CHAPTER XXII.

_August 5th._--I had intended seeing some of the sights to-day--so accordingly, after breakfast, mounted on Nelly, cigar in mouth, and followed by my smart orderly, Fitzgerald, I paraded slowly through the village, crossed the fields to St Denis, having passed which I had already got over half the dreary road to La Chapelle, when Nelly suddenly fell dead lame. Upon examination we found a great nail which had run into her foot (off hind), between the frog and bars. This put an end to my day. So I returned quietly, put the mule into the stable with Cossack and the brown horse, Nelly into the mule’s box, sent to St Denis for Mr Coward, who is veterinary surgeon to our division, made Farrier Price meantime pare her sole almost to the quick, put on a bran poultice, and have at last sat down to amuse myself by scribbling something about Paris--observations, description, or what else it may be. To proceed, then. I shall not soon forget my first ride to Paris from Colombes. Although already noticed in its place, I like to dwell on a subject to me of so much pleasure, and shall ever recall with emotion my feelings on first passing the Barrière de l’Etoile and gaining a _coup d’œil_ of the magnificent avenue beyond, terminated by the venerable palace of the French monarch--its noble trees, its crowds of carriages, horsemen and footmen, and all the _et ceteras_ of such a scene. Arriving by this side, the head filled with preconceived ideas of filthy narrow streets without _trottoirs_, what was my surprise on passing through the Place Louis Quinze and entering the magnificent Rue Royale. My previous knowledge of Paris, picked up in books of travel, &c., has all proved erroneous. Some travellers are extravagant in its praise; but I think the greater part have dwelt too much on the dark side of the picture, otherwise why these unfavourable impressions that occupied my brain? The natives, on the contrary, are too extravagant in its praise; and knowing their gasconading style, one is slow to believe their highly-coloured descriptions, and particularly their saying, “Qui n’a vû Paris, n’a rien vû”--a sentiment now become a proverb with them. But this same, or something very similar, is said of many other cities, if I mistake not--Vienna, Rome, Naples, Florence, Madrid, Lisbon, &c. However, like everything else, this has two sides--both parties are right, both are wrong. In the same manner as any other city, Paris has its clean and its dirty quarters, its St Giles and its Grosvenor Street, its fine and its mean buildings, its poverty and its opulence--in short, its _agrémens_ and its _désagrémens_. I can’t translate these words. Agreeables and disagreeables won’t quite do. Everything depends on the good or bad humour of the traveller, or the reception he meets with in the country he undertakes to describe. It generally, therefore, is either a Pays de Cocagne or a Tierra del Fuego.

Divided into twelve _arrondissements_ or _mairies_, and every _arrondissement_ into several _quartiers_, one finds such a difference between these divisions--in the manners, habitudes, and physiognomy of their inhabitants--as scarcely to believe they form part of the same community. Thus les Quartiers des Tuileries, des Roule, des Champs Elysées, &c. &c.--in which are situated the court, the hotels of all the _grand seigneurs_, &c., consequently the richest, smartest, and best shops--distinguished for elegance, cheerfulness, and cleanliness. Le Quartier de la Chaussée d’Antin is the residence of the rich bankers, as in like manner that of the Palais Royal is of merchants, brokers, &c. The Marais is inhabited principally by people of moderate incomes, fond of quiet and tranquillity; and among these are to be found the principal remaining specimens of the _bon vieux temps_--good, easy, old-fashioned people. The Pays Latin--as the neighbourhood of the Rues St Jacques, de la Harpe, &c., is called, from containing the College de la Sorbonne, the schools of the University, &c. &c.--is the cradle of science, and the residence of almost all the bookbinders, parchment-makers, &c., of Paris. Here reside professors and students of theology, medicine, law, natural history, &c. &c. All is here quiet gloom, and some small degree of filth. Les Halles present the singular spectacle of a rural population in the heart of a great city. The other parts of Paris, inhabited by various classes of artisans, are not only different from all those already spoken of, but differ even amongst themselves, according to the business pursued in them. Thus the Rue de Clery is one complete magazine of furniture and cabinet-work, &c.; and most of the work in silk, such as curtain-fringe, &c., is done in la Rue de la Feronnerie and Marché des Innocens, &c.--but of the more distant quarters of this description I only speak from hearsay, the temper of their population being such as to render it dangerous for an Englishman to appear there as an idler; therefore have I never yet seen the Quartier de St Antoine, nor the Place Royale--the very focus of this spirit. It is clear, therefore, that Paris cannot be characterised by a _trait de plûme_--as clean or dirty, grand or mean, &c. Handsome, and what we should call fine, streets there are, and others which, without any pretension to these names, are yet striking from their extent and bustle of business, &c. &c. Of the former are the Rues de la Paix, Royale, de Rivoli, de Mont Blanc, de la Place Vendome, du Faubourg St Honoré, &c. &c. All these are scrupulously clean and very cheerful, full of fine hotels (_not inns_), fine shops, and for the most part have good and spacious _trottoirs_. The first two in particular are very handsome streets. Of the latter description are the Rues de St Denis, de St Martin, de l’Université, du Faubourg St Denis, Neuve des Petits Champs, and many others. These are generally long streets, some of them very wide, but almost all of them without _trottoirs_. Beyond these the streets are generally very narrow, dirty, and dark. This obscurity is caused by the enormous height of the houses in the old parts of the town, and their sombre hue--I was going to say _their being blackened by smoke_, but that can scarcely be possible, since from using so much wood one never sees that thick canopy of smoke hanging over Paris that usually shuts out the feeble rays of the winter’s sun from the citizens of our metropolis. The close confined streets, indeed all the older streets of Paris, are redolent at all times of a most disagreeable odour. Evelyn, 160 years ago, said the streets of Paris smelt of sulphur. The innumerable lamps swinging from ropes over the centre of these streets give them, in my eyes, a very mean appearance. I don’t know why, but they seem, too, in the way. These ropes lead down the wall on one side of the street in a sort of wooden case, the key of which being kept by the lamp-lighter, mischievous people are unable to get at the lamps without breaking open these cases--an operation requiring time, and not performed without noise, therefore almost impossible with such a vigilant police. But the greatest ornament of the town, and no doubt that which contributes most to its salubrity, is the great avenue which, under various names, is called generally the Boulevards, from occupying the site of the ancient ramparts of Paris. Since the increase of the faubourgs has placed these in the midst of the town as it were, a second concentric circle, called the New Boulevard, has been formed; but this seems a mere circular road, not much frequented: and along it is the only enclosure Paris now possesses--a simple stone wall, connecting the barriers, and thereby insuring the fiscal duties. Of the old Boulevards I spoke some days ago; it were needless, therefore, to fill my journal with repetition. They must be acknowledged as a most agreeable and amusing lounge. After the streets, the quays of Paris naturally attract our attention--a feature so ornamental, so commodious, so salubrious, that we wonder our own metropolis should be destitute in this respect. What a noble thing it would be were our fine river bordered by such quays as those de Buonaparte, des Tuileries, de Voltaire, de la Conference, &c., instead of being enclosed as it is between such a set of shabby wooden or brick warehouses!

