Without schooling, without training of any sort, little checked by morals, pressed upon by society, with nearly every necessary of life highly taxed, and yet entirely loosened from the deference of feudal manners, the Frenchmen of this cla.s.s have, in general, become what they who wish to ride upon their fellow mortals love to represent them as being, truculent, violent, greedy of gain, and but too much disposed to exaction. There is great _bonhomie_ and many touches of chivalry in the national character; but it is asking too much to suppose that men who are placed in the situation I have named, should not exhibit some of the most unpleasant traits of human infirmity. Our trunks were put into a handbarrow, and wheeled by two men a few hundred yards, the whole occupying half an hour of time. For this service ten francs were demanded. I offered five, or double what would have been required by a drayman in New York, a place where labour is proverbially dear. This was disdainfully refused, and I was threatened with the law. Of the latter I knew nothing; but, determined not to be bullied into what I felt persuaded was an imposition, I threw down the five francs and walked away. These fellows kept prowling about the hotel the whole day, alternately wheedling and menacing, without success. Towards night one of them appeared, and returned the five francs, saying, that he gave me his services for nothing. I thanked him, and put the money in my pocket.

This fit of dignity lasted about five minutes, when, as _finale_, I received a proposal to pay the money again, and bring the matter to a close, which was done accordingly.

An Englishman of the same cla.s.s would have done his work in silence, with a respect approaching to servility, and with a system that any little _contretems_ would derange. He would ask enough, take his money with a "thank 'ee, sir," and go off looking as surly as if he were dissatisfied. An American would do his work silently, but independently as to manner--but a fact will best ill.u.s.trate the conduct of the American. The day after we landed at New-York, I returned to the ship for the light articles. They made a troublesome load, and filled a horse-cart. "What do you think I _ought_ to get for carrying this load, 'sqire?" asked the cartman, as he looked at the baskets, umbrellas, band-boxes, valises, secretaries, trunks, etc. etc.; "it is quite two miles to Carroll Place." "It is, indeed; what is your fare?" "Only thirty-seven and a half cents;" (about two francs;) "and it is justly worth seventy-five, there is so much trumpery." "I will give you a dollar." "No more need be said, sir; you shall have everything safe." I was so much struck with this straight-forward manner of proceeding, after all I had undergone in Europe, that I made a note of it the same day.

The Hotel de l'Europe, at Rouen, was not a first-rate inn, for France, but it effectually removed the disagreeable impression left by the Hotel d'Angleterre, at Havre. We were well lodged, well fed, and otherwise well treated. After ordering dinner, all of a suitable age hurried off to the cathedral.

Rouen is an old, and by no means a well-built town. Some improvements along the river are on a large scale, and promise well; but the heart of the city is composed princ.i.p.ally of houses of wooden frames, with the interstices filled in with cement. Work of this kind is very common in all the northern provincial towns of France. It gives a place a singular, and not altogether an unpicturesque air; the short dark studs that time has imbrowned, forming a sort of visible ribs to the houses.

When we reached the little square in front of the cathedral, verily Henry the Seventh's chapel sunk into insignificance. I can only compare the effect of the chiselling on the quaint Gothic of this edifice, to that of an enormous skreen of dark lace, thrown into the form of a church. This was the first building of the kind that my companions had ever seen; and they had, insomuch, the advantage over me, as I had, in a degree, taken off the edge of wonder by the visit already mentioned to Westminster. The first look at this pile was one of inextricable details. It was not difficult to distinguish the vast and magnificent doors, and the beautiful oriel windows, buried as they were in ornament; but an examination was absolutely necessary to trace the little towers, pinnacles, and the crowds of pointed arches, amid such a scene of architectural confusion. "It is worth crossing the Atlantic, were it only to see this!" was the common feeling among us.

It was some time before we discovered that divers dwellings had actually been built between the b.u.t.tresses of the church, for their comparative diminutiveness, quaint style, and close incorporation with the pile, caused us to think them, at first, a part of the edifice itself. This desecration of the Gothic is of very frequent occurrence on the continent of Europe, taking its rise in the straitened limits of fortified towns, the cupidity of churchmen, and the general indifference to knowledge, and, consequently, to taste, which depressed the ages that immediately followed the construction of most of these cathedrals.

