LETTER XXXII.
General view of Paris, principally taken as compared with London.
Paris, may the 14th, 1802 (24 floréal.)
MY DEAR SIR,
Having in my former letters endeavoured to give you some idea of the particular objects of greatest curiosity, I shall, in this last, take a general view of Paris, principally as compared with London.
I shall begin with remarking, that of all the foreigners of different nations, who frequent this city, the english are those who are least satisfied with its pleasures, its occupations, and its manners. For this many reasons may be assigned. The nations of the continent have, in the first place, in their mode of living, a kind of general resemblance, which qualifies them more for domesticating (if I may be permitted the expression) in a country not their own than we have. A german, an italian, a russian, or a swede has been accustomed at home to the french kitchen, or at least to a bad imitation of its dishes: his habits, his fashions, and even his literary pursuits have been formed on the model of the french: and if he has lived in a court, the french language has also been, from infancy, as familiar to him as his own. Very different is the situation of an englishman. He finds himself, on landing at Calais, in a new world, and in all the ordinary occurrences of life, his habits are to be fresh modelled.
The cleanliness, so generally prevalent in England, not only in private houses but likewise in inns, taverns, and hotels, is seldom met with on the continent, and it is necessary for the traveller to lay aside his best customs, and most excusable prejudices, before he can become tolerably easy.
To breakfast and dine in a bed-room, to eat with the same knife of every article, to have the bed made by a man, and other indelicacies too gross to mention, are little misfortunes to which an english gentleman submits with regret, and a lady with real pain. The numerous but scanty dishes which crowd a french table, among which a joint of plain roasted meat seldom appears, cloy without satisfying the appetite of those who have been used to simpler but more substantial food. The wine, also, notwithstanding its high repute, seldom seems strong enough or of sufficient body for such as are habitual drinkers of port, though, when the latter has been for some time discontinued, the taste becomes disagreeable. The familiarity of servants and waiters (though less than before the revolution), is still disgusting and offensive. The necessity of bargaining, even at the most respectable shops, for the commonest articles of merchandize, renders the purchase of them very unpleasant. These circumstances, however trifling, occur too frequently in the course of every day, not to have a considerable effect on the serenity of John Bull. Accustomed only to his own language, he is either totally ignorant of the french, or speaks it with difficulty, hesitation, and fear. He is tormented with the frequent visits[92], which he is expected to pay; and the custom of leaving the table immediately after dinner, seldom allowing time for more than one or two glasses of good wine, completely destroys the original good nature of his character.
I have recapitulated these little distresses, as I am convinced they sour the temper, and have a, considerable influence on the unfavourable judgment often pronounced by my countrymen. I do not pretend myself to be superiour to such weaknesses, and mention the circumstance, that too implicit credit may not be given to the opinions of one capable of being biassed by “trifles light as air.” I must be permitted, however, to observe, that there are reasons of a much more serious nature, which make the english less easy to please than other foreigners. We come from a country, where all the arts are carried to a degree of perfection, at least equal to what is attained on the same objects in France, and where, in many things, the ingenuity of our manufacturers is unrivalled. In science and literature we have not been compelled to look from home; and while we now admire the many distinguished writers which France has produced, they are not our only models, and with Locke and Newton, Milton and Shakspeare, we cannot pay that unbounded homage to the genius and learning of our neighbours, which they are apt to demand. The freedom and excellence of our constitution accustoms us to a degree of unrestrained conversation, seldom met with at Paris; and the general diffusion of wealth in London, has introduced, among all orders, a degree of comfort which is seldom found even in the proudest houses of the french capital.
The beauty of our women, and the delicacy of their behaviour, render us less enthusiastic admirers of parisian belles, and parisian fashions, than the strangers of other countries.
The perfection to which the stage has advanced in London, and the splendid manner in which our theatres are lighted, prevent our being greatly struck with the renowned spectacles of this place; and the taste, profusion, and magnificence, displayed in our private entertainments, oppose too powerful a contrast to the gayeties of Paris, to allow us to be much delighted with the latter. Our race of horses, and our manufacture of carriages, are both too perfect to render it possible for us to admire the wretched equipages, which are here considered as the acme of elegance. It is equally impossible for us to praise the gardens of the Thuilleries, the Champs Elisées, or the Bois de Boulogne, as long as we remember Hyde park or Kensington gardens. Nor can the lighting and paving of Paris excite the admiration of those who have been used to the comfortable trottoir and brilliant lamps of the streets of London.