But if London is inferior to Paris in this respect, how superior she is in public squares! The costly iron railings, the masterly statues that decorate some, and the pleasant shrubberies, smooth, well-kept turf, and well-rolled walks which characterise most of them, are nowhere to be seen in Paris. The Place Louis Quinze is not what we should call a square in London; it is a sort of esplanade, separating the ramparts and gardens of the Tuileries from the Champs Elysées; the third side is closed by the river, and the fourth is the only side having buildings--those of the Garde Meuble. It is an agreeable esplanade, but is no square. The Place Royale is, I believe, the largest square in Paris; but, for the reasons before mentioned, I have as yet never seen it. From all that I have heard, it is surrounded by very lofty, and perhaps once handsome houses, which then were the habitations of the principal _noblesse_, though now of a numerous population of artisans. In the middle of it, I understand, is a fountain, some trees, &c., in the manner of our squares. The Place Vendome is the next in size to the former; it is octagonal, and the houses, all uniformly built, are of a respectable class, but the style of them is heavy and dull: the want of a _trottoir_, the houses standing as they do with their ground-floors unscreened or unprotected from the carriage-way, spite of the splendid column springing from its centre, give this places a mean, _triste_ appearance. I could not divest myself of the idea of its being a mews. The Place des Victoires, meant to be circular, is only a small concern, neither handsome nor ornamental, and perhaps only useful as admitting light and air into a very thick and closely-built part of the town. These are, strictly speaking, the only real public squares; for the Parvis Nôtre Dame, Place du Carrousel, &c. &c., are only esplanades in front of the Cathedral and Tuileries. On the whole, however, Paris is a much more cheerful place than London. In this respect there is no comparison between them.

8 P.M.--Rambled up the road to Garges, which is still nearly as deserted as ever; but the rags and tatters, and broken glass, &c., with which the street was strewed, have in a great measure disappeared. After dinner, Cossack being still rather lame, I rode Mula through the vineyards to Pierrefitte. The country is much prettier on that side than with us, being hilly, whereas we are on a dead level. Our waggon-train officers are doing cavalry with a vengeance, and making a great swagger among the natives. Took a round by Villetaneuse--through vineyards, plantations of artichokes, &c.--and passing along the enclosure of a very handsome domain, with a fine house of brick, let Mula find her own road home, which she did very cleverly and very directly. I think (at least on smooth ground) mules are not so sure-footed as is usually believed and asserted--perhaps amongst rocks and mountains they may be.

_6th._--Sunday.