We were less struck by the interior, than by the exterior of this building. It is vast, has some fine windows, and is purely Gothic; but after the richness of the external details, the aisles and the choir appeared rather plain. It possessed, however, in some of its monuments, subjects of great interest to those who had never stood over a grave of more than two centuries, and rarely even over one of half that age. Among other objects of this nature, is the heart of Coeur de Lion, for the church was commenced in the reign of one of his predecessors; Normandy at that time belonging to the English kings, and claiming to be the depository of the "lion heart."

Rouen has many more memorials of the past. We visited the square in which Joan of Arc was burned; a small irregular area in front of her prison; the prison itself, and the hall in which she had been condemned.

All these edifices are Gothic, quaint, and some of them sufficiently dilapidated.

I had forgotten to relate, in its place, a fact, as an offset to the truculent garrulity of the porters. We were shown round the cathedral by a respectable-looking old man in a red scarf, a c.o.c.ked hat, and a livery, one of the officers of the place. He was respectful, modest, and well instructed in his tale. The tone of this good old cicerone was so much superior to anything I had seen in England--in America such a functionary is nearly unknown--that, under the influence of our national manners, I had awkward doubts as to the propriety of offering him money.

At length the five francs rescued from the cupidity of the half-civilized peasants of _la ba.s.se Normandie_ were put into his hand.

A look of indecision caused me to repent the indiscretion. I thought his feelings had been wounded. "Est-ce que monsieur compte me presenter tout ceci?" I told him I hoped he would do me the favour to accept it. I had only given _more_ than was usual, and the honesty of the worthy cicerone hesitated about taking it. To know when to pay, and what to pay, is a useful attainment of the experienced traveller.

Paris lay before us, and, although Rouen is a venerable and historical town, we were impatient to reach the French capital. A carriage was procured, and, on the afternoon of the second day, we proceeded.

After quitting Rouen the road runs, for several miles, at the foot of high hills, and immediately on the banks of the Seine. At length we were compelled to climb the mountain which terminates near the city, and offers one of the n.o.blest views in France, from a point called St.

Catherine's Hill. We did not obtain so fine a prospect from the road, but the view far surpa.s.sed anything we had yet seen in Europe. Putting my head out of the window, when about half way up the ascent, I saw an object booming down upon us, at the rate of six or eight miles the hour, that resembled in magnitude at least a moving house. It was a diligence, and being the first we had met, it caused a general sensation in our party. Our heads were in each other's way, and finding it impossible to get a good view in any other manner, we fairly alighted in the highway, old and young, to look at the monster uninc.u.mbered. Our admiration and eagerness caused as much amus.e.m.e.nt to the travellers it held, as their extraordinary equipage gave rise to among us; and two merrier parties did not encounter each other on the public road that day.

A proper diligence is formed of a chariot-body, and two coach-bodies placed one before the other, the first in front. These are all on a large scale, and the wheels and train are in proportion. On the roof (the three bodies are closely united) is a cabriolet, or covered seat, and baggage is frequently piled there, many feet in height. A large leathern ap.r.o.n covers the latter. An ordinary load of hay, though wider, is scarcely of more bulk than one of these vehicles, which sometimes carries twenty-five or thirty pa.s.sengers, and two or three tons of luggage. The usual team is composed of five horses, two of which go on the pole, and three on the lead, the latter turning their heads outwards, as W---- remarked, so as to resemble a spread eagle.

Notwithstanding the weight, these carriages usually go down a hill faster than when travelling on the plain. A bar of wood is brought, by means of a winch that is controlled by a person called the _conducteur_, one who has charge of both ship and cargo, to bear on the hind wheels, with a greater or less force, according to circ.u.mstances, so that all the pressure is taken off the wheel horses. A similar invention has latterly been applied to railroad cars. I have since gone over this very road with ten horses, two on the wheel, and eight in two lines on the lead. On that occasion, we came down this very hill, at the rate of nine miles the hour.

After amusing ourselves with the spectacle of the diligence, we found the scenery too beautiful to re-enter the carriage immediately, and we walked to the top of the mountain. The view from the summit was truly admirable.

