Chapter V: Introduction: By Richard Davey (5)

We had not yet seen the tyrant. Hence we did not hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity offered us by the public exhibition of his personage on Easter Sunday. The ceremonial had been pompously announced in the Parisian Gazettes; and M. Chaptal, the Minister of the Interior, displayed great skill in making arrangements for giving a fine stage effect to the pious exhibition of the Church Militant. Bonaparte himself is also very clever at such work, and I have it on unquestionable authority that he himself actually arranged the plan of the procession, as well as that of the solemn farce acted afterwards in Nôtre Dame. A person with whom I am acquainted related to me a conversation he overheard between the First Consul and the various underlings who were to carry out his orders, a conversation which shows the little man can take as much interest in a puppet show as in a victory. When the leader of the orchestra waited upon him to mention the arrangements he had made for placing the music in front of the Consuls, Bonaparte desired him to change the position, for he was determined a battalion of soldiers should stand in front and behind. The conductor observed the effect of the music would be totally lost by this scheme; but the reply was, “N’importe, il me faut toujours des bataillons.” Another instance of his taking upon himself the business of stage manager was his order to Monsieur de Talleyrand that the latter should write to the different foreign Ambassadors and Ministers requesting that they would repair to the Palace of the Tuileries with four horses to their carriages, instead of two. All the foreign envoys, in consequence, clapped on an additional pair of animals, which should by right have been jackasses, to their coaches. The Consuls’ own Ministers also, not only drove four horses, but their domestics sported, by order, the _same_ liveries--yellow turned up with red. Their carriages were ranged to the right of the door, exactly opposite the Ambassadors. Soon after arrived the Councillors of State, Senators, the Legislative Body, the Tribunats, the Prefets and the Generals in their respective costume. All this time the foreign Ministers were in a room below, called _Salle des Ambassadeurs_, waiting until his Highness should be graciously pleased to condescend to admit them to his presence. Count Cohentzel, the Austrian Minister, stood near the door in full view of the spectators. I could not refrain from a feeling of disgust and rage at beholding the representative of the once proud house of Austria standing like a suppliant upon the threshold of the Corsican adventurer.

The whole of the day’s exhibition was humiliating to every one concerned, save to Bonaparte and his satellites. After all the carriages were ranged in their places and the different regiments of horse and foot taken their positions in front of the Palace, a signal gun was fired, and a little thing leaped with uncommon agility upon the back of a white horse, superbly caparisoned, and set off at full trot along the line, followed by a numerous train of generals and aides-de-camp. Upon inquiry I learnt that the white horse was called Marengo, and its rider was Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France.

Nothing was now heard but trumpets and kettledrums, and the whole spectacle was certainly an imposing one; as Bonaparte passed along the officers saluted and the men presented arms. He never returned a single salute.

His dress was very plain but extremely neat, in the uniform of the Consular Guard--a blue coat, faced with white, gold epaulettes, white kerseymere breeches and waistcoat, a small hat with a tri-colour bow.

None of the portraits or engravings which I have seen in England purporting to resemble this man are exactly like him. The picture by Masquier, representing him on his return from reviewing the Consular Guard, though the best likeness we have, is nevertheless a feeble representation of what is one of the most penetrating and animated countenances in the world. The complexion of Bonaparte is sallow, his face oval and his chin long, his eyes are of a dark blue, so dark as to appear black at a distance, they are keen and piercing, long in form and sunk deeply in his head. His black hair is cut short and he wears no powder. His smile is sweet and fascinating, but his visage terrible when ruffled with anger. His voice deep-toned, rather coarse and disfigured by a provincial accent.[5] He looks extremely well on horseback, his carriage thereon remarkably erect, and not unlike that of a riding master or cavalry drill sergeant. The lineaments of his face bespeak a violent nature, it is marked with the expression of dark and unruly passions. Upon the whole I do not hesitate to acknowledge he possesses the most interesting countenance I ever beheld.

[Sidenote: PROCESSION TO NOTRE DAME]

After the First Consul had reviewed his troops “au trot” he hastily dismounted, shot like an arrow into the Palace, and soon after the general procession to Nôtre Dame began to form, and commenced with the slow march of the infantry towards the Cathedral.

The cavalry followed and the foreign Ministers and Ministers of State. Madame Letitia Bonaparte,[1] the Consul’s mother, a truly good, respectable woman, and Madame Bonaparte,[1] the reigning Queen, with Madame Louis Bonaparte,[1] her daughter, proceeded by another route (not taking part in the procession). They occupied with their suite two splendid coaches and four, each horse led by a running footman in green and gold livery and escorted by a squadron of Hussars. The corps of Mamelukes, leading six beautiful chargers of the First Consul, each horse caparisoned to the tune of £2500, preceded the state coach, which contained the three Consuls, attired in their consular garb of scarlet velvet, embroidered with gold. These rulers were drawn by eight bay horses and followed by a regiment of Hussars. Discharges of artillery continued from their departure from the Palace till their arrival at the Cathedral Church of Paris.

