TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. I.
JOURNEY TO PARIS.
Bed-room and bed at Calais, p. 1.—Peculiarities of French towns, 2.—Journey to Boulogne, 2.—Combination of parts to form a perfect cathedral, 2.—Account of the head of St. John the Baptist, and of the bones of St. Firmin, 3.—Cathedral of Amiens, 4.—Western fronts of Churches, 6.—Comparison of French and English churches, 6.—Central towers, 6.—Unequal towers in front, 7.—Doorways, 7.—Rose windows, 9.—Ridge moulding, 10.—Effect of different styles of architecture, 10.—School-boys, 13.—Paper-hanging, 14.—Journey to Beauvais, 14.—Cathedral at Beauvais, 14.—Oblique groins, 15.—Catholic ceremonies, 16.—Nôtre Dame de Basse œuvre, 17.—St. Stephen, 17.—Fragments of ancient architecture, 18.—Situation of Beauvais, 18.—Lodgings at Paris, 18.
GENERAL ACCOUNT OF PARIS.
Apartment at Paris, 19.—Boulevards, 20.—Gardens of the Tuileries, &c., 20.—Champs Elysées, 20.—Straight and winding walks, 21.—Walk through Paris, 21.—Quays, 21.—Bridges, 22.—Narrow and crooked streets, 22.—Palais Royal, 22.—Café de Mille Colonnes, 23.—M. du Fourny, 23.—Effect of collections in the fine arts, 24.—Denon, 24.—Bibliothèque Royale, 25.—Humboldt, 26.—Institute, 26.—Visconti, 27.—Percier, 27.—Millin, 28.
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.
Journey to Chalons, 29.—Nôtre Dame de Chalons, 29.—Styles of Gothic, 30.—Chevet, 31.—Change of form in the bases of the shafts or piers, 31.—Portals, 32.—Forms of piers, 32.—St. Wulfram at Abbeville, 33.—Forms of ornaments, 33.—Intersecting bases, 34.—Church at L’Epine, 35.—St. Germain des Prés, 36.—Pointed arches, 37.—Nôtre Dame at Chalons continued, 40.—Old monuments, 41.—Cathedral at Chalons, 42.—Italian tiles, 42.—Journey to Rheims, 42.
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.
Church of St. Remi at Rheims, 44.—Crypt, 45.—Church at Mantes, 45.—Cathedral at Chartres, 47.—French guide-books, 47.—Shift of the Virgin, 48.—Elevation of roof in French churches, 49.—Shrine-work round the choir, 53.—Disposition of the people, 54.—Nôtre Dame at Paris, 54.—Comparison with Westminster Abbey, 57.—Cathedral at Rheims, 57.—Disposition of coloured glass, 59.—Method of judging of the comparative merits of buildings, 59.—Roman arch, 60.—Vaulted chamber, 60.
RETURN TO PARIS.
Table d’hôte, 61.—Chouan, 62.—Promenades, 62.—Journey to Soissons, 63.—Ruined church of St. John the Baptist, 64.—Walk round the town, 64.—St. Leger, 64.—Cathedral, 64.—Anniversary of the return of Louis XVIII., 65.—Return to Paris, 65.—Jardin du Roi, 65.—Museum, 67.—Mont-martre, 68.—Mineralogic collections, 69.—Paintings of David, 69.—Excursion to Chartres, Dreux, and Mantes, 70.—Cross-road travelling, 70.—Bridge at Neuilly, 71.—Palace of St. Cloud, 71.—Botanique rurale, 72.—Versailles, 74.—Restaurateurs, 75.—Café d’Apollon, 75.—Church of St. Denis, 75.—Churches at Braine sur Vesle, 77.—St. André at Chartres, 77.—St Père at Chartres, 77.—Cathedral at Dreux, 78.—Church at Limay, 78.—St. Germain Auxerre, 78.—St. Jaques de la Boucherie, 78.—St. Severin, 78.—St. Martin, 78.—St. Etienne du Mont, 78.—St. Nicolas des Champs, 78.—St. Gervais, 78.—St. Eustache, 78.—Groins, 79.
EDIFICES OF PARIS.