Having thus stated the reasons, good and bad, for the tameness with which englishmen often speak of Paris, I shall endeavour to divest myself, as much as possible, of national prejudice, and to lay before you the advantages and disadvantages attendant on a residence in this city.
In respect to literature, the arts and sciences, certainly every opportunity is offered which knowledge can afford, or which a zeal for letters can desire. In this respect, I think, Paris is superiour to London. Besides the immense acquisitions which it has lately made, and the great and wonderful collections that are constantly open to the public, there are so many private institutions within the reach of men of moderate fortune, that this city would soon rival all the universities of Europe, did not the pleasures of the place hold out temptations dangerous to the morals of youth.
Literary men also are more respected than in England; and, instead of abandoning society (which is too much the case with men of learning in our country), the industrious, but unprotected frenchman, who engages in the career of letters, finds his way into the most brilliant circles of the capital. Even the haughtiest of the old nobility admit into their most intimate coteries, those who have attained any literary fame, however low their origin, or however mean their appearance. On this head, I give unqualified and unrivalled praise to Paris.
Whether a foreigner could profitably pursue any commercial speculation here, it is not for me to inquire. I shall only observe, that, notwithstanding the laws of equality, prejudices exist as strongly as ever at Paris; and could a fortune be accumulated here as rapidly as in London, that fortune would never purchase the respect and consequence with which a similar acquisition is attended in England. A merchant (or “négociant,” to use the french expression) is still an insignificant character in this town, and all the wealth of India would not place him on a level with a general, a minister, or a ci-devant noble.
A man of pleasure, or rather of dissipation, may, in all the joys of unbounded variety, destroy his health, vitiate his principles, enervate his mind, and ruin his fortune. To the rich, however old, ugly, or deformed, beauty will not refuse her smiles; and every assembly is open to him who, in the morning, will convey “madame” to milliners, jewellers, and lace merchants, and will devote his evenings to the boulotte[93] of “monsieur.”
The politician, or in other words, he who is anxious to become acquainted with the real causes of the present order of things, and to examine to their source the many-coloured events which have preceded it, will be much disappointed. The greater number of those who took an active part in the revolution, have been swept away in the general torrent; the few that remain, are either living in obscurity, and cautious of expressing their opinions, or become, like other apostates, as violent on one side as they were formerly on the other. Of course, no satisfactory information is to be derived from them. As to the general bulk of the nation, passive under the iron tyranny of that sanguinary monster, Robespierre, they preferred, at that time, the accidental hope of individual escape, to the generous and braver conduct of a bold resistance. They are still the same people; and, now that their tranquillity and private happiness are secured, they look on in perfect apathy, and (if the term were not too rash) I should add, in sulky content.
Should France be deprived of Bonaparte, a circumstance which french men of all parties allow would be at present a great national misfortune, I have no doubt that obedience would be quietly and generally yielded to whatever party should seize the reins of power. It is universally allowed, that there is no security beyond the life of the first consul[94]; yet no one proposes, and I am sure no one thinks of providing against an event, which, in the order of nature, must sooner or later arrive. You cannot, living in England, form an idea of the indifference prevalent here about public matters.