Three chairs of state were placed in front of the altar for the Consuls, that of Bonaparte’s was advanced a little in front of the other two, and he drew it still further forward before he seated himself. He sat erect during the whole ceremony, except during the Consecration of the Host and Communion, when he stood. At the elevation of the Host he crossed himself with the most sanctified composure, using that same hand which in Egypt had signed his abjuration of the Christian faith. The Consul le Brun[1] sat on his right hand and Cambacères[1] on his left. When High Mass was over, the Bishops approached in turn to take the oath of allegiance: as each mitred apostle knelt before Bonaparte he gave a gentle nod; but one poor old prelate, almost blind by age and too weak to kneel, having by mistake, directed his obeisance to Cambacères, the First Consul gave such a frown that the poor old man was almost terrified out of his wits.

To form a just idea of the feelings of those present one must remember that the greater part of the company consisted of the Senate, the Corps Législatif, the Tribunalate and the Generals, nearly all of whom had been or were avowed atheists, notorious for murders, thefts and atrocities they had perpetrated, while the Chief Magistrate had a few years earlier worshipped at the altar of atheism in Paris and embraced the religion of Mahomet in Africa. These persons were now assembled together to adore a God in whom they had no faith and to propose a religion they despised merely that they might be enabled to preserve their authority over the people and retain their lucrative places and appointments. To my mind this is an occurrence in the history of pious fraud only equalled by the action of Judas Iscariot.

I may safely affirm that with exception of the Bishops and clergy, there was not a single official personage in the church who quitted this religious mockery with a sentiment of piety in his heart, nor one who did not perfectly see through the whole object of the ceremony.

When the bowing, kneeling and swearing were ended the First Consul and his two scarlet supporters departed. Fresh discharges of cannons accompanied their return journey to the Tuileries.

The opinion entertained by the people of this day of ceremony was that of indignation, mixed with contemptuous ridicule.

In the evening Madame Bonaparte gave a grand rout to the ladies of the constituted authorities, and the city was illuminated. The illuminations were poor indeed, a few farthing rushlights stuck in paper lanterns hung out from every third or fourth house in the streets, and were called general illuminations, and even of those the greater part was put out by the wind. The Palace of the Tuileries was handsomely illuminated _à la chinoise_ with variegated lamps. Cambacères, the Second Consul, also illuminated his house with great taste and splendour.

[Sidenote: THEATRE OF OPERA BUFFA]

Vast numbers of people filled the streets and walks--great decorum and sobriety were everywhere observed, a circumstance which practically always distinguishes Frenchmen on such occasions.

In the midst of all these pompous festivities the minds of the people are still greatly divided respecting the future. They are gratified by the return of peace--but they are suspicious of its continuation. To this may be added the general apprehension of some fresh changes in France, from the restless character of its present ruler, and his disposition to interfere in the internal economy of other States.

XIX

THEATRES. OPERA BUFFA. CORONATION OF PAESIELLO

The theatres of Paris at the present time display such gross acts of licentiousness among the spectators and such obscene dialogue on the stage, that it is impossible to accompany a modest woman to most of them. To those where the rules of decency were observed, our ladies went, and the Opera Buffa was one of the few where we could resort with comfort and convenience.

This theatre is in the Rue de la Victoire, and here one could listen to the charming music of Cimarosa, Martinelli and Paesiello.[1] This last composer has attained an immense success by a piece, called _Zingari in Flora_, which attracts crowded houses. On the third night of its representation Paesiello himself, just arrived from Naples, made his appearance in the box next the stage, opposite the one in which the First Consul, his wife, Louis Bonaparte and _his_ wife, _ci-devant_ Mdlle. Beauharnais, and the lady of Joseph Bonaparte were sitting.

The instant Paesiello was recognised, he was saluted with loud and repeated applause, and all the spectators stood up to pay their respects to the genius who had so often charmed them by his powers of composition. A lady then stepped into his box, and placed a crown of laurel on his head, the plaudits then redoubled, while Bonaparte passed his hand over his own forehead as an indication of what was uppermost in his mind. He condescended to notice Paesiello, and signified by a movement of his head that he participated in the general sentiment of approbation.

The respect paid to the composer by the band of musicians was remarkable. They all rose at his entrance, turned towards him, and retained this position during the rest of the evening. Great decorum and good conduct are maintained in every part of this theatre, and even behind the scenes. Sentinels are planted, not only behind the curtain to preserve order, but plenty of them are stationed in every part of the house, boxes, pit and gallery. Their conduct is exemplary. The spectators, at this the best of the Paris theatres, behave themselves with infinitely more propriety than the audiences at Drury Lane and Covent Garden. The Cyprian corps also set an example of orderly conduct, which their frail sisters in the fashionable London resorts would do well to follow.

On the night of Paesiello’s coronation we were so extremely fortunate as to obtain a box nearly opposite to that occupied by the First Consul and his relatives, and we remarked that Madame Bonaparte, her daughter, and Madame Joseph Bonaparte were the only French women in the theatre whose dress was modest as well as elegant. I was peculiarly gratified to observe this circumstance, because, when the force of example is considered, these persons may be enabled, owing to their distinguished positions, to do much to check the _mauvais goût_ in the fashionable Parisian toilettes of to-day.

The three distinguished ladies sat in front of the box, and were attired much as would be a respectable English woman of the upper classes wearing evening dress.

Mesdames Napoleon, Louis and Joseph, wore fine diamond necklaces and drop earrings.

[Sidenote: A REVIEW AT THE TUILERIES]

Behind them, with his back to the audience, sat the First Consul, who conversed during the whole evening with his step-son, young Beauharnais.

