Part 7

Dismounting, manfully, I have lately undertaken a far more serious enterprise—that of making the entire circuit of Paris, on foot. My companion was our old friend Capt. ——. We met, by appointment, at eleven o’clock, just without the _barrière de Clichy_, and, ordering the carriage to come for us at five, off we started, taking the direction of the eastern side of the town. You probably know that what are commonly called the _boulevards_ of Paris, are no more than a circular line of wide streets, through the very heart of the place, which obtain their common appellation from the fact that they occupy the sites of the ancient walls. Thus the street, within this circuit, is called by its name, whatever it may happen to be, and, if continued without the circuit, the term of _fauxbourg_ or suburb is added; as in the case of the “_rue St. Honoré_,” and the “_rue fauxbourg St. Honoré_,” the latter being strictly a continuation of the former, but lying without the site of the ancient walls. As the town has increased, it has been found necessary to enlarge its _enceinte_, and the walls are now encircled with wide avenues that are called the outer _boulevards_. There are avenues within and without the walls, and immediately beneath them; and, in many places, both are planted. Our route was on the exterior.

We began the march in good spirits, and by twelve, we had handsomely done our four miles and a half. Of course we passed the different _barrières_, and the gate of _Père la Chaise_. The captain commenced with great vigour, and for near two hours, as he expressed himself, he had me a little on his lee quarter, not more, however, he thought, than was due to his superior rank, for he had once been my senior, as a midshipman. At the _barrière du trone_ we were compelled to diverge a little from the wall, in order to get across the river by the _pont d’Austerlitz_. By this time, I had ranged up abeam of the commodore, and I proposed that we should follow the river, up as far as the wall again, in order to do our work honestly. But to this he objected that he had no wish to puzzle himself with spherical trigonometry, that plane sailing was his humour at the moment, and that he had, moreover, just discovered that one of his boots pinched his foot. Accordingly we proceeded straight from the bridge, not meeting the wall again until we were beyond the _abattoir_. These _abattoirs_ are slaughter-houses, that Napoleon caused to be built, near the walls, in some places within, and in others without them, according to the different localities. There are five or six of them, that of _Montmartre_ being the most considerable. They are kept in excellent order, and the regulations respecting them appear to be generally good. The butchers sell their meats, in shops, all over the town, a general custom in Europe, and one that has more advantages than disadvantages, as it enables the inhabitant to order a meal at any moment. This independence in the mode of living distinguishes all the large towns of this part of the world from our own; for I greatly question if there be any civilized people among whom the individual is as much obliged to consult the habits and tastes of _all_, in gratifying his own, as in free and independent America. A part of this uncomfortable feature in our domestic economy, is no doubt the result of circumstances unavoidably connected with the condition of a young country, but a great deal is to be ascribed to the practice of referring every thing to the public, and not a little to those religious sects who extended their supervision to all the affairs of life, that had a chief concern in settling the country, and who have entailed so much that is inconvenient and ungraceful (I might almost say, in some instances, _disgraceful_) on the nation, blended with so much that forms its purest sources of pride. Men are always an inconsistent medley of good and bad.

The captain and myself had visited the _abattoir_ of _Montmartre_ only a few days previously to this excursion, and we had both been much gratified with its order and neatness. But an unfortunate pile of hocks, hoofs, tallow, and nameless fragments of carcasses, had caught my companion’s eye. I found him musing over this _omnium gatherum_, which he protested was worse than a bread pudding at Saratoga. By some process of reasoning, that was rather material than philosophical, he came to the conclusion that the substratum of all the extraordinary compounds he had met with at the _restaurants_ was derived from this pile, and he swore, as terribly as any of “our army in Flanders,” that not another mouthful would he touch, while he remained in Paris, if the dish put his knowledge of natural history at fault. He had all along suspected he had been eating cats and vermin, but his imagination had never pictured to him such a store of abominations for the _casserole_, as were to be seen in this pile. In vain I asked him if he did not find the dishes good. Cats might be good for any thing he knew, but he was too old to change his habits. On the present occasion, he made the situation of the _abattoir d’Ivry_ an excuse for not turning up the river, by the wall. I do not think, however, we gained any thing in the distance, the _détour_ to cross the bridge more than equaling the ground we missed.

