| PARIS IN 1814. | 175 |
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’Tis light and air again; and lo! the Seine,
Yon boasted, lazy, lurid, fetid drain!
With paper booths and painted trees o’erlaid,
Baths, blankets, wash-tubs, every thing but trade.
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Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd,
Naked, contagious, cringing, and yet proud.
The whole a mass of folly, filth, and strife,
Of heated, rank, corrupting reptile life.
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The year 1813 departed amid such an extraordinary dense atmosphere, that its vale was truly written—
Eighteen hundred and thirteen, I bid you adieu, In the dark to eternity jog; Before you took leave you had got out of view, And now you are lost in a fog. |
| 176 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
The famous Frost Fair on the Thames, when sheep were roasted, or rather scorched, whole on the ice; and printing-presses did their best for the ready, useless, and popular authorship of the day—as if there were not always ice and coldness enough in the world for authors of every sort—also took place this season; and the public was fleeced by the productions on both sides, which were rather dear, though sold cheap. The ice, fortunately, did not last long enough to create a new literature, like the railroads in our time.
The British Institution for the exhibition, sale, and reward of works of Art asserted its important mission in a way to fix and raise it in universal estimation, and it was my pleasing task (on which I look back with unmitigated satisfaction) to commence that course of especial attention to the subject of the Fine Arts, and the merits of our native school, in which I never ceased to exert my utmost power during the six-and-thirty years that have since elapsed, and whilst I held the pen of a periodical writer in publications of sufficient authority to guide the judgment and influence the taste of the country. In this respect I fear not the accusation of egotism; but as I shall have to speak more at large on the matter, at a later period, I will now only invite my readers to look at the relation of the press to our national arts, and the condition of the latter before I began and set the example of this practice, and their positions in the present day: forty years ago they hardly obtained an occasional and scanty notice, and in 1852 there is no species of publicity that is not accorded to them. There is, no doubt, much of ignorance and folly mixed up with the innovation, but altogether it has a very material tendency to foster the arts and benefit artists.
| PARIS IN 1814. | 177 |
The famous stock-jobbing hoax helped to enliven the home circles; but Buonaparte was not dead though its contrivers said he was, yet driven to his last resources, and finally compelled to resign his imperial crown, and assume the less prominent regalia of Elba; an account of which island, by the by, I afterwards published in an octavo volume, now, I dare say, “scarce,” at least, I have not a copy, nor do I know where to get one.* I shall have to beg the favour of my friends in “Notes and Queries” to help me to repair some of my vacuities, should the appearance of this volume fail to stir up the kindness of other friends to the “Articles Wanted.”
Yet though Napoleon was alive his dominion was over, and France was opened to the incursions of every description of travellers, and a rush was made to see the country which had been all but hermetically sealed against English footsteps and English eyes since the rupture of the truce (peace?) of Amiens. It may readily be imagined that the conductor of a ministerial newspaper must have had an irresistible vocation to visit Paris; and, by the favour of my friend, Mr. Freeling, I secured the earliest passage, by the first regular packet, the “Lady Francis,” in which I sailed from Dover on the 19th of April, leaving Mr. Robert Clarke my able locum tenens in the glorifying “Sun!” Two days later Buonaparte quitted Fontainebleau for his destination, and I was disappointed in my object to see the conquered Conqueror about whom I had written and printed so much, ever opposing his hostility, and ever hoping (and ultimately predicting) his fall. Strange was it, and is it, to me that the adherence to him among Englishmen should
* Voyage to the Isle of Elba, by W. Jerdan, from the French of Arsenne de Berneaud, who had recently visited the. Island, dedicated to Mr. Charles Long. June, 1814. Longman & Co. |
| 178 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
On the shore at Dover I witnessed an incident which would have inspired
Sterne with an exquisite picture of sentiment,
but which, as mine was not a sentimental journey, I shall merely notice. A beautiful young
lady, apparently little more, if more, than twenty years of age, was landed from the
opposite coast from a boat; and the moment she touched free British ground, she threw
herself on her knees upon it, literally embraced it with her outstretched arms, and amid a
flood of tears breathed blessings upon it
| PARIS IN 1814. | 179 |
The landing at Calais was a novelty and a treat, and the journey to Paris
in a hired cabriolet, from M. Quillaeq, of Dessein’s Hotel (hire
100 francs) as widely different from the present mode as if centuries had elapsed. The name
of Buonaparte was, generally, most irreverently and
even abusively mentioned by all classes, whose motives I do not seek to investigate, but
simply state the fact; only venturing to hint that the expected influx of English money,
the desire to please English visitors, the real feeling of a release from oppression, a
wish for peace, a love of change, the presence of foreign troops in larger or smaller
numbers throughout the provinces, and above all, the detestation of the conscription, which
had drained the people to the last extremity, might contribute, altogether, to the
rejoicing with which the great change in the national system was hailed. It is strictly
true that on the entire road from Calais to Paris, I hardly met or saw, any men in the
prime of life, except the postillions who drove us—all had been torn away by the ruthless
requisitions of war: old men, women, and children, were performing every work of husbandry
and business, and yet the hedgeless lands seemed to be teeming with plenty, the corn crops