The Seine comes winding its way through a broad rich valley, from the southward, having just before run east, and, a league or two beyond due west, our own Susquehanna being less crooked. The stream was not broad, but its numerous isles, willowy banks, and verdant meadows, formed a line for the eye to follow. Rouen in the distance, with its ebony towers, fantastic roofs, and straggling suburbs, lines its sh.o.r.es, at a curvature where the stream swept away west again, bearing craft of the sea on its bosom. These dark old towers have a sombre, mysterious air, which harmonizes admirably with the recollections that crowd the mind at such a moment! Scarce an isolated dwelling was to be seen, but the dense population is compressed into villages and _bourgs_, that dot the view, looking brown and teeming, like the nests of wasps. Some of these places have still remains of walls, and most of them are so compact and well defined that they appear more like vast castles than like the villages of England or America. All are grey, sombre, and without glare, rising from the background of pale verdure, so many appropriate _bas reliefs_.

The road was strewed with peasants of both s.e.xes, wending their way homeward, from the market of Rouen. One, a tawny woman, with no other protection for her head than a high but perfectly clean cap, was going past us, driving an a.s.s, with the panniers loaded with manure. We were about six miles from the town, and the poor beast, after staggering some eight or ten miles to the market in the morning, was staggering back with this heavy freight, at even. I asked the woman, who, under the circ.u.mstances, could not be a resident of one of the neighbouring villages, the name of a considerable _bourg_ that lay about a gun-shot distant, in plain view, on the other side of the river. "Monsieur, je ne saurais pas vous dire, parce que, voyez-vous, je ne suis pas de ce pays-la," was the answer!

Knowledge is the parent of knowledge. He who possesses most of the information of his age will not quietly submit to neglect its current acquisitions, but will go on improving as long as means and opportunities offer; while he who finds himself ignorant of most things, is only too apt to shrink from a labour which becomes Herculean. In this manner ambition is stifled, the mind gets to be inactive, and finally sinks into unresisting apathy. Such is the case with a large portion of the European peasantry. The mult.i.tude of objects that surround them becomes a reason of indifference; and they pa.s.s, from day to day, for a whole life, in full view of a town, without sufficient curiosity in its history to inquire its name, or, if told by accident, sufficient interest to remember it. We see this principle exemplified daily in cities. One seldom thinks of asking the name of a pa.s.ser-by, though he may be seen constantly; whereas, in the country, such objects being comparatively rare, the stranger is not often permitted to appear without some question touching his character.[3]

[Footnote 3: When in London, two years later, I saw a gentleman of rather striking appearance pa.s.s my door for two months, five or six times of a morning. Remembering the apathy of the Norman peasant, I at length asked who it was--"Sir Francis Burdett," was the answer.]

I once inquired of a servant girl, at a French inn, who might be the owner of a chateau near by, the gate of which was within a hundred feet of the house we were in. She was unable to say, urging, as an apology, that she had only been six weeks in her present place! This, too, was in a small country hamlet. I think every one must have remarked, _coeteris paribus_, how much more activity and curiosity of mind is displayed by a countryman who first visits a town, than by the dweller in a city who first visits the country. The first wishes to learn everything, since be has been accustomed to understand everything he has. .h.i.therto seen; while the last, accustomed to a crowd of objects, usually regards most of the novel things he now sees for the first time with indifference.

The road, for the rest of the afternoon, led us over hills and plains, from one reach of the river to another, for we crossed the latter repeatedly before reaching Paris. The appearance of the country was extraordinary in our eyes. Isolated houses were rare, but villages dotted the whole expanse. No obtrusive colours; but the eye had frequently to search against the hill-side, or in the valley, and, first detecting a ma.s.s, it gradually took in the picturesque angles, roofs, towers, and walls of the little _bourg_. Not a fence, or visible boundary of any sort, to mark the limits of possessions. Not a hoof in the fields grazing, and occasionally, a sweep of mountain-land resembled a pattern-card, with its stripes of green and yellow, and other hues, the narrow fields of the small proprietors. The play of light and shade on these gay upland patches though not strictly in conformity with the laws of taste, certainly was attractive. When they fell entirely into shadow, the harvest being over, and their gaudy colours lessened, they resembled the melancholy and wasted vestiges of a festival.