We came under the wall again, at the _barrière de Ville Juif_, and followed it, keeping on the side next the town, until we fairly reached the river, once more, beyond _Vaugirard_. Here we were compelled to walk some distance to cross the _Pont de Jéne_, and again to make a considerable circuit through Passy, on account of the gardens, in order to do justice to our task. About this time, the commodore fairly fell astern; and he discovered that the other boot was too large. I kept talking to him over my shoulder, and cheering him on, and he felicitated me on frogs agreeing so well with my constitution. At length, we came in at the _barrière de Clichy_, just as the clocks struck three, or in four hours, to a minute, from the time we had left the same spot. We had neither stopped, eaten, nor drunk a mouthful. The distance is supposed to be about eighteen miles, but I can hardly think it is so much, for we went rather further than if we had closely followed the wall.

Our agility having greatly exceeded my calculations, we were obliged to walk two miles further, in order to find the carriage. The time expended in going this distance included, we were just four hours and a half on our feet. The captain protested that his boots had disgraced him, and forthwith commanded another pair; a subterfuge that did him no good.

One anecdote connected with the sojourn of this eccentric, but really excellent-hearted and intelligent man,[8] at Paris, is too good not to be told. He cannot speak a word of pure French, and of all Anglicizing of the language, I have ever heard, his attempts at it are the most droll. He calls the _Tuileries_, Tully_rees_, the _jardins des plantes_ the _garden dis plants_, the _guillotine_, _gullyteen_, and the _garçons_ of the _cafés_, _gassons_. Cholerick, with whiskers like a bear, and a voice of thunder, if any thing goes wrong, he swears away, starboard and larboard, in French and English, in delightful discord.

Footnote 8:

He is since dead.

He sought me out, soon after his arrival, and carried me with him, as an interpreter, in quest of lodgings. We found a very snug little apartment of four rooms, that he took. The last occupant was a lady, who in letting the rooms, conditioned that _Marie_, her servant, must be hired with them, to look after the furniture, and to be in readiness to receive her, at her return from the provinces. A few days after this arrangement I called, and was surprised, on ringing the bell, to hear the cry of an infant. After a moment’s delay the door was cautiously opened, and the captain in his gruffest tone demanded, “_cur vully voo_?” An exclamation of surprize, at seeing me, followed; but instead of opening the door for my admission, he held it, for a moment, as if undecided whether to be “at home” or not. At this critical instant an infant cried again, and the thing became too ridiculous for further gravity. We both laughed outright. I entered and found the captain with a child three days old, tucked under his right arm, or that which had been concealed by the door. The explanation was very simple, and infinitely to his credit.

Marie, the _locum tenens_ of the lady who had let the apartment, and the wife of a coachman who was in the country, was the mother of the infant. After its birth, she presented herself to her new master; told her story, adding, by means of an interpreter, that if he turned her away, she had no place in which to lay her head. The kind-hearted fellow made out to live abroad as well as he could, for a day or two; an easy thing enough in Paris, by the way; and when I so unexpectedly entered, Marie was actually cooking the captain’s breakfast in the kitchen, while he was nursing the child in the _salon_!

The dialogues between the captain and Marie, were, to the last degree, amusing. He was quite unconscious of the odd sounds he uttered in speaking French, but thought he was getting on very well, being rather minute and particular in his orders; and she felt his kindness to herself and child so sensibly, that she always fancied she understood his wishes. I was frequently compelled to interpret between them, first asking him to explain himself in English, for I could make but little of his French, myself. On one occasion, he invited me to breakfast, as we were to pass the day exploring, in company. By way of inducement, he told me that he had accidentally found some cocoa in the shell, and that he had been teaching Marie how to cook it, “ship-fashion.” I would not promise, as his hour was rather early, and the distance between us so great; but before eleven I would certainly be with him. I breakfasted at home, therefore, but was punctual to the latter engagement. “I hope you have breakfasted?” cried the captain, rather fiercely, as I entered. I satisfied him on this point, and then, after a minute of demure reflection, he resumed, “you are lucky, for Marie boiled the cocoa, and, after throwing away the liquor, she buttered and peppered the shells, and served them for me to eat! I don’t see how she made such a mistake, for I was very particular in my directions, and be d—d to her. I don’t care so much about my own breakfast, neither, for that can be had at the next _café_, but the poor creature has lost hers, which I told her to cook out of the rest of the cocoa.” I had the curiosity to inquire how he had made out to tell _Marie_ to do all this. “Why, I showed her the cocoa, to be sure, and then told her to “_boily vousmême_.” There was no laughing at this, and so I went with the captain to a _café_, after which we proceeded in quest of the “_gullyteen_,” which he was particularly anxious to see.

