trianon are enclosed at the two extremities of the two arms of the canal.

The most noble entrance to the Park is by the great stairs of the greenhouse. When the waterworks played the _coup d’œil_ was exquisite. Various parts of the garden are ornamented with groves, groups, antique statues, bottes, vases, basins and fountains in marble, bronze or gilded metal. The principal groves are the Rock or Bath of Apollo, the colonnade, the domes and the three fountains.

The Bath of Apollo is the masterpiece of Girardon.[1] This divinity is represented surrounded by nymphs offering their services, the two groups of horses held by Tritons are admirably executed. The figures of Apollo and the nymphs are on an elevated situation at the entrance of the Grotto of Thetis, upon the top of a rock which has been wrought into a most romantic form. On either side the horses are seen in the act of drinking; a large quantity of water falls into a great reservoir, with wild and picturesque beauty, and the whole piece is enclosed within a plantation of wild and exotic trees. Nothing can exceed the extreme beauty of this spot and the exquisite sculpture of the horses.

[Sidenote: VERSAILLES]

The Grove of the Colonnade is remarkable for the group representing the Rape of Proserpine. The Domes contain two cabinets supported by eight marble columns and enriched with bas-reliefs of bronze and metal.

The statues of Amphitrite, Acis and Galatea are the most distinguished in this collection.

All the other groves are ornamented with bas reliefs and pieces of sculpture. The basins of water, fountains, arcades and spouts which abound in them, give additional charm to the scenery.

Amongst the groups scattered about the garden are two by Puget--these are Milo of Crotona and Perseus delivering Andromeda. The great piece of Neptune is a vast basin of water, ornamented with five groups and twenty-two great vases of bronze metal. The principal groups represent Neptune, Amphitrite, Proteus and the Ocean.

The greenhouse was built in 1685, upon the plan of Mansard. The parterre, decorated with marble vases, is surrounded with a considerable number of orange trees, some of them as old as the time of Francis I.

The hothouse is 480 feet long and 38 wide, in the middle is a statue in white marble executed by Dessardin, 10 feet 9 inches high, of Mars, dressed Roman fashion. Why this divinity has been placed in the abode of Flora I have not been able to understand.

Opposite to the greenhouse is a large basin, 2100 feet in length and 700 in breadth, called La Pièce des Suisses, at the extremity of which is an equestrian statue of Louis XIV. They have changed the traits of the countenance so that it now represents Quintus Curtius. These metamorphoses are very common in France, and have been occasionally carried to blasphemous impiety. A picture represented the Descent of the Saviour from the Mountain--the countenance of the Redeemer was altered so as to represent that of Robespierre; should the painting descend in this dishonoured state to posterity it will be a memorable record of the iniquity and madness of the days of the Terror.

On one side of the Pièce des Suisses are 50 acres of land, which formerly served as the King’s Garden.

The canal is 4800 feet in length, the two branches join on one side of Trianon; but the whole is in a wretched state and almost destitute of water.

Trianon, called in the twelfth century Trianum, is the name of an ancient palace belonging to the diocese of Chartres. Louis XIV. purchased it from the Abbaye of Ste. Geneviève. It has always been called the region of flowers on account of the enchanting gardens, by which it is surrounded. The two wings are united by a peristyle of twenty-two columns of the Doric order, and the whole building contains only a ground floor.

The gallery and the billiard-rooms are ornamented with a great many different views of Versailles and Trianon, but all the gilded fleurs de lys which were affixed to the frames have been torn off by order of the Jacobin Municipality at Versailles. A fine portrait of the Emperor Joseph II. in this Palace was destroyed years ago.

Charles Delacroix attended the sale of the movables, and when this picture was put up to be sold, he observed to the citizens that no true Republican could desire to have any resemblance of the family of Marie Antoinette, and therefore he should serve this portrait as he would like to deal with all kings. Accordingly he drew a carving knife from his side and decapitated the Emperor Joseph. It was Hildebrand, the Suisse keeper of Trianon, from whom we heard this anecdote; and as he told it to us, he grinned a horrible and ghastly smile over the acts of the Revolutionists.