The time of Robespierre, or “la regne de la terreur,” as it is commonly called, is often the subject of conversation, and it is mentioned with as much disgust and horror as in other countries; yet it never seems to occur to any one, that in having been the tacit spectators and instruments of the murders committed at that time, the inhabitants of this country were parties to his crimes. But it is perhaps absurd to complain of the present want of feeling, when we recollect the strange unconcern with which, under the immediate terror and view of the guillotine, the persons confined in the different prisons, while they awaited their turn of cruelty, engaged in every sort of frivolous amusement. I have been assured, by those who were themselves in custody at that unhappy period, that toilets were made, parties planned, cards played, scandal talked of, assemblies arranged, and little jealousies entertained, in the very caverns of death. More than one person was taken from the dinner table, or the game of chess, to the place of execution. From a nation so strangely indifferent to its dearest interests, what intelligence can you expect to collect? If you ask a question relating to those dreadful moments, instead of a simple answer of facts, you receive a violent philippic against the memory of a man, too infamous even to deserve the honours of abuse. If you make an inquiry about the present constitution, you are laughed at, and, pour toute réponse, are told, “C’est Bonaparte qui fait tout—tout lui est soumis—tout lui est possible.[95]”
A gentleman and his wife, proposing to visit Paris, particularly if they happen to be attached to each other, and have no decided rank, ought carefully to provide themselves with all the letters of recommendation which they can possibly obtain, if they wish to be admitted into any of the houses of the parisians. They must remember, that every thing is calculated in this town, and that, if the female traveller will not conciliate the masters of families by her smiles, nor her husband by presents and attentions to the ladies, no door will be opened which is not forced open by the imperious command of some person, on whose power and interest the party depends. With the most insignificant title, or the lowest order of chivalry, something may be done, for these add to the splendour of an assembly; but without these advantages, and without vice, foreigners live but dully in this gay city. An english lady, of superiour talents, observed to me one day, with great truth, that she never discovered that her title of “countess” was of any use, till she entered the territory of the french republic. I ought also to mention, that it seldom happens in this country, that a person, to whom a stranger is recommended, thinks it necessary to present him to another. Of course, the number of acquaintance will not exceed that of the letters with which a foreigner is favoured. It may be doubtful, whether all of these will be attended to; but, at any rate, the houses of those to whom he is addressed will form the limits of his society. Families coming here with children, will have great advantages in procuring them education. Masters in every science, and in every language, may be had at a very easy expense. The only antidote is the temptation to pleasure. Under a certain age, no place can be so well suited to the purposes of instruction.
Having taken a hasty view of the different situations in which this town may be visited, I shall conclude my subject by enumerating in what I conceive London is superiour to Paris, and in what Paris is superiour to London.
In width, cleanliness, and beauty, the streets of London have such a decided advantage over those of Paris, that I believe even a frenchman would acknowledge, that the question could not be disputed. The footpaths of the former, on which the pedestrian may walk without danger or dirt; the excellent pavement, which prevents any fatigue from being experienced in the use of a carriage; and the brilliance of the lamps at night, which renders the passage, in an evening, from one part of the town to another, rather a pleasure than a pain, are but ill contrasted by the narrow and filthy lanes of the latter, in which persons on foot are constantly exposed to every kind of accident and inconvenience; to the neglected carriage ways, in moving over which individuals are bruised, and wheels rapidly worn out, and to the dismal and uncertain light, which a few lanterns, hung by cords suspended from the opposite houses, faintly afford. But if the streets of Paris must yield to those of London, the former city is undoubtedly superiour in its palaces and public buildings, and in the height, style, and architecture of private houses, the stone fronts, regular plan, and lofty dimensions of which, have a very commanding appearance. But though the edifices are finer, and the arrangement more convenient, each floor consisting of a complete set of rooms, yet, from their great size, it usually happens that the same house is inhabited by several families, and the stairs, consequently, becoming public, are as dirty and as disgusting as the common streets. Where too an individual keeps an entire house in his possession, the number of his servants is rarely proportioned to the size of his habitation, and either only a part is occupied, or the whole is neglected and in bad order.
I cannot help adding, as a singular circumstance, that notwithstanding the extensive and superiour scale on which private hotels are built at Paris, I have seldom seen open, at an assembly here, either as many rooms, or those of such large dimensions, as are met with, on similar occasions, in families of rank and fashion in London. The reason of this apparent contradiction, perhaps, is this, that as but one floor (whether others belong to the same person or not) is generally made use of, the bed rooms, offices, and antichamber, occupy too large a space to allow much extent for the apartments devoted to the reception of company. From the opposite reason, it often happens that a house in London, of moderate size, has several large rooms, in which a numerous society may be entertained, though these rooms are scattered on different floors.