During the whole evening Bonaparte never exchanged a syllable with the female members of his party, and when the play was over he darted from his seat and departed by a side entrance, leaving his family to be conducted from the theatre by their attendants.

XX

REVIEW OF THE CONSULAR GUARD. CONVERSATION WITH ONE
OF THE HEADS OF THE REPUBLIC, RESPECTING BONAPARTE

I wish to describe a grand review of the Consular Guard, which took place on the Place du Carrousel, at this very Easter-tide--a review of which so much has been said all over Europe. It is really nothing more nor less than a parade, for not a single evolution is made. Indeed, if it were wished to make an evolution the size and situation of the Place du Carrousel would not admit it.

The order in which the troops are disposed shows the impossibility of manœuvring them, for the place in which 6000 men, horse and foot, besides artillery, are collected, is not so large as our Horse Guards Parade at Whitehall.

The review really consists in the First Consul, his generals, his aides-de-camp and his Mamelukes, trotting very fast through the lines. He then takes his station in front of the gates of the Tuileries, and the troops pass him in quick time, afterwards filing off to their respective quarters.

In order that I may give a clear idea of this military show, I will briefly state the order in which the troops take their positions and move from the ground.

A battalion of Grenadiers, with their band, is stationed from the left corner of the Tuileries to the Palace door, from the right corner to the same door is another battalion of Grenadiers, called the Column of Granite, because at the battle of Marengo, “firm as adamant,” they withstood the charges of Austrian cavalry. About sixteen paces in front the first line commences with a battalion of Invalids, without a band or even pipes, having only half a dozen drums attached to it. Next to these are two battalions composed of select troops from the line. An intervening space of thirty-six paces here occurs, when another line of infantry, composed of two heavy battalions without music, extend along the whole area. Behind these are two regiments of Hussars. A little on their side at the right two troops of flying Artillery, and then the famous regiment of Guides, commanded by Eugène de Beauharnais[1] (the Consul’s step-son) surnamed the Casse Cous, because they are said neither to give nor receive quarter. Opposite this corps, at the other extremity of the lines and under the Gallery of the Louvre, stands the corps of Mamelukes--they retain their national costume, and every means is employed to attach them to the interests of the French people--which they are made to believe are identical with those of their Mussulman Caliph.

Three generals of division commanded the Consular troops under Bonaparte, who reserves to himself the chief command.

As soon as the First Consul had mounted Marengo, the drums beat a tattoo, and the men shouldered arms.

[Sidenote: BONAPARTE]

Preceded by several Mamelukes and four aides-de-camp in superb Hussar uniforms, he rode at full trot through the lines. When he returned to the centre a detachment from an Artillery corps, now serving in Italy, marched up to the Consul to receive their standard. It was held by a sergeant. The Consul made them a short speech, ordering them to swear they would rather die than abandon it. The infantry guard then passed before the Consul, beginning with the battalion of Invalids and ending with the Column of Granite, then came the Flying Artillery, the regiments of Horse, and, last of all, the regiment of Guides, beyond comparison the finest corps, whether for men or horses, I ever beheld, their Colonel, Beauharnais, being the handsomest young man amongst them. This regiment is dressed in green, as Hussars, and wheeled with uncommon precision and velocity. The Column of Granite was the only battalion which seemed to pay any attention to distance or time; its sections wheeled and performed like a piece of machinery, but all the other battalions were remarkably deficient in this branch of discipline. I remarked to a French general upon the slovenly manner in which those battalions wheeled; he nodded assent to the observation, remarking shrewdly and wisely: “It is of no matter of consequence, they know how to fight.”

As soon as the last section had passed, the Consul, who seemed to be in a very ill-humour, rode to the door of the Palace, dismounted and disappeared. He was not in a general’s uniform, but wore the same dress as that in which he appeared on the morning of the procession to Nôtre Dame.

Upon the whole, I cannot say that this review answered my expectations. The troops were tall and well-clothed. The cavalry were magnificently mounted, and made a noble appearance, but still the _tout ensemble_ did not excite my admiration to a very great extent.

While Bonaparte was passing the lines, one of my acquaintance exultingly turned to me and said: “Voilà le maître de la terre!” Several English gentlemen, who were not very distant from me, made themselves conspicuous by their ecstatic exclamations of adulation towards Bonaparte, one of them, a person of rank and fortune, bawling out loud enough to be heard by fifty people, “By G--d! this man deserves to govern the world!”

On our return from the parade, we went into a large party of ladies and gentlemen, among whom were several members of the Government. One of them took me aside; he questioned me as to the state of feeling in England on the subject of the peace, and asked me whether I read with attention the English papers. Upon my answering in the affirmative, he remarked that though the liberty of the Press was an essential principle of our British Constitution, persons in foreign countries were often exposed to the highest and most malignant censures from its abuse. I now understood the drift of his conversation and observed that natives of England, as well as foreigners, frequently had to smart under the lash of the British Press and that no one had been more severely handled (on some occasions) than myself. I explained that we in England never noticed those things, unless by retorting upon our opponents through the medium of the Press. He then said with some hesitation: “I have excellent authority for saying that the First Consul is incensed beyond measure at the liberties taken with his character and government in the English papers.” “If that be all,” I replied, “his anger will not go down with the sun, for I may venture to promise him an unceasing fire from the British Press as long as he discloses an ambition that is fatal to the security of Europe.” “And to France,” he exclaimed. Then taking me by the arms, he said with great energy, “When, my dear friend, you return to England, animate every person concerned in the public journals to give him no quarter. It is only through the medium of your papers that we know our situation; the sound philosophy of your principles (meaning the English nation’s) will finally rescue France from slavery.” Having uttered these words under strong symptoms of agitation, he left the room.