At Louviers we dined, and there we found a new object of wonder in the church. It was of the Gothic of the _bourgs_, less elaborated and more rudely wrought than that of the larger towns, but quaint, and, the population considered, vast. Ugly dragons thrust out their grinning heads at us from the b.u.t.tresses. The most agreeable monstrosities imaginable were crawling along the grey old stones. After pa.s.sing this place, the scenery lost a good deal of the pastoral appearance which renders Normandy rather remarkable in France, and took still more of the starched pattern-card look, just mentioned. Still it was sombre, the villages were to be extracted by the eye from their setting of fields, and here and there one of those "silent fingers pointing to the skies"

raised itself into the air, like a needle, to p.r.i.c.k the consciences of the thoughtless. The dusky hues of all the villages contrasted oddly, and not unpleasantly, with the carnival colours of the grains.

We slept at Vernon, and, before retiring for the night, pa.s.sed half an hour in a fruitless attempt to carry by storm a large old circular tower, that is imputed to the inexhaustible industry of Caesar. This was the third of his reputed works that we had seen since landing in France. In this part of Europe, Caesar has the credit of everything for which no one else is willing to apply, as is the case with Virgil at Naples.

It was a sensation to rise in the morning with the rational prospect of seeing Paris, for the first time in one's life, before night. In my catalogue it stands numbered as sensation the 5th; Westminster, the night arrival in France, and the Cathedral of Rouen, giving birth to numbers 1, 2, and 4. Though accustomed to the tattoo, and the evening bugle of a man-of-war, the drums of Havre had the honour of number 3.

Alas! how soon we cease to feel those agreeable excitements at all, even a drum coming in time to pall on the ear!

Near Vernon we pa.s.sed a village, which gave us the first idea of one feature in the old _regime_. The place was grey, sombre, and picturesque, as usual, in the distance; but crowded, dirty, inconvenient, and mean, when the eye got too near. Just without the limits of its nuisances stood the chateau, a regular pile of hewn stone, with formal _allees_, abundance of windows, extensive stables, and broken vases. The ancient _seigneur_ probably retained no more of this ancient possession than its name, while some Monsieur Le Blanc, or Monsieur Le Noir, filled his place in the house, and "personne dans la seigneurie."

A few leagues farther brought us to an eminence, whence we got a beautiful glimpse of the sweeping river, and of a wide expanse of fertile country less formally striped and more picturesque than the preceding. Another grey castellated town lay on the verge of the river, with towers that seemed even darker than ever. How different was all this from the glare of our own objects! As we wound round the brow of the height, extensive park-grounds, a village more modern, less picturesque, and less dirty than common, with a large chateau in red bricks, was brought in sight, in the valley. This was Rosny, the place that gave his hereditary t.i.tle to the celebrated Sully, as Baron and Marquis de Rosny; Sully, a man, who, like Bacon, almost deserves the character so justly given of the latter by Pope, that of "The wisest, greatest, _meanest_, of mankind." The house and grounds were now the property of Madame, as it is the etiquette to term the d.u.c.h.esse de Berri. The town in the distance, with the dark towers, was Mantes, a place well known in the history of Normandy. We breakfasted at Le Cheval Blanc. The church drew us all out, but it was less monstrous than that of Louviers, and, as a cathedral, unworthy to be named with those of the larger places.

The next stage brought us to St. Germain-en-Laye, or to the verge of the circle of low mountains that surround the plains of Paris. Here we got within the influence of royal magnificence and the capital. The Bourbons, down to the period of the revolution, were indeed kings, and they have left physical and moral impressions of their dynasty of seven hundred years, that will require as long a period to eradicate. Nearly every foot of the entire semi-circle of hills to the west of Paris is historical, and garnished by palaces, pavilions, forests, parks, aqueducts, gardens, or chases. A carriage terrace, of a mile in length, and on a most magnificent scale in other respects, overlooks the river, at an elevation of several hundred feet above its bed. The palace itself, a quaint old edifice of the time of Francis I, who seems to have had an architecture not unlike that of Elizabeth of England, has long been abandoned as a royal abode. I believe its last royal occupant was the dethroned James II. It is said to have been deserted by its owners, because it commands a distant view of that silent monitor, the sombre beautiful spire of St. Denis, whose walls shadow the vaults of the Bourbons; they who sat on a throne not choosing to be thus constantly reminded of the time when they must descend to the common fate and crumbling equality of the grave.