_7th._--To town as usual this morning for sight-seeing. From the Rue de Malte took my course through the court of the Louvre and the Place de Jena, still boarded up, crossed the Pont Neuf, “where it always blows,” and accordingly did blow there to-day certainly, more than elsewhere. Henri IV., with his manly countenance and pointed beard, smiled on me as I made my way through the crowd and plunged into the gloomy and shabby streets of the Pays Latin. Stopped at a mean, rather dirty restaurant in the Rue St Jacques, where I got a bad lunch, of course, and a bottle of sour wine; but for this there was no remedy, as I did not know of any better in the neighbourhood, to which I am a stranger. After doubling and threading my way through a number of dirty obscure streets, which no stranger could have done in London, I at last came out on the Quai St Bernard, where suddenly I found myself among hundreds, if not thousands, of pipes of wine ranged in tiers. It is the Marché aux Vins; and whilst seated upon one of these pipes enjoying the busy scene around, I mentally bless the ingenious system of numbering the houses and naming the streets that has enabled me to steer through such a labyrinth as I have just passed, and which might so well and so easily be applied in London. All streets running to the Seine are numbered in _black_; all those parallel, or nearly so, to the river in _red_. Starting from the river, the numbers commence in a double series in these transverse streets; and in the longitudinal streets the series of numbers follow the course of the stream,--equal numbers always on the right, unequal on the left. In the same manner the names at the corners of the streets are of a similar colour to the numbers; and moreover, some remarkable object, giving a designation to the quarter, is painted at the corners. The Jardin des Plantes, or du Roi, is adjoining the Marché aux Vins, and thither I went, walking in amongst other company without let or hindrance of any kind. In this garden, the Menagerie, and the Cabinet d’Histoire Naturelle, I passed nearly the whole afternoon in the most agreeable manner possible. Much as I had heard of this establishment, the reality rather surpassed than fell short of it--and sorry I am to say we can boast of nothing at all equal to it in England; nor, if we did, could our populace be admitted to it with the same freedom as the more volatile yet more considerate _badauds_ are to this. Everything would soon be ruined. The men would trample over the beds, the boys would break down the hedges and fences; knives would operate in all directions; even the women would find some means of doing mischief;--in short, it would never do. Here, on the contrary, it was with pleasure that I observed people of all classes of society, even beggars, conducting themselves with a modesty and decency of manner not to be surpassed. The choice of ground has been very judicious, as the plan presents a pleasing undulation of surface that gives infinite interest to a promenade. The botanical part is flat and even, divided by walks into compartments, each forming a small distinct garden by itself. These are either enclosed by well-kept hedges, or by rails and rustic fences of every possible useful fashion--which may serve as models for those in want of such things.

These little gardens each contains some family of shrubs or plants, and are all arranged according to their respective climates. The dividing walks form most agreeable promenades, as was evinced by the number of people I found lounging in them, many evidently not taking any interest in the botanical treasures around. This flat space is bounded on one side by a magnificent avenue of elms, under the shade of which are numerous _vendeurs de boissons_ and _de pâtisserie_, as well as one or two regular restaurateurs. On the other side, the ground, swelling gently into hill and dale as it were, is fitted by enclosures of simple rail or strong stockade, as occasion may require, for the confinement of an elephant or a deer. Here in little paddocks, with room to move about and a house to shelter them, we find a number of animals, who, perhaps, well fed as they are, little regret the loss of liberty. The elephant even has a pond to wallow in, to the great amusement of the _badauds_ who constantly throng the stockade. The more savage beasts (_genus Felis_, &c.) are confined as with us, in dens. It was only in looking over the catalogue of the menagerie, and finding the beasts enclosed in the paddocks classed as ruminant and _fauve_, that I remembered we have no term to translate the latter word. This part of the establishment is very entertaining, and I lounged away a great part of my time in wandering about the winding walks between the enclosures, amused by the curiosity and _naïveté_ of many of the visitors. The menagerie is separated from the gardens by a rampart and ditch. In the latter are the bears, great favourites with the public, particularly the boys, of whom numbers are always hanging on the wall, watching the heavy animals climbing a high pole set for the purpose. The hothouses contain all sorts of things; but what interested me were the palms--some of these I saw out of doors. Just by the hothouses is a high mount, ascended by a spiral path, bearing a sort of temple on the top, whence there is an extensive and much-vaunted view over the city and neighbourhood; but not half so extensive as, nor in any way comparable to, those from Belleville, Montmartre,[24] and, above all, from Mont Aurelian. The School of Comparative Anatomy is very interesting: it contains perfect skeletons of almost every species of animal, bird, or fish, from the most diminutive to the largest--from the minnow to the whale, from the shrew-mouse to the mastodon, from the humming-bird to the condor.

Evening was drawing on, and I ran hastily through the two floors of the Cabinet of Natural History, that I might get home before dark. The entrance to the Jardin des Plantes, by a handsome _grille_ from the quay opposite the Pont d’Austerlitz, is very good, but I could not stop to admire it; and hurrying along the _quais_, instead of blundering amongst the streets, succeeded again in just getting home in time.