[Sidenote: ENGLISHMEN AND FIRST CONSUL]

Thunderstruck and confounded at this unexpected termination of our discourse, I was for a moment at a loss what to think and how to act, when fortunately the ex-Director Barthélémi came up and asked whether I was pleased with the review. This made me recover my senses, and I was enabled to enter into genial conversation. I was introduced to Archbishop Faesh,[1] Bonaparte’s uncle; and to Visconti,[1] but the only news they communicated were the details of the operations in San Domingo, brought home by Jerome Bonaparte. We soon afterwards left the party. I conveyed the ladies back to the hotel, and then drove to the house of the person with whom I have been engaged in the conversation related above.

He received me with great consideration and politeness, and stated how happy he was to be able to confer with me alone, as it was not safe to enter into particular details in a mixed assembly. I agreed with him, and he immediately entered more fully into the subject.

He told me that there were at present in France several Englishmen employed by the First Consul to write against our Government and in support of his (Bonaparte’s) administration. That an Englishman named Joliffe was employed by Monsieur de Talleyrand to translate all the articles in our newspapers which had any reference to France, and that Talleyrand carried them to Bonaparte as regularly as he did his official despatches. He mentioned the names of several other Englishmen employed by the Consul for similar purposes, among whom were Messrs. Morgan, Stone and Dr. Watson.

The two objects he seemed extremely anxious to impress upon me were, first that the Government and person of Bonaparte ought to inspire us with extreme aversion, but secondly that we ought to abstain rigidly from involving ourselves in another war with him.

These points seemed rather paradoxical, and I asked how Great Britain would be compromised in case of a renewal of the war. To this he answered that 50,000 or 60,000 such military automatons as I had seen to-day were always ready to execute without reflection or care whatever orders the First Consul might issue. Then, again, the violent spirit of Bonaparte was greatly to be dreaded. In case of a war between England and France he would infallibly attack some of the weaker Powers of Europe under the pretext that they favoured our cause. Upon my expressing my astonishment that an enlightened nation should passively submit to a system of tyranny which they disapproved of, and that himself, who had so great an influence, together with many of his colleagues, were taking no steps to abridge the power of this Corsican, he observed with great feeling: “The Revolution was made _for_ the people, but not _by_ the people. The principles of philosophy upon which it was founded have been trampled under foot by the military, and under every form of our government they have been masters. Whoever got possession of the power of the sword ruled and rules the Republic. France is the prize of generals whom our folly has placed on too high an eminence.”

The conversation was next resumed on the dissatisfaction which the government of Bonaparte had occasioned throughout the Republic; and of my speaking favourably of the character, abilities and influence of Moreau,[1] he differed from me, and observed that General Moreau was a man of passive qualities, destitute of energy to undertake any grand political scheme. His chief employment consisted in reading all the military memoirs and books which had ever been written and playing with his pretty wife.

Upon the whole, after a conversation of about three hours, he ended the dialogue by observing that he was at a loss whether to think war or peace would be most favourable to the views of those who wished the destruction of Bonaparte. He urged me, however, on my return to England, that I should describe in the Press the horrible state of slavery to which “Le Petit Caporal” had reduced the French. After having solemnly enjoined me to be very guarded in my expressions during my stay in France, we took leave of each other. The sentiments I have detailed being those of a distinguished member of the Government, what must be those of the people?

XXI

VISIT TO DAVID. ACCOUNT OF HIS PAINTINGS.

[Sidenote: DAVID’S STUDIO]

We have just returned from passing a very agreeable evening at the apartments of David,[1] in the Louvre. It seemed strange to find myself under the roof of a man who actually signed a warrant for my arrest some years ago. But in this capital these are things of course, and it would have been quite natural in 1793 for me to dine with him, and he had sent me the same evening to prison and two days later to the guillotine. The fact is we were very desirous of seeing this man, both on account of his political character and his reputation as the first artist in France. We were received by Madame David and her two daughters with great politeness, and Citizen David comported himself as an human being.

I met in this society a number of intelligent and respectable characters, and had several opportunities of entering into conversation with Monsieur David. The names of several English and French artists were mentioned, but he never condescended to make an observation about them.

His lady frequently desired me to give my opinion of his celebrated picture of the Sabines, and she assured me it would be a good speculation to purchase it for exhibition in London. The price is £5000!

I have heard much of the character, public and private, of M. David, and it is but an act of justice to declare that amidst the most unfavourable circumstances that hover over his public life, I have not been able to trace any relative to his private reputation.

The picture of the Sabines, which is now publicly exhibited in the ancient Academy of Architecture, is considered by David as his masterpiece, and he grounds its character principally on the persons of Hersillia, Tatius and Romulus. Poussin has pencilled the Rape of the Sabine women, but David has chosen the sequel of the story at the moment when the Sabine women rush between the two hostile armies for the purpose of reconciling the Roman and Sabine soldiers.

