LETTER XXVI.
Te Deum sung at Notre Dame, in honour of the peace and the reestablishment of religion.—Military insolence.—Account of the ceremony.—Illuminations in the evening.—Indifference of the people.
Paris, april the 18th, 1802, Easter Sunday (28 germinal.)
MY DEAR SIR,
To day will probably be long remembered in the annals of France, on account of the promulgation of the law for (“l’établissement des cultes”) the reestablishment of religion; on account of the definitive treaty of peace with England, the ratifications of which were exchanged this morning at the Thuilleries; and of the “Te Deum” sung at Notre Dame, in honour of these united events.
I wished very much to be present at a ceremony, which was rendered so particularly interesting by the number of curious concurring circumstances, too obvious to be detailed. Having no ticket, I went to the church at six o’clock in the morning, hoping to make my way, among the crowd, into those places, which were not appropriated to the constituted authorities. The doors were not open; and about a hundred persons, who were already arrived, stood enclosed in a kind of barrier, which seemed to have been put up for the purpose of preventing too great a press at the first opening of the gates. I placed myself against this bar, and hoped to gain admittance in the second division. I was soon followed and surrounded by a considerable crowd; and, after we had all remained about two hours in this uncomfortable state, a detachment of soldiers arrived, and attempted instantly to clear a passage. We were already so squeezed together, that it was impossible to make room for the military, without either losing our places, or incurring the danger of suffocation. When the soldiers perceived that, notwithstanding the blows which they dealt around them without ceremony, the people did not immediately make way, they lost all patience; and, not content with fixing their bayonets, called out for a detachment of horse. The brandishing of the one, and the fear of the other, soon dispersed the mob; but not till some had been wounded, and several severely bruised.
I could not help reflecting, with some degree of indignation, on this singular scene. In England, under a monarchical form of government, the military are not allowed to interfere, but in cases of positive danger, or actual insurrection; and even then under the orders of a civil magistrate. In France, where the system is called “republican,” and every man supposed to constitute a part of the sovereignty, the body of the people, coming quietly to see the first solemn service of that religion, which is said to be restored in compliance with their wishes, are driven with blows and military violence from the doors of that church, in which peace, liberty, equality, and good order, are about to be celebrated. Perhaps, indeed, it may be urged, that this was only a necessary precaution of the police, and that the object of the guard was to prevent that riot and danger to which the public, not so protected, would have been exposed. The answer is plain. If it was thought necessary to maintain order by the assistance of the military power, the sentinels ought to have been placed the preceding night, or at the dawn of morning. It was adding insult to cruelty, to permit the people to assemble, and after the loss of several hours, and the endurance of great fatigue, to dismiss them in the manner I have described.
It is needless for me to say, that I soon relinquished all hope of getting into the church, and thought myself happy in being able to make my escape unhurt from the claws of these heroes.
In going away, I perceived at the window of an adjoining hospital, nearly opposite the church, some ladies of my acquaintance, who were so obliging as to offer me a place near them, from which I might see the procession.
I had scarcely taken this situation, when a ticket for one of the privileged places in the church was given me by a person, who was unwilling to risk the difficulties, with which the approach to the doors seemed attended. After being sent about to different gates, I at last found admittance at one. When I reached the gallery, it was so completely full, that I found myself compelled to take refuge in the orchestra. From this situation I was again driven by the soldiers; and in despair I returned to the gallery, where, standing on the back of a tottering chair, and with at least twenty rows of spectators before me, I caught, not without some danger, a very imperfect glimpse of this splendid ceremony.
What I did not see myself, I shall relate on the authority of persons, who were more fortunately situate, and on whose accuracy I know I can depend.
The procession began with a numerous escort of different regiments. Among these were particularly remarked “les guides,” a corps of handsome young men, clad in hussar dresses, and mounted on beautiful horses, who excited universal admiration. Next to them came the “gens d’armes,” or “régiment d’élites,” lately raised. They are men of a very respectable appearance, in blue uniforms, faced with yellow, whence long epaulets are suspended. These, as well as the buttons, are of silver, as is the lace of their hats. Their horses are black. The consular guards, and several regiments of the line, completed the military cavalcade. The ministers of state, and the “corps diplomatique,” came next, and formed a long line of carriages. Those of the latter were drawn each by four horses, and ornamented with all the escutcheons of heraldic pomp. Those of the former were without arms; but they had all six horses, and their servants, dressed alike, wore splendid liveries, now put on for the first time, of yellow, gold, and red. A small corps of Mamalukes in their egyptian costume, some of whom led unmounted arabians, and a few aides-de-camp, immediately preceded the carriage, in which sat Bonaparte, accompanied by the other two consuls. His coach, new on the occasion, was simply elegant, and drawn by eight very fine horses richly caparisoned. His servants appeared in green coats and red waistcoats, on all the seams of which were rows of broad gold lace. The consuls were received at the door of the church by the archbishop of Paris, who placed over their head a dais (or canopy).