Church of the Assumption, 82.—Val de Grace, 82.—Sorbonne, 82.—Invalides, 83.—Gilding, 83.—Hospital of the Invalides, 83.—Dormer windows, 83.—Hotel de Clugny, 84.—Church of the Institute, 84.—History of the Church of St. Geneviève, 84.—St. Roch, 92.—St. Sulpice, 92.—Illuminated statue, 93.—St. Philippe en Roule, 93.—Palace of the Tuileries, 93.—Space in French buildings, 94.—Louvre, 95.—Garde Meuble, 97.—Galleries of the Louvre, 97.—Palais de Justice, 99.—Palace of the Luxembourg, 99.—Palais du Corps Legislatif, 100.—Ecole de Médecine, 100.—Fountain, 101.—Hotel de Ville, 101.—Halle aux blés, 101.—Abattoirs, 101.—Fountains, 102.—Palais des Thermes, 102.—Aqueduct of Arcueil, 103.
PARIS.
Academy, 104.—Sèvres, 106.—M. Prudhom’, 107.—Gallery of M. Sommariva, 107.—Theatres, 107.—Signs, 108.—Festivals, 108.—Religious opinions, 109.—Illuminations, 111.—Liberty of the French, 112.—Political opinions, 113.
JOURNEY TO LYON.
Journey to Troyes, 115.—Cathedral, 116.—Progress of crenated ornament, 118.—Church of La Madelaine, 118.—St. Urbain, 119.—Journey to Dijon, 119.—Cathedral, 120.—Church of St. Michel, 120.—Nôtre Dame, 121.—Working tradesmen, 124.—Journey to Lyon, 124.—Cathedral at Chalons sur Saone, 125.—Church at Tournu, 125.—Approach to Lyon, 126.
LYON.
Cathedral at Lyon, 127.—Rose and marigold windows, 128.—St. Paul, 130.—St. Nizier, 130.—Imitation of Roman mouldings, 131.—Church at Aynai, 131.—Hotel de Chevrière, 132.—Roman aqueduct, 132.—Crypt under church of St. Irene, 132.—Museum, 133.—Deficiency of general knowledge among the French, 133.—Country about Lyon, 133.—Cafés, 134.—French politeness, 134.—Theatre, 135.—Relicks, 135.—Constructions in Pisé, 136.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Voyage to Vienne, 137.—Bridge, 137.—Church of St. André le Bas, 137.—Ancient temple, 138.—Pyramid, 138.—Roman arch, 138.—Roman fragments, 138.—Cathedral, 138.—Elevated platform, 139.—Church of St. Michel, 141.—Churches by the Rhone, 141.—Value of the Louis, 141.—Voyage down the Rhone, 141.—Ferries, 142.—Descent of the Rhone, 143.—Pont St. Esprit, 143.—Mummies, 143.—Orange, 144.—Triumphal arch, 144.—Roman and Greek capitals and bases, 145.—Theatre, 146.—Circus and amphitheatre, 147.—Walk to Avignon, 147.—Voyage to Beaucaire, 148.—Beaucaire, 148.—Quack, 149.—Castle of Beaucaire, 150.—Tarrascon, 150.—Advertisement, 150.—Maison carrée at Nismes, 151.—Temple of Diana, 151.—Public garden, 152.—Idea of comfort, 152.—Amphitheatre, 152.—Roman gateway, 153.—Tour magne, 153.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Pont du Garde, 154.—Journey to Arles, 154.—Arles, 154.—Amphitheatre, 155.—Theatre, 155.—Capitol, 156.—Obelisk, 157.—Remains of baths, 157.—Sarcophagi, 157.—Journey to St. Remi, 159.—Arch, 159.—Sepulchral monument, 160.—Vaucluse, 160.—Roman monuments mentioned by Millin, 161.—Chronological arrangement of buildings in the South of France, 161.—Nôtre Dame de Dom, 162.—Cavern-like Gothic, 163.—Church at Orange, 164.—Cathedral at Arles, 164.—Church at Tarrascon, 165.—Cathedral at Nismes, 165.—Church at St. Remi, 166.—Cathedral at Valence, 166.—Cathedral at Vienne, 167.—Inversion of ornament, 167.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Bridge at Avignon, 168.—Collections at Avignon, 169.—Papal palace, 169.—Tower of massacre, 169.—Journey to Grenoble, 170.—Grenoble, 171.—Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, 171.—Tomb of Bayard, 173.—Journey to Geneva, 174.—General observations on the French, 174.—Persecution of the Protestants at Nismes, 175.
GENEVA.
Neighbourhood of Geneva, 178.—The Saleve, 178.—Ferney, 178.—Geneva, 179.—Church of St. Pierre, 179.—Walk to Chamounix, 181.—Waterfalls, 182.—Effects of sunset on the snow, 183.—Glacier, 183.—Montanvert and Mer de Glace, 185.—Walk to Martigny, 186.—Tête noire, 186.—Goitres, 186.—Pissevache, 187.—Vallais, 187.—Bex, 187.—Direction of valleys, 187.—Salt springs, 188.—Walk to Meillerie, 188.—Lausanne, 189.—Cathedral at Lausanne, 189.