My rides often extend to the heights behind Malmaison and St. Cloud, where there is a fine country, and where some of the best views, in the vicinity of Paris, are to be obtained. As the court is at St. Cloud, I often meet different members of the royal family, dashing to or from town, or perhaps passing from one of their abodes to another. The style is pretty uniform, for I do not remember to have ever met the king, but once, with less than eight horses. The exception, was quite early one morning, when he was going into the country with very little _éclat_, accompanied by the Dauphine. Even on this occasion, he was in a carriage and six, followed by another with four, and attended by a dozen mounted men. These royal progresses are truly magnificent; and they serve greatly to enliven the road, as we live so near the country palace. The king has been quite lately to a camp, formed at St. Omer, and I happened to meet a portion of his equipages on their return. The carriages I saw were very neatly built post-chaises, well leathered, and contained what are here called the “officers of the mouth,” alias “cooks and purveyors.” They were all drawn by four horses. This was a great occasion—furniture being actually sent from the palace of Compèigne for the king’s lodgings, and the court is said to have employed seventy different vehicles to transport it. I saw about a dozen.

Returning the other night from a dinner party, given on the banks of the Seine, a few miles above us, I saw flaring lights gleaming along the highway, which, at first, caused nearly as much conjecture as some of the adventures of Don Quixote. My horse proving a little restive, I pulled up, placing the _cabriolet_ on one side of the road, for the first impression was that the cattle employed at some funeral procession had taken flight, and were running away. It proved to be the Dauphine dashing towards St. Cloud. This was the first time I had ever met any of the royal equipages at night, and the passage was much the most picturesque of any I had hitherto seen. Footmen, holding flaming flambeaux, rode in pairs, in front, by the side of the carriage, and in its rear; the _piqueur_ scouring along the road in advance, like a rocket. By the way, a lady of the court told me lately, that Louis XVIIIth had lost some of his French by the emigration, for he did not know how to pronounce this word _piqueur_.

On witnessing all this magnificence, the mind is carried back a few generations, in the inquiry after the progress of luxury, and the usages of our fathers. Coaches were first used in England in the reign of Elizabeth. It is clear enough, by the pictures in the Louvre, that in the time of Louis XIVth the royal carriages were huge, clumsy vehicles, with at least three seats. _Mademoiselle de Montpensier_, in her Memoirs, tells us how often she took her place at the window, in order to admire the graceful attitudes of _M. de Lauzun_, who rode near it. There is still in existence, in the _Bibliothèque du Roi_, a letter of Henry IVth to Sully, in which the king explains to the grand master, the reason why he could not come to the arsenal that day: the excuse being that the queen _was using the carriage_! To-day his descendant seldom moves at a pace slower than ten miles the hour, is drawn by eight horses, and is usually accompanied by one or more empty vehicles, of equal magnificence, to receive him, in the event of an accident.

Notwithstanding all this regal splendour, the turn-outs of Paris, as a whole, are by no means remarkable. The genteelest, and the fashionable, carriage is the chariot. I like the proportions of the French carriages better than those of the English, or our own: the first being too heavy, and the last too light. The French vehicles appear to me to be, in this respect, a happy medium. But the finish is by no means equal to that of the English carriages, nor at all better than that of ours. There are, relatively, a large proportion of shabby-genteel equipages at Paris. Even the vehicles that are seen standing in the court of the _Tuileries_, on a reception day, are not at all superior to the better sort of American carriages, though the liveries are much more showy.