_August 8th._--It seems as if I were destined always to fall under the Duke’s displeasure, and to be the victim of his injustice. When I called on Sir Augustus Frazer this morning at the Hotel du Nord, the first greeting I got on entering the room was, “_Mercer, you are released from arrest!_” At first I thought this a joke, but Sir Augustus assured me seriously that I had not only been in arrest, but _that_, too, ever since our review on the 24th ultimo. He then told me that I had not been the only unfortunate. Himself and Major M’Donald had been supposed under arrest at the same time and for the same _crime_; and what was this?--this very grave crime for which two field officers and a captain had actually been under ignominious punishment for a whole fortnight? In the column of review on the 24th ultimo, my troop was on the extreme left (or rear), except the two brigades of 18-pounders. Our order of marching past was in column of divisions (we have three divisions), and my post for saluting was considerably in front of the leading one, to leave room for the division officers at open order, consequently I was fully a hundred yards distant from my rear-division when passing the Duke. Now it so fell out that, at that very moment, a horse of one of the rear-division carriages got his leg over a trace. The limber gunners, with their wonted activity, were off, cleared the leg, remounted, all in sufficient time for the division to pass his Grace steadily and in good order. But this little halt, momentary as it was, checked the 18-pounders; and Ilbert, or whoever commanded them, ignorant of the saluting-point, trotted up to regain his distance, until suddenly, seeing the sovereigns and their suite, he resumed his walk too late, and passed them in confusion. The Duke fell into one of his furious passions, asked how this happened, and (what he did with the foot-artillery I know not) immediately despatched the Adjutant-General to put Sir Augustus Frazer, Major M’Donald, and myself under arrest. The two former, however, had departed; and whilst the Adjutant-General was struggling through the crowd after me, I had cleared the Rue Royale, and setting off at a trot down the Boulevard, had turned down the Rue de Clichy, consequently was out of sight ere he reached the Boulevard, where he gave up the pursuit and said no more about it. Whether the Duke forgot us, or whether he purposely kept us in arrest, we are left to conjecture--certain it is, that we three actually appear by name in the General’s orders of yesterday as released from our arrest. _Mens conscia recti_--I snap my fingers at the disgrace.

Leaving Sir Augustus, I accompanied Bell to his pretty lodging in the Rue Mont Blanc. I don’t know who the people are, but it is an uncommonly genteel, well-furnished, well-appointed house. A young gentleman there is who visits Bell occasionally, and a young lady who serenades him (if I may so apply the term) continually. She touches the piano well, has a musical voice, and sings with taste. “L’Exile” is the favourite just now, a pretty song, which, from so often hearing there, I shall always henceforward associate with Bell’s nicely-furnished apartment, and the little pleasure-ground, of some thirty or forty feet square, with one or two acacias in it. Frazer, too, has very handsome rooms in the Hotel du Nord, richly furnished, with green silk window-curtains, &c. &c. Sir Edward Kerrison and old Platoff also live there. Passed the remainder of this morning lounging about the Boulevard, as much amused as on the first day. All the fun, crowd, &c., I observe, is confined to the right side going up from the Rue Royale; on the left there is comparatively nobody, except, perhaps, at the Porte St Denis and St Martin, through which (or rather by which) a crowd is continually setting, and one is deafened by the importunate clamours of fifty cabriolet-drivers, all calling at once, “Voiture, Monsieur--Voiture?” “St Denis, Monsieur?” “Memorency, Monsieur?” “Garges, Monsieur?” “Arnouville?” &c. &c. These fellows are most active rogues, and their carriages very convenient, and far more agreeable than the fiacres; and that is the opinion of the public in general, I presume, from seeing one fiacre plying for ten cabriolets or coucous, or whatever name they go by. The coachmen of the former are so well aware of this, that they generally are dozing on their boxes, giving themselves no trouble in looking for customers. Perhaps, however, this may arise from their being only servants, whilst the others are themselves the proprietors of the vehicles they drive. Although conscious that these _portes_ are in reality triumphal arches, yet I never pass them without experiencing something of the same feeling with which one would view the magnificent bridge built by Philip II. over the dry bed of the Manzanares if ignorant of the impetuous floods to which that river is liable. The Boulevard presented if anything a more busy, noisy scene than usual. The Turk I found with an attentive and apparently much interested audience, whom he was haranguing with vociferations and gesticulations truly astounding. In vain I tried to catch the purport of his harangue--the curious _badauds_ were packed so close, and so firmly maintained their ground, that it was impossible to approach one inch into the circle. I lounged on and admired the beautiful Fontaine de Bondy, or de Lions, I know not which it is called, but its sheets of falling water are singular, and I think it a beautiful fountain. What a magnificent air these fountains give to the town! How refreshing and delightful is the splashing of their waters in warm weather! and oh! the contrast presented to them by our conduits, &c.--shapeless masses of masonry or brickwork, with a brass cock stuck in each side, or mayhap the said brass cock protruding from a common wall.