The two chiefs, Romulus and Tatius, are about to engage in single combat, the former, while holding his uplifted javelin in his right hand, in the attitude of preparing to hurl at his antagonist, his left is concealed under a broad shield, which also covers the left part of his body; on his head he wears a splendid helmet, a shoulder-belt suspends his sword, and his feet are laced with sandals.

In every other respect he is painted stark naked. Tatius is displayed full to the view _in puris naturalibus_. He also wears not only a helmet and sandals, but carries a shield and a scarlet mantle buckled upon the breast, but so contrived as to exhibit his whole body in a state of nature.

Between these two figures stands Hersillia; she is robed in white _à la grecque_, in other words according to the present fashion. Her hair hangs dishevelled over her shoulders. At her feet lie her two naked infants. In the centre ground groups of Sabine women are seen, carrying their naked infants amidst heaps of dead and horses furious in combat. Others are placing their children at the feet of the soldiers of both armies, who struck with the sight ground their spears. The general of the horse sheathes his sword. Numbers of soldiers wave their helmets as a signal of peace. The walls of Rome form the background. These are all the circumstances connected with the picture. I must now give M. David’s vindication of the nakedness of his heroes.

[Sidenote: DAVID’S STUDIO]

“It was a received custom among the painters, statuaries and poets of antiquity to represent naked their gods, heroes, and in general all those whom they intended to illustrate. If they painted a philosopher, he was naked with a cloak over his shoulders and the attributes of his character; if a warrior, he was likewise naked except for a helmet on his head, a shield on his arm and sandals on his feet; sometimes they added drapery to give grace to the figure.”

Among the many paintings we had seen from his hand his “Horatii” is by far the most striking and most justly executed. Those which were hastily drawn for days of ceremonies, in order to be exposed in the open air, are on an immense scale and are not less horrible to the sight than the objects which they were designed to represent were terrific to the mind. He has also drawn the figure of Bonaparte on horseback, at the passage of S. Gothard, for which he received one thousand pounds.

But the picture which interested me most was the representation of the Deputies of the Tiers Etats assembled at Versailles while their President is reading the Declaration of the Rights of Man. The portraits of some of the members were astonishingly striking, particularly those of Mirabeau and Barnave; in most, however, Citizen David has failed in the correctness of his representations, especially in those of Siège and Grégoire.

The public character of David is well-known and held in general detestation. In the course of my conversation with him I once took a favourable opportunity of asking whether he recollected having signed a warrant for my arrest. To these questions he simply replied that it was impossible for him to recall to memory all the warrants of arrest which had been issued at the time he was a member of the Committee of General Vigilance; that hundreds were sometimes signed in one day, and that in the _hurry of business_, he had often put his name to warrants on the reports of his colleagues. I remarked that through this _hurry_ of business a great deal of injustice had been committed.

This he frankly confessed, but defended the measures by the old plea: “What could we do surrounded by traitors, who were paid by Pitt and his government to sap the foundations of the Republic?” I could not help observing that the conduct of the Committee reminded me of the hangman in an English play, who states to his friends, that having a great deal upon his hands one day in the hurry of business whipped the rope round a bystander’s neck, and did not discover his mistake until a full hour after the man had been hanging.

Whenever the atrocities of the different rulers of France are made the subjects of inquiry, I have always found the same language employed to extenuate the guilt of their principal agents. Murders, rapes, burnings, proscriptions and pillage are all laid upon the Revolution, which is a generic term for every species of crime; but the agents, the authors of these horrors, remain unmolested and riot in the blood and tears they have caused to flow.

If it be necessary to offer an apology for deeds of blood, the gold of Pitt is displayed in all its wonder-working efficacy; if the murder of an innocent person be lamented, we are instantly told he was an agent of Pitt.

However penitent some of these miscreants may affect to be, their example does not appear to be followed by David. In general he is silent and reserved upon political subjects. Nothing seems to distress him more than the recollection of the conventional period. But his distress arises not from the awakening voice of nature, nor from the reproaches of an accusing conscience. It originates in idea that the days of blood and proscriptions are no more.

I am convinced that David regrets the halcyon times when thousands were butchered to illustrate the reign of liberty and equality. Speaking of St. Just,[1] the hated Decemvir, he declared: “Notwithstanding the fate of that _unfortunate_ young man and the _prejudices_ entertained against him, he was véritablement à la hauteur de la Revolution.” In an unguarded moment he proceeded to pour forth the bloody sentiments of his ferocious soul.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF DAVID]

He did not scruple to avow that the Committee of Public Safety had been the saviours of France and the founders of her gigantic empire; and after a flourish on the civil wars and massacres attendant on the acquisition of our English freedom, said it was impossible to establish a Republic except by wading through seas of blood.

I asked him whether it was true that a project had been in contemplation to reduce the population of France to one-third of its present number. He answered that it had been seriously discussed, and that Dubois Croucé was the author.

M. David, like every other Frenchman, is utterly ignorant of the nature of the liberty we enjoy and of all our institutions.

They have not a conception of the possibility of freedom existing in any state with a monarch at its head; with them there is not a vestige of liberty among any people who have not high-sounding Roman titles.

In the same measure they cannot comprehend the being of that middle class of society which constitutes the bulwark of our isle. According to their notions of Britain, a man must be noble or a pauper.