rich and promising, the trees fruitful, the farm produce of poultry, eggs, and vegetables
abundant, but no show of cattle or sheep, and but for the absence of the male population
and the severe labour imposed on women, who were literally doing the work of the horses
consumed in warfare, everything wearing a smile of
| 180 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
From Boulogne to the capital was one exhibition of white flags; and
Russian and Prussian troops were scattered about the famous invasion tower, from which the
English shores had been contemplated with many a wistful look! Travelling and changing
horses through a very cold night, my companion a French gentleman, we breakfasted at
Beauvais, and at 6 p.m., thirty-six hours from Calais, arrived at Paris. On the route near
Noilles and its fine ancient chateau, and between that place and the capital, I met or
passed Russian or Prussian regiments: in one instance, where a body of Prussian Lancers
proceeding to the coast, and about an equal number of French Guards on their way to Paris,
to take the duty of receiving Louis XVIII., happened to
cross each other on the road, I observed that not a salute was exchanged, and they passed
each other in utter silence. A little beyond Beauvais I encountered the first Cossack I saw
in France. He was riding alone with his spear in the rest, patroling in fearless security a
central province of ancient France. Hence, not only had every town and village its quota of
military quartered on it, but almost every hut on the wayside lodged a quondam hostile and
now victorious tenant; and bearded natives of the Steppes and mail-clad cuirassiers
| PARIS IN 1814. | 181 |
The road into Paris lay partly through the battle-scene of Montmartre, where the possession of the capital was conquered, and the allies achieved the reward of all their arduous struggles. The vestiges of the cannonade were still visible; and, here and there, lay a dead horse or two, which there had not been time to bury; but the so lately blood-stained soil, encumbered with the mutilated corses of the slain, seemed as green and fresh as if its pastoral quiet had never been broken by the loud artillery, or the cannon dragged over the slippery ground, the traces of which the plough and harrow were now effacing. The windmills on the heights were waving their industrious arms, and the chanson of the peasants below rang delightfully, where the strife of mortal combat had covered the maternal earth with carnage, and poisoned the heavenly air with dying groans.
The Faubourg of St. Denis exhibited more unmistakable marks of the recent
conflict. Like Soult at Toulouse, Marmont protracted the defence of Paris almost beyond the
limits of pardon, when it, at last, after the storming of Montmartre and Belleville, lay
prostrate at the mercy of the allied conquerors. Happily for humanity and the inhabitants,
the battery and palisades, which I saw still remaining in force by the gate of St. Denis,
and commanding the road by which an enemy would approach, were never manned or defended by
the troops, which had disputed the advance, at every favourable point, for thirty long
miles, and caused no inconsiderable loss to the allies, whilst their own good positions
saved them from commensurate retribution. Had this last position been disputed, Paris would
have been stormed and sacked; as it was, nothing but the moderation of the victors, and
| 182 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
But they are a gay and giddy people; and, to say the truth, in less than
two days, seemed to care nothing about the change, but rather to enjoy the novel sights
that filled up every hour, with an increased and increasing relish. One emperor appeared as
good as another to them. The Russian autocrat was a general favourite; but I witnessed the
horses taken from the Emperor Francis of
Austria’s carriage by the populace, and his Majesty drawn by Parisians to the Odeon
theatre! Between the Prussians and the French the fiercest animosity prevailed; and it was
often difficult to keep parties of them from daggers drawing, when they encountered each
other in public. Terms of contempt and hatred were bandied about, and the Pruss would spit
disdainfully, so as almost to alight upon the passing Frenchman. Quarrels by day and
assassinations by night were frequent; and one remarkable affair, of
| PARIS IN 1814. | 183 |
| 184 | AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. |
About twenty or twenty-five letters containing my Journal of Parisian events, were printed in the “Sun,” during the ensuing months, under the signature of “Viator,” and something of this encounter was stated, the truth of which a Paris paper ventured to question; but there could not be a doubt of the fact; and there were other acts of violence and bloodshed covered by darkness, which would have added fearfully to the mass of evils which deformed society (kept smooth on the surface) had they been permitted to see the light. The Morgue, and its suicidal and murdered tenants, every morning told a terrible tale of the effects of the gaming-houses, and the “allied occupation” within the twenty-four hours preceding.
Having mentioned the gaming-tables, I may observe that the veteran Blucher was one of their most assiduous nightly attendants. Attired in a rusty black coat and old blue trousers, with no order but the common iron cross of the soldiery on his breast, and sometimes without that, he would sit down and lose rouleau after rouleau of gold, giving his moustache a twist and trying another venture. He appeared to be invariably a victim; and so far, France was revenged of his mortal hostility.
And again, having mentioned orders, I must relate the mot ascribed to the Duke of
Wellington, and circulated at this time. Blucher’s hatred of the country and its people was so intense, that
he would not use the language in conversation, and absolutely refused the illustrious
honour of the Holy Ghost, with which the grateful King
Louis was anxious to decorate him. The Duke endeavoured to persuade the
Marshal to accept the distinction, but he obstinately refused,
| PARIS IN 1814. | 185 |
The Parisians go about, snivelling and snuffling; They may just as well let it alone.—Baron Muffling. |
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