Bonaparte, with Cambacères on his right, and le Brun on his left hand, was conducted in this manner to a throne erected near the altar, under which their three chairs were placed. A similar throne appeared opposite, in which sat the cardinal legate.
The bishops bowed first to the altar, secondly to the consul, and lastly to the cardinal. This was remarked by the public; as, under the monarchy, the representative of the pope was permitted to receive this homage before the sovereign of the country.
The oath settled by the concordat having been taken by the clergy, high mass was instantly said.
At the conclusion of this ceremony, M. de Boisgelin, formerly archbishop of Aix, lately named archbishop of Tours, ascended the pulpit, and delivered a discourse appropriate to the occasion. I regretted much, that the distance at which I was placed was so great, that it was impossible for me to hear the venerable preacher, who excited no little curiosity, from the singularity of his situation. He is the same man, who, at the “sacre” or coronation, of Lewis XVI, preached before that unfortunate monarch. His sermon will, no doubt, be published in the “moniteur,” where you will have an opportunity of seeing it.
It was the custom formerly on these occasions, for the bishop, in beginning his discourse, to address himself to the king. A similar form was observed to day, and the expression of “sire” was exchanged for that of “citoyen premier consul.” After the sermon, “Te Deum” was chanted. All the band of the opera house was employed, and Lais and madame Bolla supplied the vocal parts. The effect was fine, yet, comparatively, very inferiour to our musical meetings in Westminster abbey. I heard some connoisseurs object to the air, as not sufficiently grave or dignified for the subject which it was intended to celebrate. As I am totally ignorant of music, I can form no judgment as to the justice of the criticism.
The church was immensely full. The aisle was filled with the military, the different uniforms of which had a splendid effect. Behind the consuls sat the ambassadors, the ministers, and the generals. In a box above, at the entrance of the chapel, was placed madame Bonaparte, accompanied by her daughter and some other ladies. On the other side was a similar box, appropriate to the use of the ladies of the “corps diplomatique.”
The two galleries or choirs, which surround the church, were divided into an orchestra for the music, seats for the different constituted authorities, and places for such individuals as were favoured with tickets. In the latter were of course seen all the persons at Paris most distinguished for situation, talent, or beauty. The coup d’œil altogether was very striking. The procession returned with the same ceremony as that in which it arrived; and all the streets of Paris were lined with spectators.
A discharge of sixty cannon was heard at the departure of the first consul from the Thuilleries; and his arrival at the church, and his return to the palace, were announced in the same manner.
In the evening, the palace was splendidly illuminated. Every division of the arches forming the front towards the garden was covered with lamps, and a lustre of lights was suspended from each. The garden itself was prettily, but less brilliantly, decorated, than on the fête in honour of the preliminaries.
All the public buildings and offices were also lighted; but the only illumination at all remarkable, beside those which I have named, was that of Mr. Jackson, his majesty’s envoy extraordinary. The gates of “l’hôtel de Caramon,” where he lodges, were entirely covered with lamps of different colours; the effect of which was much admired, as at Paris that mode of decorating their rejoicings is unknown. On the right hand were the letters R. F. (République Française); and on the left, G. R. (Georgius Rex).
I forgot to mention that Bonaparte was much applauded by the populace, in going to Notre Dame; and that madame received the same compliment, though she went there without any parade, in a plain handsome carriage, and seemed to decline, rather than to court, the notice of the public.
During the illuminations there was no noise, and, indeed, no expression of joy. Very few people were seen in the Thuilleries, though the weather was fine, and the day sunday. The more I see of the french, the more am I astonished and disgusted at the indifference which they have contracted. Their dullness is the more disagreeable, from it’s being unnatural; and I cannot help exclaiming, every hour, with Voltaire,
Que je plains un françois, quand il est sans gaieté;
Loin de son élément le pauvre homme est jetté[73].
Adieu.