Thanks to our barbarous forefathers we have the whole essence of regulated freedom, without the gilded terms of Roman despotism; we have gothic names for the enjoyment of an enlightened people. David recognises no freedom that is not open to holy insurrection against established authority. Wherever shrieks of murder and the notes of the trumpet are not heard, there can be no liberty. A person who is conversant in the science of physiognomy would pronounce the character of this monster at first sight. With a hideous wen upon his lip, which shows his teeth and for ever marks him with the snarling grin of a tiger--with features and eyes which denote a lust for massacre, he is a savage by instinct and an assassin by rule. He is an atheist in faith and practice, and a murderer by choice.

While he was a member of the Committee of Public Safety and General Vigilance, his greatest pleasure consisted in frequenting the prison, where he feasted his eyes upon those who were condemned to die and loaded the unhappy victims with imprecations. It was his constant practice to call every morning at the prisons to inquire how many were to be guillotined, and on being told one day that there were sixteen, he instantly exclaimed in a furious attitude: “How, only sixteen! The Republic is undone!”

Retributive justice eventually overtook David, and he was committed to prison in order to be tried for his life. After he had lain some time in jail, two individuals sent to inform him that they were commissioned by certain persons in England to save his life. A powerful interposition did take place, and he was restored to liberty. Some time after he was officially informed (I heard this from his own mouth) that he was wholly indebted to the English for his life and liberation.

I endeavoured in vain to persuade him that if this were true it must have been the work of private friendship or some ardent admirer of his distinguished talents. He persisted in the belief that it was the interference of the English Government which saved him, notwithstanding the obvious improbability of such an occurrence.

When we perceive on all sides in France at the present day nothing but the ruins of religion and morality, it is a relief to the soul and a debt of justice due to an innocent family to describe them as they are, devoid of guile and unstained with their father’s crimes.

Madame David, during the Terror, retired with her children to a country residence, where she lived in ignorance of her husband’s conduct in Paris. She was what the French then termed an aristocrat, that is an honest loyal woman, who believed in God, loved good order and cherished the affections of domestic life.

[Sidenote: MADAME DAVID]

The French Revolution has produced many amazons and many female philosophers, who have died cursing God and man. It has also exhibited magnificent traits of female heroism, and the scaffold has reddened with the blood of women who have sacrificed their private interests for the public cause. But Madame David in her way is as great a heroine as any of these. As soon as the intelligence reached her that her husband was in prison and about to be tried for his life, she forgot at once the religious and political differences which had estranged her from him, and set off instantly for Paris, making herself the companion of his misfortunes.

During the whole period of his confinement, at the risk of arrest on suspicion, she was assiduous in her attendance upon him, and spared no expense to procure him all the comforts of which his situation would admit. She was also unceasing in her work to save him. Every day she was to be seen at the different bureaus or at the houses of the men in power, entreating and even intriguing for her husband. It may be justly questioned whether David does not owe his life to her exertions rather than those of some English emissary.

Of the rest of the family I can speak in equal terms of respect. His daughters are modest and prepossessing, and their good sense is as marked as their good manners. The son devotes his whole time to a study of the Greek language, in which he is in a fair way of excelling. Once a week he has a conversazione, at which every respectable native of Greece, resident in Paris, is invited, as well as all who cultivate Greek literature.

His Attic conversations are extremely well attended, for I have met there Villaison, Viscomti, Mangez,[1] Cornus,[1] Bitaubé,[1] and Larcher. As soon as young David has completed his course of Greek studies he intends to proceed to Greece, and the islands of the neighbouring Archipelago, from whence he will pass over into the Troad and visit Asia Minor.

XXII

EXCURSION TO RINCY. AMUSEMENTS OF THE
VILLAGES ON SUNDAY EVENING

The late Duke of Orléans owned Rincy, and took great pains to arrange his park and garden in the English taste. Since his death it has fallen into decay, but the Parisians frequent it on Sunday, much as our Londoners regale themselves at Richmond or at Greenwich Parks.

We departed at an early hour, accompanied by Mrs. Cosway. Rincy is thirteen miles from the capital and situated on the Strasburg road. On our journey we met two open carts filled with criminals, principally robbers, who were under their way to the metropolis under an escort of gens d’armes. The first cart contained two captains of those predatory bands of thieves who infest the Departments near the Rhine, and of whose exploits such terrible accounts have been given. One of them seemed to be placed in an unusually conspicuous position, so that he might be easily recognised. He was extraordinarily tall, and under an immense round hat exhibited features almost equalling in ferocity those of the painter David.

It seemed incomprehensible that the Government should go to the expense and inconvenience of transporting these wretches 200 miles from the theatre of their crimes, in order to take their trials before the criminal tribunal in Paris, where all witnesses for and against could only be produced at a very great public cost. When I returned to Paris I attempted to probe this matter to the bottom, when the only _rational_ answer I obtained was that the citizens of Paris were fond of seeing the execution of great criminals! I suggested that this taste for blood might be as easily gratified if the culprits were transferred after their conviction to the Parisian guillotine, having been first tried in the Department where their crimes were committed. I was told, however, the effect would not be the same.