An aqueduct, worthy of the Romans, gave an imposing idea of the scale on which these royal works were conducted. It appeared, at the distance of a league or two, a vast succession of arches, displaying a broader range of masonry than I had ever before seen. So many years had pa.s.sed since I was last in Europe, that I gazed in wonder at its vastness.

From St. Germain we plunged into the valley, and took our way towards Paris, by a broad paved avenue, that was bordered with trees. The road now began to show an approach to a capital, being crowded with all sorts of uncouth-looking vehicles, used as public conveyances. Still it was on a Lilliputian scale as compared to London, and semi-barbarous even as compared to one of our towns. Marly-la-Machine was pa.s.sed; an hydraulic invention to force water up the mountains to supply the different princely dwellings of the neighbourhood. Then came a house of no great pretension, buried in trees, at the foot of the bill. This was the celebrated consular abode, Malmaison. After this we mounted to a hamlet, and the road stretched away before us, with the river between, to the unfinished Arc de l'etoile, or the barrier of the capital. The evening was soft, and there had been a pa.s.sing shower. As the mist drove away, a ma.s.s rose like a glittering beacon, beyond the nearest hill, proclaiming Paris. It was the dome of the Hotel of the Invalids!

Though Paris possesses better points of view from its immediate vicinity than most capitals, it is little seen from any of its ordinary approaches until fairly entered. We descended to the river by a gentle declivity. The chateau and grounds of Neuilly, a private possession of the Duke of Orleans, lay on our left; the Bois de Boulogne, the carriage promenade of the capital, on our right. We pa.s.sed one of those abortions, a _magnificent_ village, (Neuilly,) and ascended gently towards the unfinished Arch of the Star. Bending around this imposing memorial of--Heaven knows what! for it has had as many destinations as France has had governors--we entered the iron gate of the barrier, and found ourselves within the walls of Paris.

We were in the Avenue de Neuilly. The Champs Elysees, without verdure, a grove divided by the broad approach, and moderately peopled by a well-dressed crowd, lay on each side. In front, at the distance of a mile, was a ma.s.s of foliage that looked more like a rich copse in park than an embellishment of a town garden; and above this, again, peered the pointed roofs of two or three large and high members of some vast structure, sombre in colour and quaint in form. They were the pavilions of the Tuileries.[4] A line of hotels became visible through trees and shrubbery on the left, and on the right we soon got evidence that we were again near the river. We had just left it behind us, and after a _detour_ of several leagues, here it was again flowing in our front, cutting in twain the capital.

[Footnote 4: Tuileries is derived from _Tuile_, or tile; the site of the present gardens having been a tile-yard.]

Objects now grew confused, for they came fast. We entered and crossed a paved area, that lay between the Seine, the Champs Elysees, the garden of the Tuileries, and two little palaces of extraordinary beauty of architecture. This was the place where Louis XVI. and his unfortunate wife were beheaded. Pa.s.sing between the two edifices last named, we came upon the Boulevards, and plunged at once into the street-gaiety and movement of this remarkable town.

LETTER V.

Paris in August 1826.--Montmartre.--The Octroi.--View of Paris.

--Montmorency.--Royal Residences.--Duke of Bordeaux.--Horse-racing.

--The Dauphine.--Popular feeling in Paris.--Royal Equipage.--Gardes du Corps.--Policy of Napoleon.--Centralization.

To R COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.

We were not a fortnight in Paris before we were quietly established, _en bourgeois_, in the Faubourg St. Germain. Then followed the long and wearying toil of sight-seeing. Happily, our time was not limited, and we took months for that which is usually performed in a few days. This labour is connected with objects that description has already rendered familiar, and I shall say nothing of them, except as they may incidentally belong to such parts of my subject as I believe worthy to be noticed.

Paris was empty in the month of August 1826. The court was at St. Cloud; the d.u.c.h.esse de Berri at her favourite Dieppe; and the fashionable world was scattered abroad over the face of Europe. Our own minister was at the baths of Aix, in Savoy.