In respect to furniture, the houses of the “parvenus” are elegantly and splendidly fitted up. Most of the other private hotels have received little improvement, repair, or alteration, since the beginning of the revolution, and are consequently not very remarkable, either for freshness or novelty of taste. Carpets are not common; and though the beds are generally better, and in a more ornamental form, than those usually seen in England, and the antique shapes are most classically imitated in the decoration of these, and in the chairs, or fauteuils; yet, in other respects, I think our modern manner of fitting up houses has the advantage over that which generally prevails at Paris. Mahogany, so commonly used in England for dinner tables, is seldom applied to that purpose in France; and, as the cloth is never removed, they are made of deal. En revanchè it forms, instead of gold, the frames of satin furniture; and the walls of drawing rooms are often ornamented with that wood. I cannot say, I admire mahogany thus employed; but this is entirely a matter of taste. Plate glass is, of course, very superiour, and infinitely more common in the decoration of rooms than in England; yet, with this exception, and a few others, I think our apartments in London are more completely furnished, are much cleaner, and have many little comforts which are wanting in those of Paris. Some particular houses here do, indeed, present models of taste, profusion, and luxury, unequalled by any of ours; but the number of these is very trifling, and alters but little the general result.
The eating rooms of french houses are very disgusting. Instead of the comfortable turkey carpet, handsome curtains, stuccoed walls, blazing fire, and ornamented sideboard, of a London parlour, the dinner is here served in a dark and gloomy apartment, called “la salle à manger,” imperfectly heated with a stove, the floor generally of stone, and always without a carpet, the windows without curtains or shutters, and the whole dirty and uninviting. Where there is not a separate antichamber, the servants occupy the dining rooms in the absence of their masters; and, in that case, the smell, which such company are apt to leave, is extremely offensive.
Of the assemblies I have already spoken. Excepting a great ball given by madame Recamier, where there was a crowd of three or four hundred persons of different classes, with only a standing or sandwich supper, and a superb fête given by monsieur de Dimidoff, a rich russian, I have heard of no very numerous party. The balls generally consist of from fifty to a hundred people. Those at which I was present, appeared rather calculated to show the dancing and dress of the ladies, than to promote general gayety or diversion. In splendour of costume, and in graceful movements, our entertainments of this sort must yield to those of Paris; but in general mirth, in decorations, in supper, and brilliancy of light, the comparison is decidedly in favour of the former. The constant fluctuation also which takes place in London, from the number of engagements of each individual, gives a variety which is wanting in a french party, at which all the invited pass their whole evening.
The thés, which answer, in some respects, to our card parties, are infinitely less in number than the latter. The conversation of the former is, undoubtedly, on subjects more worthy of occupying the attention of rational beings, than the senseless chit chat of our fashionable coteries. It is only to be regretted, that the desire of speaking on literary subjects with éclat, so generally prevalent at Paris, not unfrequently degenerates into pedantry and affectation. Hence the tasteless coiner of pompous sentences is often mistaken for a man of genius; and the chattering ostentatious coxcomb is admired, while the silence of modesty, and the reflection of good sense, expose those in whom they are discovered, sometimes to ridicule, and always to neglect. The conversation too, is commonly monopolised by a few, and the rest of the company yawn away their evening uninterested and uninteresting. On this subject the higher classes, of both countries, might improve, by observing the faults of each other; those of England, in rendering the topics of their conversation less trifling; and those of France, by letting ideas, instead of expressions, occupy their attention.
The concerts here are dull and tiresome entertainments, which last five or six hours uninterruptedly. Young ladies are often the principal performers, and admired rather in proportion to their rank and fashion than to the harmony of their voice, or the scientifical proficiency which they have made in the study of music. As we have generally in London the first italian masters, and the most distinguished singers, I conceive that our amusements of this sort must be superiour to those of Paris.
Of the spectacles I have fully spoken in a former letter. I shall, therefore, be as concise as possible at present. The opera of Paris is superiour to that of London in dancing and decoration; but the latter, in point of brilliance, gayety, music, beauty, and elegance of company, has such an advantage over the former, that it may be justly said to be, in the language of Shakspeare, “Hyperion to a satyr.” As to the play-houses, the comic performers in France possess a degree of extraordinary merit, and of professional skill, which I do not conceive any theatre of Europe can equal; but if they have attained a higher point of perfection than our actors in that line, I think our tragedians as decidedly exceed the french in simplicity of diction and of manner, in the just representation of human passions, and, above all, in taking nature for their guide, which, in assuming the buskin, the latter seem entirely to forget. As to the general state of the spectacles as public places, those of London are infinitely gayer, but those of Paris more orderly, and less subject to riots, indecency, and disturbance.