Few people here, own the carriages and horses they use. Even the strangers, who are obliged to have travelling vehicles, rarely use them in town, the road and the streets requiring very different sorts of equipages. There are certain job-dealers who furnish all that is required, for a stipulated sum. You select the carriage and horses, on trial, and contract at so much a month, or at so much a year. The coachman usually comes with the equipage, as does the footman sometimes, though both are paid by the person taking the coach. They will wear your livery, if you choose, and, you can have your arms put on the carriage, if desirable. I pay five hundred francs a month for a carriage and horses, and forty francs for a coachman. I believe this is the usual price. I have a right to have a pair of horses, always at my command, finding nothing but the stable, and even this would be unnecessary in Paris. If we go away from our own stable, I pay five francs a day, extra. There is a very great convenience to strangers, in particular, in this system, for one can set up, and lay down a carriage, without unnecessary trouble or expense, as it may be wanted. In every thing of this nature, we have no town that has the least the character, or the conveniences, of a capital.

The French have little to boast of in the way of horse flesh. Most of the fine coach and cabriolet cattle of Paris come from Mecklenburg, though some are imported from England. It is not common to meet with a very fine animal of the native breed. In America, land is so plenty and so cheap, that we keep a much larger proportion of brute force than is kept here. It is not uncommon with us to meet with those who live by day’s work, using either oxen or horses. The consequence is, that many beasts are raised with little care, and with scarcely any attention to the breeds. We find many bad horses, therefore, in America, but still we find many good ones. In spite of bad grooming, little training, and hard work, I greatly question if even England possesses a larger proportion of good horses, comparing the population of the two countries, than America. Our animals are quicker footed, and at trotting, I suspect, we could beat the world; Christendom, certainly. The great avenue between the garden of the _Tuileries_ and the _Bois de Boulogne_, with the _allées_ of the latter, are the places to meet the fast goers of the French capital, and I am strongly of opinion that there is no such exhibition of speed, in either, as one meets on the Third Avenue of New York. As for the _Avenue de Neuilly_, our sulky riders would vanish like the wind from any thing I have seen on it, although one meets there, occasionally, fine animals from all parts of Europe.

The cattle of the _diligences_, of the post houses, and even of the cavalry of France, are solid, hardy and good feeders, but they are almost entirely without speed or action. The two former are very much the same, and it is a hard matter to get more than eight miles out of them, without breaking into a gallop, or more than ten, if put under the whip. Now, a short time previously to leaving home, I went eleven measured miles, in a public coach, in two minutes less than an hour, the whip untouched. I sat on the box, by the side of the driver, and know that this was done under a pull that actually disabled one of his arms, and that neither of the four animals broke its trot. It is not often our roads will admit of this, but, had we the roads of England, I make little doubt we should altogether outdo her in speed. As for the horses used here, in the public conveyances, and for the post routes, they are commonly compact, clumsy beasts, with less force than their shape would give reason to suppose. Their manes are long and shaggy, the fetlocks are rarely trimmed, the shoes are seldom corked, and, when there is a little coquetry, the tail is braided. In this trim, with a coarse harness, that is hardly ever cleaned, traces of common rope, and half the time no blinkers or reins, away they scamper, with their heads in all directions, like the classical representation of a team in an ancient car, through thick and thin, working with all their might to do two posts within an hour; one, being the legal measure. These animals appear to possess a strange _bonhomie_, being obedient, willing, and tractable, although, in the way of harness and reins, they are pretty much their own masters.

My excursions in the environs have made me acquainted with a great variety of modes of communication between the capital and its adjacent villages. Although Paris is pared down so accurately, and is almost without suburbs, the population, within a circuit of ten miles in each direction, is almost equal to that of Paris itself. St. Denis has several thousands, St. Germain the same, and Versailles is still a town of considerable importance. All these places, with villages out of number, keep up daily intercourse with the city, and in addition to the hundreds of vegetable carts that constantly pass to and fro, there are many conveyances that are exclusively devoted to passengers. The cheapest and lowest is called a _coucou_, for no reason that I can see, unless it be that a man looks very like a fool to have a seat in one of them. They are large _cabriolets_, with two and even three seats. The wheels are enormous, and there is commonly a small horse harnessed by the side of a larger, in the thills, to drag perhaps eight or nine people. One is amazed to see the living carrion that is driven about a place like Paris, in these uncouth vehicles. The river is so exceedingly crooked, that it is little used by travellers above Rouen.