One of the first things was to obtain precise and accurate ideas of the position and _entourage_ of the place. In addition to those enjoyed from its towers, there are n.o.ble views of Paris from Montmartre and Pere Lachaise. The former has the best look-out, and thither we proceeded.

This little mountain is entirely isolated, forming no part of the exterior circle of heights which environ the town. It lies north of the walls, which cross its base. The ascent is so steep as to require a winding road, and the summit, a table of a hundred acres, is crowned by a crowded village, a church, and divers windmills. There was formerly a convent or two, and small country-houses still cling to its sides, buried in the shrubbery that clothe their terraces.

We were fortunate in our sky, which was well veiled in clouds, and occasionally darkened by mists. A bright sun may suit particular scenes, and peculiar moods of the mind, but every connoisseur in the beauties of nature will allow that, as a rule, clouds, and very frequently a partial obscurity, greatly aid a landscape. This is yet more true of a bird's-eye view of a grey old ma.s.s of walls, which give up their confused and dusky objects all the better for the absence of glare. I love to study a place teeming with historical recollections, under this light; leaving the sites of memorable scenes to issue, one by one, out of the grey ma.s.s of gloom, as time gives up its facts from the obscurity of ages.

Unlike English and American towns, Paris has scarcely any suburbs. Those parts which are called its Faubourgs are, in truth, integral parts of the city; and, with the exception of a few cl.u.s.ters of winehouses and _guinguettes_, which have collected near its gates to escape the city duties, the continuity of houses ceases suddenly with the _barrieres_, and, at the distance of half a mile from the latter, one is as effectually in the country, so far as the eye is concerned, as if a hundred leagues in the provinces. The unfenced meadows, vineyards, lucerne, oats, wheat, and vegetables, in many places, literally reach the walls. These walls are not intended for defence, but are merely a financial _enceinte_, created for offensive operations against the pockets of the inhabitants. Every town in France that has two thousand inhabitants is ent.i.tled to set up an _octroi_ on its articles of consumption, and something like four millions of dollars are taken annually at the gates of Paris, in duties on this internal trade. It is merely the old expedient to tax the poor, by laying impositions on food and necessaries.

From the windmills of Montmartre, the day we ascended, the eye took in the whole vast capital at a glance. The domes sprung up through the mist, like starling balloons; and here and there the meandering stream threw back a gleam of silvery light. Enormous roofs denoted the sites of the palaces, churches, or theatres. The summits of columns, the crosses of the minor churches, and the pyramids of pavilion tops, seemed struggling to rear their heads from out the plain of edifices. A better idea of the vastness of the princ.i.p.al structures was obtained here in one hour, than could be got from the streets in a twelvemonth. Taking the roofs of the palace, for instance, the eye followed its field of slate and lead through a parallelogram for quite a mile. The sheet of the French opera resembled a blue pond, and the aisles of Notre Dame and St. Eustache, with their slender ribs and ma.s.sive b.u.t.tresses, towered so much above the lofty houses around them, as to seem to stand on their ridges. The church of St. Genevieve, the Pantheon of the revolution, faced us on the swelling land of the opposite side of the town, but surrounded still with crowded lines of dwellings; the Observatory limiting equally the view, and the vast field of houses in that direction.

Owing to the state of the atmosphere, and the varying light, the picture before us was not that simply of a town, but, from the multiplicity and variety of its objects, it was a vast and magnificent view. I have frequently looked at Paris since from the same spot, or from its church towers, when the strong sunlight reduced it to the appearance of confused glittering piles, on which the eye almost refused to dwell; but, in a clouded day, all the peculiarities stand out sombre and distinct, resembling the grey accessories of the ordinary French landscape.

From the town we turned to the heights which surround it. East and south-east, after crossing the Seine, the country lay in the waste-like unfenced fields which characterize the scenery of this part of Europe.

Roads stretched away in the direction of Orleans, marked by the usual lines of clipped and branchless trees. More to the west commence the abrupt heights, which, washed by the river, enclose nearly half the wide plain, like an amphitheatre. This has been the favourite region of the kings of France, from the time of Louis XIII. down to the present day.

The palaces of Versailles, St. Germain, St. Cloud, and Meudon, all lie in this direction, within short distances of the capital; and the royal forests, avenues, and chases intersect it in every direction, as mentioned before.