The walks, or promenades, of both these great cities, are delightful. Ours have the singular merit of being pleasant even in winter; and, besides, our large streets, the footways of which, even after rain, are soon dry, with the gardens of our various squares and inns of court, St. James’s and Hyde park offer constant and beautiful spots for exercise. At Paris, there are no trottoirs; and the Thuilleries, Champs Elisées, and Boulevards, are almost impassable for foot passengers in bad weather. When the spring begins, the scene changes, and this city then boasts some charming gardens, which I have already enumerated, and which are well frequented. In my opinion, however, there is nothing here to be compared either with Hyde park or Kensington gardens.
For excursions round the town, the neighbourhood of London seems to afford more variety and picturesque views than that of Paris; but the vicinity of both cities is very beautiful.
The hours of the two capitals are now so nearly alike, that it is unnecessary to draw a comparison between them. No genteel family at Paris dines before four or five o’clock, and some persons not till six or seven. The thés begin about nine, the balls at twelve. The theatres commence at seven, and are generally over between ten and eleven.
The shops of London, as well as every kind of trade and manufactory, are so decidedly superiour to those of Paris, that it would be ridiculous to make the subject a question of doubt. There have been, however, some very elegant “magazins” (or shops) lately opened in la Rue de la Loi (ci-devant de Richelieu), particularly that of M. le Roi, and another called “la Maison de la Providence,” nearly opposite la Rue de Feydeau.
Hackney coaches are a convenience which both these cities enjoy in great perfection. Those of Paris have improved so much since the revolution, that I conceive them now to be superiour to ours, both in carriages and horses. The fare for one distance (or “course,”) whether long or short, provided it be within the gates of Paris, is thirty sols (or one shilling and three-pence english). There are, besides these, “cabriolets,” or open carriages, constantly plying, which are not only good, but uncommonly elegant. They are equal to the best appointed gigs of private persons in London. The horses are fleet, and the drivers civil. The fare is something more than that of a “fiacre,” or hackney coach.
The “hôtels garnis” are not so good or so numerous as they were formerly; but I think them still better than our houses of the same kind in London. There is also a privacy in a french apartment (the outward door of each making a distinct habitation), which gives it a decided advantage over the lodgings of an english hotel.
The public rooms and private cabinets of “restaurateurs,” are certainly more elegantly fitted up than the apartments of our taverns or coffeehouses. The cooking of the former is better, and presents a much greater variety of dishes, and the affixed price to each article, makes the price of a dinner depend entirely on the choice of him by whom it is ordered.
As to society, that material ingredient in the happiness of man, of which every one who has a head or heart, feels the vast importance, I conceive that foreigners arriving either in London or in Paris, without pressing recommendations or exalted rank, may be much embarassed, and may in both places pass months and even years, without making one proper acquaintance. Yet it appears to me that there is this great and distinguishing difference between the manners of the two capitals, that a person properly introduced to a few families of fashion in London, will rapidly find his way into every society which he wishes to frequent, whereas, in Paris, however well individuals may be received in one or two of the most esteemed houses, that circumstance will not contribute to their introduction to any others, and if a stranger arrives with a certain number of recommendations, he may, after a six months residence, quit Paris without having increased the list of his acquaintance. I speak on this subject from experience. Besides a near relation of my own, two or three families[96] long connected with mine, have still establishments here, and live in the best company of the place. By all of these Mrs. ⸺ and myself were well and hospitably received, but the persons whom we met at their houses, neither paid us visits, or in other respects showed us the most trifling civilities.
Madame de St—l, is the only new acquaintance to whom we are indebted for a polite and hospitable reception, which indeed every foreigner of character is sure to find at her house, which on account of the public characters often seen there, on account of the rational conversation, and general gayety which always prevail, and above all, on account of the distinguished wit and universal politeness of “madame,” is the most agreeable of Paris.
Having thus drawn a comparative statement of the advantages and disadvantages of these cities, principally viewed as places either of study or of amusement, I shall be excused for adding a few words on the state of charitable institutions, though they do not immediately form part of my subject.