The French are an ingenious people, and contrive a thousand curious, uncommon, and often admirable devices for opening people’s purses, instead of sticking to the unvaried, dismal chant of our beggars--although “_Pour l’amour de Dieu_” is not uncommon here. Our wretches drive one away, but the gentlemen of whom I speak grasp, retain, and even squeeze their auditors as one would a lemon. Nor do they always assume the repulsive rags, &c., which our beggars think so essential to obtain their end. An instance of this I frequently meet on the Boulevard St Martin--an elderly man, of a grave physiognomy, well featured, and of rather a genteel appearance, clad in garments somewhat seedy, though fashionably cut. This man I stumbled on to-day at the corner of the Rue du Temple lecturing on moral philosophy. Like the Turk, he had a numerous and attentive audience, but, generally speaking, composed of a better description of people. To a clear, sonorous voice, he added a manner demonstrative without being dogmatic, and persuasive without betraying doubt of his own powers. He defined the motives and rules of human actions, and showed that these rules are immutable--that we cannot violate them with impunity. He then went at some length into the morals of the ancients, touched on the doctrine of expediency, on the desire of distinction, ambition, &c., and very naturally, though cautiously, introduced as an illustration Napoleon. No one could mistake the sensation produced by this magic name--a sensation which, having produced, he proceeded to neutralise by gradually slipping into the connection between religion and morality. I left him explaining the insufficiency of natural religion, &c. Although this man does not beg, there is no doubt he makes a good trade of preaching; numerous were the offerings silently put into his hand and quietly pocketed without once interrupting the thread of his discourse. Another actor of the same description is a man who usually frequents the northern entrance of the Passage Feydeau: an immense power of grimace, and amazing execution on the violin, are the means by which he gains his daily bread. Clad in an old threadbare frock, that once was brown, with a pair of enormous spectacles riding astride on his prominent nose, he takes his stand on the steps at the entrance of the passage. Heels close together, body drawn up at attention, and with his gaze directed upwards at the window of the fourth storey of the opposite house, he appears perfectly unconscious of the presence of the admiring crowd assembled round him, whilst he executes with astonishing justness, feeling, and rapidity, the most difficult passages from some of the favourite composers of the day--distorting his face all the time in a manner so wonderfully ludicrous that his really excellent music is almost drowned by the uncontrollable laughter of the surrounding multitude. These are some of the many means employed in this gay metropolis for extracting coin out of the pockets of their fellow-men. Gay, however, as it is, misery exists here as well as elsewhere, and I shudder even now at the harrowing tale Bell told me this morning of suicide, to which he was witness a day or two ago. Passing through the Place Vendome, he observed several people looking anxiously up at the Column of Austerlitz, and naturally turning his eyes in the same direction, beheld a man in the act of climbing over the rails of the gallery, having effected which, he deliberately lowered himself down until he hung suspended by the arms over the frightful depth below. In this position he remained a few seconds, perhaps as if repenting him of the rash act he was about to perpetrate; but, unable to recover the gallery, he eventually let go his hold, and was dashed to pieces on the pavement at the foot of the column: the very idea is harrowing!

A trait of the times, and a very striking one too, which a person meets with at almost every step in walking about Paris, is the announcement of the change of dynasty--from an empire to a kingdom--exhibited in the titles of shops, _lycées_, and every other establishment; the old word _imperiale_ slightly painted over to make way for the more humble _royale_--_lycée royale_, &c.--which is sometimes painted over it, but more frequently by the side of it, leaving the former word quite legible through the thin daub of paint laid over it. The postilions, too, are changing their imperial green livery for the royal blue; yet this change goes on but slowly, for we still see many of the numerous English equipages daily arriving brought in by postilions in green livery jackets. In the palaces and other public buildings, the letter N was abundantly introduced into all the architectural decorations, besides the armorial bearings of the Emperor: workmen have been some time employed effacing or altering all these. Wherever it is possible, the obnoxious letter is removed altogether; but where that is not the case, which happens frequently, it is changed into an H and the numeral IV. added. These and many other changes incident to the present state give a curious aspect to the nation, and afford much food for speculation and contemplation. Met my old schoolfellow Courtnay Ilbert coming out of town, and we rode together to St Denis, where his 18-pounder brigade is stationed. On reaching home found that M. Fauigny has been here. Poor man! he is not likely to get much from me.

_August 9th._--Not quite well this morning, but I went to town to meet Hitchins, and make a sight-seeing day of it. Accordingly we have done pretty well, galloping through the Luxembourg, Les Monumens, and wandering over almost the whole southern part of Paris. I can’t say, however, that this has been to me a day of much interest; I prefer a thousand times wandering about the town by myself--observing the habits, manners, &c., of the people--to all the sight-seeing; but I allowed Hitchins to shame me out of the idea of leaving Paris without seeing everything. Much, however, I fear I shall have to blush for, if that be necessary, and amongst others the theatres, not one of which have I ever entered yet. The Luxembourg is a fine palace, and I like its style of architecture much better than that of the Tuileries, though it is vilely situated. The gardens are much the same--parterres, ponds, ramparts--_voilà tout_. The great attractions here are the Chamber of Peers, and the Galleries of Rubens, Vernet, and of the French Raphael Le Sueur. The first I cannot bear, spite of his beautiful colouring and well-managed _chiaro-oscuro_--allegory is my abomination; the pictures of the second are more to my taste; but the blue works of the French Raphael I could not appreciate. Besides these, we saw a multitude of other masterpieces; and I was particularly pleased at having an opportunity of seeing some by David, of whom I have heard so much. Here disappointment awaited me, and a glance at the “Judgment of Brutus” satisfied me--all yellow and glare, and extravagant attitudes. Surely the human spine would never admit of being doubled in the manner of the fainting female introduced in the foreground of this picture--a perfect parabola. To reach the Chamber of Peers, we passed through a grove of orange-trees in boxes, and then mounted a very fine staircase ornamented with statues of great men, among which two were very spirited--those of Condorcet and of General Dessaix, said to be likenesses; I had no idea the latter was so young. The Chamber itself is a very handsome semicircular hall, having the President’s desk in the centre of the chord, and those of the members round the curve. Beyond this is the Salle de la Paix, a very handsome room, the walls of which are covered with paintings by David, representing the victories of Napoleon, weakly enough hid with green baize, and not allowed to be seen.