[Sidenote: THE CHÂTEAU OF RINCY]

I resume my narrative. We had hitherto been favoured with fine weather, but just as we arrived at the gates of the château a heavy shower of rain began to fall--the coachman desired the woman to open the gates, which she bluntly refused to do unless we produced a permit from the present proprietor. Upon which I held out “un petit écu,” and received this reply from the female citizen: “C’est impossible, monsieur, ce n’est pas une affaire du gouvernement!” A more open and honest avowal of the venality of the present government of France was impossible.

But a further parley and exhibition of our papers of identity effected what bribery could not accomplish, and we were suffered eventually to pass.

Just at the entrance of the park is a traiteur’s (or restaurant), where, it being Sunday, many of the bourgeois of Paris were regaling themselves. The grounds themselves resemble an Englishman’s park. It has, of course, suffered from the effects of the Revolution, but enough remains to indicate that it was once a most voluptuous spot. The château unhappily is demolished, and the massive pillars lie broken and dispersed upon the ground. The lodge is repairing for the actual proprietor, a wealthy Parisian merchant and the present keeper of Madame Tallien, the wife of the Conventional butcher of Bordeaux.

Opposite to this edifice stand the stables, in a tolerably good state of preservation. The gravel walks are in good order, the fountains, aqueducts and basins in a complete state, and the copses and woods have not been cut down. The magnificent dairy is untouched, and at the top of the hill which overlooks the park, the Sunday excursionists amuse themselves by wandering in a labyrinth and surveying the “jets d’eau” which are continually playing.

In ascending the hill we found a pretty cottage, at the door of which stood a man whose physiognomy announced his English extraction. He also perceived we were English and invited us in our own language to rest in his house. His name is Hudson, he was gamekeeper to the late Duke of Orleans for fourteen years, and had accompanied him from England on the occasion of that Prince’s visit when Duc de Chartres to our country. He had a son of about ten years of age, who spoke English and French with equal facility. The extreme neatness of the little cottage showed it was not inhabited by a Frenchman--everything was arranged in English fashion. A fine ham was on the table and several flitches of bacon decorated the ceiling. During Robespierre’s reign Hudson was imprisoned, and was to have been executed, but the death of that monster happily intervening, he was liberated.

Hudson made many affectionate and respectful inquiries after the young Princes of the House of Orleans, and was very particular in his questions respecting the Count of Beaujolais, whom he had taught to ride, and for whom he seemed to entertain a great affection. He did not appear the least disposed to quit France, nor to leave the situation he now holds under another master. He consoles himself with the idea “that things are coming round again as they were before the Revolution, and he hoped he should do as well at Rincy under the new proprietor as he did under the late Duke.” He is one of those beings who are satisfied with any master so long as he is well provided for.

I inquired for the celebrated breed of merino sheep, and was told the whole flock had been removed to Rambouillet. We then retired to the traiteur’s, where we were provided with an excellent dinner; and after eating it, while the horses were harnessing, entered into conversation with an old man who had formerly received a pension from the late Duke, and who now, with so many others, was quite destitute.

[Sidenote: THE PANTHEON]

Most bitterly did he deplore the Revolution and curse its abettors. We were surprised to find nearly all the people at Rincy speak of the late Duke in terms of deep regret. On our return to Paris we were serenaded in every village, and twice alighted to watch the diversions of the peasants. At one place they were dancing by moonlight on a green, and at another in a large room lighted for the purpose. They were neatly dressed in their Sunday clothes, and seemed to enjoy their sports. We did not pass a single village where there was not a rural ball; and on the left of the high road a great number of rooms were lighted in which suppers were preparing for the dancers. These rooms were interspersed among the trees and gave a pleasing and lively appearance.

Such innocent diversions reminded us of the old days of France, when the country people were remarkable for their innocent gaiety and good-natured mirth; as the sweet poet sings:

“Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with itself, whom all the world can please,
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skilled in jestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burden of fourscore.”

GOLDSMITH’S _Traveller_.

XXIII

THE PANTHEON AND ITS LIBRARY. HALLE AU BLED.
THE SORBONNE. OBSERVATIONS

In 1793 a visit to the Pantheon in the Rue St. Jacques was considered a duty for every patriot, who thus made a pilgrimage to the shrines of the departed saints of Liberty. It was an affecting sight to behold the regenerated children of freedom besmeared with blood and their feverish heads covered with _bonnets rouges_, descending into the vaults where the remains of their Satanic hierarchs reposed, and invoking, by the glimmering light of funeral torches, the shades of Marat and le Pelletier,[1] St. Fargeon.

In the more rational and early part of the Revolution this place was consecrated to the memory of those who by their genius, their discoveries, or their civil and military services, had contributed to raise the prosperity of their country. France, in St. Denis, possessed a Royal Mausoleum, but she was destitute of a cemetery for her national benefactors, and nothing could therefore be more laudable than the appropriation of the vaults (for this purpose) of one of the finest churches in Christendom, and accordingly this church of St. Geneviève was selected for this purpose. But this Christian temple was soon converted into a temple of Paganism, and its name changed to a heathen one, while instead of becoming an offertory to genius, its vaults became the receptacle of the bodies of bloody-minded maniacs.