Our hospitals and asylums for suffering poverty, are too well known, and stand on too high a basis to require any eulogium from me. I am happy to add, that those of Paris have not been neglected during the united horrors of war and revolution. A respectable physician (not a frenchman) assures me, that even during the most barbarous moments of the sanguinary Robespierre, these useful establishments were not abandoned. By a strange contradiction, while virtue and innocence were daily dragged to the scaffold, misery here found a refuge from the agonies of pain, and the menaces of disease. These institutions are now kept up with liberality, and every possible attention. Besides several others the medical gentleman in question particularly praises “l’Hôtel Dieu, rue du Marché Palu,” where from fifteen hundred to two thousand sick persons receive the advice of the ablest physicians, and are treated with the most delicate care. The government, and the persons particularly entrusted with the management of this establishment, show the most laudable zeal in its support. “L’Hospice St. Louis” is an excellent appendage to this, to which those whose complaints are contagious are immediately removed. He next commends “l’Hospice de la Pitié, rue Fossés St. Victor,” behind “le Jardin des Plantes,” the refuge of distressed innocence, in which two thousand children of soldiers, who died in the service of their country, are rescued from misery, and comfortably supported. “L’Hospice de St. Sulpice, rue de Sèvres,” originally built by madame Necker, in which one hundred and twenty sick, and eighteen wounded persons are relieved. “L’Hospice des Incurables,” where the doom of these unhappy wretches is softened by an extensive garden; and “l’Hospice de la Salpétrière,” built by Louis XIII, and maintained at present in all its original grandeur. The building is fine, presenting a majestic façade, and its boundaries are so extensive that it is almost a little city. Here sixteen hundred girls are employed in making linen and in working lace. Old married men, young women affected with madness, and female ideots here receive those little comforts, of which their respective situations still allow them to partake.
Requesting you to pardon this digression I shall conclude my subject with a few short observations drawn from my former remarks.
To those who are fond of the arts, and who devote their time to the pursuit, Paris offers objects of great interest and unequalled beauty. Persons who pass their lives in a career of dissipation, who are satisfied with public amusements, bought pleasures, and high play, will find here, decked in all the joys of variety, the means of gratifying their favourite wishes. To such as come to view the curiosities of the place, Paris will appear delightful during a residence of two or three months, as that time will be fully and agreeably occupied in examining its various institutions, and in visiting its different theatres, particularly if the traveller arrives in the beginning of spring, when the charms of nature are added to those of art. But to him whose attachments are centred within the circle of his own family, who is fond of the investigation of truth, and whose early days have been passed in the polished societies of London, Paris, after its great and striking beauties have once been sufficiently viewed, will appear comparatively tame, dull, and uninteresting. He will daily miss the freedom of conversation, which is so generally prevalent in England; he will look in vain for that manly sense, with which great national questions are discussed by men of education in London, he will be irritated by the flippancy of french politicians, and by the pedantic terms and laboured sentences, which take the place of sound argument and solid reasoning. He will find the amusements rather various than splendid. He will find society difficult when it is good, and dangerous when it is easy[97]. He will admire the grace and elegance of the ladies, and will look with an eye of pity, it not of contempt, on the indelicacy of their dress. He will hear “la bonne compagnie” talked of in every set, and never defined. He will perhaps at last discover that it only exists, where it does not assume the name, or as Voltaire says,
“Qui ne s’appelle pas la bonne compagnie, mais qui l’est.”
He will view with wonder and admiration the works of art, and see with no little pleasure and curiosity the extraordinary man now at the head of government. Such will be his principal sources of satisfaction at Paris. He will soon discover that every thing else, however blazoned out in the trappings of grandeur, or vamped up in the colouring of hyperbole, is only “air and empty nothing.”
Adieu, my dear sir, I propose setting out to-morrow morning for Lyons, Switzerland, and Italy. You will, therefore, not hear from me again till I am far distant from this capital. I came here big with hope, and eager in expectation. I rejoice at having undertaken the journey, as it has afforded me much useful information, but I leave Paris without regret, and with but little desire of a speedy return.
I am, &c.
THE END.