Of the monuments I have little worth recording. Interesting specimens there are of French sculpture of every age--all preserved by M. Lenoir from revolutionary Vandalism. The only thing, however, that I remember worth noticing, is the tomb of Louis XII. (I think), on which the corpses of himself and queen soon after death are laid out: the countenance of the king is expressive of great suffering. The horrid truth of this sculpture, aided by the colour of the marble--so completely that of a corpse--leads one to believe that it must by some means have been actually copied from nature. In a little yard, about twenty feet square, and surrounded by the high walls of the neighbouring houses, stands the Paraclete. Its situation is a sad drawback to the interest one might otherwise take in this specimen of ancient architecture, for in the history of the Castrato and his love I can take none. In wandering about the town, amongst other places we stumbled upon were the poultry or game market, and that of flowers--two opposite extremes. The first is a very handsome building on the Quai des Grand Augustins, and this being one of the days on which the game, &c., arrives, the quantity was prodigious; but the smell was more than we could stand, and obliged us to a very precipitate retreat; so, crossing to the Cité, we rambled on, and quite by accident found ourselves in the empire of Flora, redolent of mignonette and a thousand other odoriferous plants, and presenting a _coup d’œil_ not to be excelled: hortensias and camellias appeared quite common. The Parisian flower-sellers are adepts in making up nosegays, and, I believe, understand using them as the language of love like the Turks. Tired with our walk, we returned to Hardi’s, where, having made an excellent dinner, we separated; and here I am half asleep recording the day.

_Sunday, 13th._--I have been idle as to writing since Wednesday, but not so otherwise, having been every day in town; in the mean time, domestic transactions require some notice. Our vineyards are blessed this year with a most extraordinary crop of grapes, to secure which from marauders I have acceded to M. Bonnemain’s petition in behalf of the villagers, and established a regular patrol of our men--a precaution certainly most necessary, seeing what neighbours we have: at Pierrefitte the waggon-train; on the other side, bivouacking along the chaussée from Garges to St Denis, Jones’s corps of Belgian waggoners, five hundred in number, men totally unacquainted with the restraints of military discipline, with full leisure to meditate mischief, and most persevering foragers for their horses, which are their own private property; in our rear, at Garges, &c., are our savage and lawless friends of Nassau, and some Belgians. So surrounded, vigilance becomes absolutely necessary, not only for the sake of our villagers, but also for our own; and nothing has gained their affections, or united us more, than the establishment of this patrol, especially since it has taken some prisoners. The other day the _garde champêtre_ detected soldiers stealing along amongst the vines, but not daring to go near them himself, hurried into the village and reported it to the sergeant-major, Oliphant, who lost no time in despatching a corporal and four mounted gunners in pursuit. The fellows were soon taken and brought in triumph to my house, the _garde champêtre_ stalking at the head of the procession in his cocked-hat and broad _bandoulière_, prisoners between the escort--M. le Maire and some twenty peasants, making more noise with their _sabots_ than the iron hoofs of the horses, bringing up the rear. The unfortunates were Belgians, quite lads, so I held a sort of court-baron in my yard, and upon their expressing great contrition, and begging a thousand pardons, at M. Bonnemain’s request I forgave them, but sent the escort to see them home to Garges, whence they came. The effect on the villagers has been very good--they have all become the most kindly obliging creatures possible, and our men are as thick as brothers with them; I trust this harmony may continue. I have likewise another source of amusement, which makes my residence here more agreeable--I have hired a very good violin, and bought some music. The offhanded liberal manner in which Madame Duhan informed me of the hire, and allowed me to take away the instrument, stranger as I was to her, without any security, surprised me much. I rather think none of our musicsellers in London would lend even their worst instrument to a Frenchman in the same manner. On Thursday last I went to see the Bibliothèque Royale, a magnificent establishment, and where I passed a most delightful morning; it is in the Hotel de Colbert, Rue de Richelieu, from which street the main entrance opens into a square court surrounded by the building, and having in its centre a naked statue of Diana in bronze, of fine execution, but in my opinion misplaced here.

The library occupies two entire and part of a third side of the quadrangle (about 300,000 volumes), and is on the most liberal footing. Any well-dressed person is freely admitted, and may range about unobstructed; but he must touch nothing. Chairs, tables, pens, and ink, are there for those who wish to write, and servants, in rich liveries of blue and silver lace, are in attendance to furnish the books required. These people are positively forbidden to accept anything from the visitors; and yet no one can be more obligingly attentive. In the Cabinet des Medailles are many curiosities; amongst the most interesting, I thought, were the iron chair of King Dagobert, and a silver disc found in the Rhone, and supposed to have been the shield of Scipio--I don’t know why. Two enormous globes, more than 12 feet in diameter, are mounted on the ground-floor, and circular apertures have been opened in the floor above to admit part of their circumference through it. The fourth side of the quadrangle is a most delightful lounge; it is the Cabinet des Gravures. In this are preserved specimens of the works of every artist of every nation--from the most ancient period down to the present. The collection is immense, and is the constant resort of all the artists of the capital, and a crowd of picture-loving people. I could pass whole days there, so interesting is the collection, and so great the facility of using it. This place occupied my morning so completely that I had barely time to get my _potage à la julienne_, &c., and come home before dark.