I remember to have seen the tombs of Voltaire[1] and Mirabeau at the extremity of these caverns, and they were the _only great men_ who, in 1792, were judged worthy of being pantheonised. The remains of the latter were soon disturbed, for after the deposition of the King, he was suspected of being a Royalist and therefore a traitor to that Republic which, at the time of his death, was nonexistent. The relics of the Man of the People were therefore removed and flung into the Seine. But the ashes of Voltaire, the economist of monarchical government, the flatterer of kings, a determined aristocrat and a man who entertained as hearty a contempt for republican institutions as does Bonaparte himself, were left to moulder undisturbed.

[Sidenote: VOLTAIRE]

If I am not mistaken, Voltaire would, I am persuaded, had he lived in these times, have been the panegyrist of Bonaparte. Such a man as the First Consul would have captured the senses of the Philosopher of Fernay, and the declarations of this affected Mussulman delighted the eulogist of Mahomet.

Whoever is acquainted with the writings of Voltaire must perceive that the vivacity of his imagination carries him beyond himself. Acute, penetrating and ingeniously sceptical, no man was more easily deceived by appearances. A successful usurper and a great man were, in his mind, identical; with him goodness and greatness were correlative terms. The vilest scoundrel on earth, if possessed of Imperial power, is a great man. Hence we find Voltaire calumniating Constantine because he was a convert to Christianity and complimenting the most perfidious, cruel and barbarous conquerors because they were not Christians; extolling the licentious despotism of a puny tyrant of France, because infidelity flourished in his court and camp and publicly avowing that no conqueror existed without being at the same time a man of good understanding.

The legislators of modern France, I am convinced, never read with any attention the works of Voltaire, much less penetrated the spirit and object of his compositions. They denominated him a Republican simply because Condorcet[1] commented on Voltaire’s atheistical doctrines from the tribune of the Convention, and because they were not able to distinguish a desire to sap the foundations of Christian belief from a love of anarchy and misrule. Voltaire was the champion of kings, but the implacable enemy of priests.

From the private correspondence of Voltaire, it is evident he held in utter contempt the applause of the multitude. He aspired to obtain the suffrages of the great and to make proselytes of kings, countries, statesmen, women who possessed an influence over public men, and these personages he flattered unceasingly. The _kind_ of revolution he wanted to establish was as distinct from Jacobinism as true liberty from licentiousness. I do not wish it to be understood from this remark that I approve of the work of Voltaire, nor do I deny that he planted the seeds of that irreligious movement which in France has proved a powerful auxiliary to political disorder. Voltaire neither loved nor understood liberty, he treated with contempt the Parliaments and States-General of France; he apostrophised civil despotism wherever it despises religion, and criticised Montesquieu without understanding him.

Such was the man whose bones were unmolested, while the great advocate of Public Freedom was committed to the muddy waters of the Seine. I have had many conversations with Mirabeau, and I am certain that although no Republican, he did not detest a Republican system of government. The portals of the Pantheon, after the removal of the body of Mirabeau, were opened to receive the corrupt carcase of that miserable little demoniac, Marat, and a multitude of other sages, who had rendered themselves, by their villainies, their buffooneries and their insanities, worthy of immortality. Later on Marat was unpantheonised and tossed into the public sewer, and I apprehend the greater number of the men whom their grateful country has canonised in this polluted Temple have been served a similar trick; for upon inquiring on our visit there we learnt that there were _no_ immortals at present in preservation.

There is nothing, therefore, now (1802) to be seen in Ste. Geneviève but ruins; it has sunk considerably, and fresh supports have been placed to the foundations. The edifice, commenced thirty years ago, is not finished. We were warned it was not safe to traverse the interior; we did, however, cross two of the naves, though repeatedly warned to desist. Behind the church is the cloister, in which there is a library of 30,000 volumes open all day for the use of the public. It is kept in great order and decorated with a multitude of busts of the literati of France, and at the extremity is a glass case containing a model of the city of Rome.

Dannon, an ex-legislator, is the principal librarian.

The next object we visited was the Halle au Bled, or corn market. This is a very interesting place--both on account of the different species of corn offered for sale and of the vast cupola which covers the whole of the market. This cupola is the largest in France, and its diameter is 120 feet--only 13 feet less than that of the Pantheon at Rome, considered the greatest in the world. The vast Doric column employed the genius of Catherine de Medici, who believed in both astrology and magic. There are several allegorical figures upon it which denote the Queen’s widowhood. The world cannot produce such another extraordinary spectacle. The dome is constructed with finely ornamented wood, and so contrived that each partition is supported by another; there are no pillars used to uphold the fabric.

[Sidenote: SORBONNE AND OBSERVATORY]

The word Sorbonne recalls to my mind that of the Inquisition. In the hall of these controversialists, it has solemnly been discussed whether black was not white, assassination has been alternately extolled and condemned. The same doctrines have been deemed heretical and orthodox, according to the circumstances of the times. I have no other word to say respecting the Sorbonne, except that it exhibits nothing now but bare walls and ruins, and is scarcely worth the trouble of a visit.

The National Observatory is situated near the Rue S. Jacques; it was erected by Perrault, who was a better architect than an astronomer. The meridian line is traced along the great hall of the first storey. Under the edifice are subterranean caves or catacombs, which form a labyrinth from which no stranger can hope to extricate himself without the services of a guide.

The rooms are bare and destitute of furniture or accommodation for those who ought to assemble in them.

Cassini, the able director under the Royal Government, was driven away by the Revolution. No leading astronomers go to this Observatory.