_Friday._--It sounds oddly to an English ear, smuggling into a town from the country; but the free circulation that exists throughout our country is unknown here. Everything is examined at the _barrière_. What would our farmers and their wives say if they were liable to be stopped at the gate of every principal town, and their loads of hay, or baskets of eggs, &c., submitted to the scrutiny of excisemen? Several loads of hay preceded me this morning as I rode through the Faubourg St Denis. At the _barrière_ the column was halted, and as the passage was blocked up, I was obliged to wait patiently and see every load as it passed in succession probed through and through by the officers with long iron skewers, to ascertain that nothing was concealed amongst the hay. The signs exhibited by the various shops in Paris are often quaint and amusing. A description of them would fill a volume. The one which calls forth this remark struck me as I entered the Palais Royal this morning from the Rue Vivienne. I don’t well know how to designate the sort of shop which exhibits the sign of the “Gourmand;” they are numerous in this part of the town, and I think more nearly resemble our Italian warehouse than any other. Here is to be procured every dainty that can stimulate the palate--pickles, preserves, hams, tongues, hung-beef, cheese, dried fruits, nuts of all sorts, sauces, dried and cured fish,--in short, everything. The _enseigne_ of this shop represents a fat greedy-looking fellow seated at a table, under which his legs are spread out. The table is covered with every kind of dainty, which, whilst discussing a large salmon, he is eagerly devouring with the eyes. If the Boulevard is amusing for the life and movement it exhibits, so is the Palais Royal in a high degree, and to the charms of the former it adds that of an endless variety of rich and beautiful articles of dress, _vertu_, and a number of others, which employ me incessantly at the windows. The display of elegant little toys in Bobon’s window is scarcely to be surpassed--such little beauties of watches,[25] not larger than half-a-crown, cases most tastefully chased and set in rich pearls; in other shops rich and elegant shawls, _fichus_, and silks, of the most splendid colours; then jewellery, so much taste combined with costliness; then cutlery and works in steel, &c. &c.; and not the least amusing, the numerous cafés or restaurants. The crowd under the arcades is as varied as it is immense. If, on entering from Rue Vivienne, one turns to the right, not many paces in that direction will bring him in front of the favourite haunt of Austrian and Prussian officers. It resembles a great conservatory, being all glass, and is in the garden, not in the house, whence every refreshment has to be brought across the piazza. About 2 or 3 every afternoon this is crowded, and it then reminds me of a glass bee-hive, from the busy stir within, and the facility of observing this from without. The celebrated Café aux Milles Colonnes is not far off, up-stairs about half-way down the next branch. I lounged up to it and was disappointed. A decent _salle_ enough, which, being everywhere panelled with mirrors, the green marble columns are reflected so repeatedly as to give some colour to the appellation assumed by the establishment. There are several rooms; but whether the place is only frequented at night on certain days, or that something _fâcheux_ had occurred, I know not--certain it was not in a state to receive company, wherefore I made no further advance than to the door, and having peeped in, wheeled down-stairs again. Amongst other curiosities of Paris I have often stood and contemplated the air of importance and grave bustle of an establishment unknown to us in London, where the operation in question is performed in a very modest manner in the public streets. This morning I walked into the shop of a fashionable _décrotteur_, that I might see more perfectly all the detail of this most useful business. The _salon_, a large room, was lighted by numerous windows near the ceiling (these, like other artists, affecting a preference for light coming from above: thus I have seen many receiving it through skylights). The handsomest establishment of this kind is in the Passage des Panoramas. A certain degree of taste, too, was visible in the decorations and arrangement of several large mirrors (mirrors are indispensable to a Frenchman). A sort of divan, a few feet broad, extended nearly round the apartment, on which were many gentlemen seated on chairs, gravely reading the daily papers; whilst one foot, raised on a sort of iron resembling the scraper at a door, was being operated on by a journeyman _décrotteur_, who rubbed and polished away with most admirable despatch and dexterity. In the middle of the room stood the master-spirit, superintending the active operations of his myrmidons, receiving the acknowledgment for services performed, ushering the one out of the shop and the other up to the divans, conversing with the newly-arrived aspirants, and doing the amiable everywhere. A good-looking, well-dressed man this master-shoeblack, who might easily be mistaken for a minister.

Disappointment awaits the man who, having read or heard the French account of any place in France or the French dominions, expects to find it realised, or even nearly so. With them all is exaggeration and bombast; even the accounts of their most respectable and veracious writers, in all matters relating to France or the French, must be received _cum grano salis_. Disappointment certainly was mine after reading and hearing so much of the several gardens (as Frascatin, Tivoli, the Jardins Turc and du Prince) when I turned into the latter of these two celebrated places in the Boulevard du Temple. Certes, I took it _en déshabillé_, for the evening and by lamp-light is its hour of triumph, and then I am here always. The guide-book speaks of “un jardin agréable.” What did I find? Certainly no garden--a yard (gravelled) divided by hedges (such ones as may be expected in a town) into several compartments, in which are a few boxes; one side bounded by the _salle_, with its usual accompaniments--the others, by gables or back walls of the neighbouring houses; figure irregular, and space very confined. Having nothing fixed for Friday, I made a wandering day of it. Up one gloomy street, down another; at last found myself in the Place des Innocens, in which is held the principal vegetable-market of Paris. The Place is large but gloomy; houses very high, of a dark-coloured stone, and in the usual French style, windows open, and exhibiting all the variety of clothes hanging to dry, flowers, rich curtains and common ones, &c. &c., incident to buildings inhabited by so many different families. The area presented a varied, characteristic, and moreover an interesting picture. The whole space was covered with large umbrellas, fixed upright over the different tables, &c., the convex surfaces of which, of all the hues of the rainbow (pink predominating), reminded me strongly of the _testudo_ of the ancients. Amidst these arose, to the height of some forty or fifty feet, the noble Fontaine des Innocens, with its fine _nappes d’eau_. Not only the Marché itself, but the Rue de la Ferronnerie, and several adjacent ones, seem quite the focus of business, such stir and bustle do they present. The profusion of fruits and vegetables in this market is remarkable, more particularly when it is remembered that not only Paris itself, but also the whole neighbouring country, is occupied by countless hosts of foreigners. The old ladies, seated under their immense umbrellas (formed generally of alternate pink and white breadths), or stumping about in their _sabots_, give a very animated air to this scene, which, however, is rendered less pleasing from the overpowering smell of decayed and decaying vegetable matter profusely strewed over the pavement. It is an amusing place this Marché, and although only now mentioned, I have visited it more than once. Besides this, there are numerous other markets in different parts of the town, the neatest of which, and one that I always have pleasure in passing through, because always clean, is the Marché des Jacobins, off the Rue St Honoré, and not far from the Place Vendome. Speaking of these markets reminds me of the Abattoir de Montmartre, which I frequently pass in my way in or out of town, one of several buildings in different quarters destined for the slaughter of cattle--a most excellent arrangement, since the blood and filth which usually pollute the kennels in the neighbourhood of our slaughter-houses, the disgusting stench arising from them, and the consequent deterioration and unhealthiness of the surrounding atmosphere, are completely obviated.

Yesterday (Saturday) I devoted to another visit to the Louvre and its interesting collections. What crowds of English and other foreigners! The gallery of pictures exhibits just now a new feature--French and other artists, with their easels, &c., busily employed copying many of the pictures of which they are soon to be deprived. Among them, working with the utmost composure, were two or three women. But women mix themselves up in every transaction in this country--even in war, as has been illustrated in the formation of our Amazonian battalion at Stain. Somehow or another the statues have more attraction for me than the pictures. The _salles_ are less crowded than the gallery, consequently one is quieter and more at liberty to contemplate these admirable sculptures at leisure. The naming of these, however, appears to me very gratuitous, and I much doubt whether one half of those in the catalogues are properly designated. Faun is a very vague term. What absorbing reflections arise in the mind whilst wandering amongst this collection of cold marble stones! Even when, as has happened occasionally, I have been the only individual in the vast apartment, it has been hard to fancy myself alone, so surrounded by beauteous forms, amongst which such perfect harmony of expression reigns--not an attitude or gesture amongst them but what is ease and elegance; nothing constrained, nothing proud, forced, or unnatural; in all, passion, emotion, repose and tranquillity, love, anger, joy, sorrow--all, all expressed by these marble stones in language not to be misunderstood. How powerful is the imagination! These forms address themselves peculiarly to it. Some excite a train of thought associated intimately, I might say inseparably, with historical recollections; others, again, are associated with sensations of voluptuousness, which, however repressed, cannot be excluded entirely--beautiful rounded forms associated with our sense of feeling, and conveying to the too ready imagination ideas of softness and elasticity. How much more we should appreciate these splendid specimens of human skill and conception, could we contemplate them separately and alone, instead of thus jumbled together and in public. In the Salle d’Apollon, however, I think this inimitable statue rather favoured by his company, amongst which are several Egyptian statues, the constrained positions of which--knees pressed together, arms hanging straight down by the side, stiff draperies, and angular ornaments--contrast strikingly with the elegant contour and graceful attitude of this masterpiece by an unknown hand. In this same _salle_ are two chairs in beautiful _rouge_ antique, both of them found in the Roman baths, and said to have been used in the middle ages at the inauguration of the Popes. Pius VI. restored them to the Museum of the Vatican as antiques, and thence they came here.

I cannot admire the coloured walls of these _salles_: there is something in them that does not accord with the severity of statuary, and it struck me that one uniform tint, perhaps maroon, would considerably enhance the _éclat_ of these fine statues. Nor do I admire these imitations of nature being perched upon pedestals: were the Venus, for instance, placed on the floor, or on a low platform as the Apollo is, I think it would add considerably to her interest. Every visit to this splendid collection adds to my wonder and admiration, and I returned yesterday evening with my mind full of enthusiasm for the science which could so nobly conceive, and the art which could so skilfully execute, these exquisite productions of the chisel.