TOUR IN SWITZERLAND.
Ride to Bern, 191.—Fribourg, 191.—Bern, 191.—Models of Mountains, 191.—Gymnasium, 191.—Ride to Thun, 192.—Unterseen, 192.—Lauterbrunnen, 193.—Staubbach, 193.—Avalanche, 193.—Wengern Alp, 194.—Alp, 194.—Grindelwald, 195.—Castle of Unspunnen, 195.—Niesen, 196.—Kanderthal, 196.—Gemmi, 196.—Baths of Loetsch, 197.—Vallais, 197.—Rainbow, 197.—Simplon, 197.—Swiss churches, 198.—Swiss cottages, 198.—Duomo d’Ossola, 198.—Via crucis, 198.—Walk to Locarno, 199.—Lago maggiore, 200.—Borromean islands, 200.—Statue of St. Charles, 201.—Walk to Lugano, 201.—Lake of Lugano, 202.—Walk to Menaggio, 203.—Lake of Como, 203.—Villa Pliniana, 203.—Walk to Como, 204.
MILAN.
Cathedral, 205.—Effect of gloom, 209.—View from roof, 210.—Steeple of St. Godard, 210.—Ornamental arches, 211.—Church of the Passione, 211.—Iron ties, 211.—Roodloft, 212.—Madonna di S. Celso, 212.—Courts, 212.—San Satyro, 212.—Sant Eustorgio, 212.—Saint Ambrose, 213.—Want of elevation in churches in Italy, 214.—Funeral, 214.—Madonna delle grazie, 216.—Painting of Last Supper, 217.—Church of St. Mark, 217.—Palace of government, 218.—Colours, 218.—Brera, 219.—Arches upon columns, 219.—Italian painting, 219.—Great hospital, 220.—Roman columns, 220.—Mosaics, 220.
APPENDIX.—PAVIA.
Canal from Milan to Pavia, 221.—Cathedral at Pavia, 221.—Church of the Carmine, 221.—San Francesco, 222.—San Salvadore, 222.—San Michele, 222.—San Pietro in Cielo d’Oro, 222.—Church erected by Pellegrino Pellegrini, 223.—University, 223.—Bridge over Ticino, 223.—Botanic garden, 223.—Certosa, 223.
VERONA.
Journey to Verona, 225.—Theatre at Brescia, 225.—Lago di guarda, 225.—Amphitheatre at Verona, 225.—Roman gateway, 227.—Bridges, 227.—Church of Santa Anastasia, 227.—Cathedral, 228.—Church of St. Zeno, 229.—Cloisters of St. Zeno, 231.—Old church of St. Zeno, 231.—Tomb of Pepin, 232.—Remains of the Bishop’s Palace, 232.—Pellegrini chapel, 232.—Relicks, 233.—San Fermo, 235.—Freedom in examining churches, 236.—Tombs of the Scaligers, 236.—Sanmicheli, 236.—Fortification, 237.—Palaces, 237.—Tomb of Juliet, 237.
VICENZA—PADUA.
Journey to Vicenza, 238.—Vicenza, 238.—Lombard money, 239.—Palladio, 239.—Basilica, 240.—Palazzo Capitanale, 241.—Fabbrica Conte Porto al Castello, 241.—Palazzo Tiene, 241.—Triumphal arch, 242.—Church of Madonna del Monte, 242.—Rotonda, 242.—Palazzo Valmarana, 243.—Palazzo Trissino, 243.—Palazzo Barbarano, 244.—House of Palladio, 244.—Palazzo Chiericati, 244.—Palazzo del Conte Orazio da Porto, 244.—Olympic theatre, 244.—Church of Santa Corona, 245.—Cathedral, 245.—Padua, 245.—Church of St. Antony, 246.—Church of the Eremitani, 247.—Church of the Arena, 247.—Baptistery, 247.—Palazzo di Ragione, 247.—Church of Santa Giustina, 248.—Cathedral, 248.—Church of La Madre Dolente, 249.—University, 249.—Tomb of Antenor, 249.—Museum of the Palazzo Gazzola, 249.—Painting, 249.
VENICE.
Journey to Venice, 251.—Venice and Venetian life, 251.—Italian theatre, 253.—Piazza di San Marco, 255.—Orologio, 256.—Campanile, 256.—Church of St. Mark, 256.—Ducal palace, 261.—Harbour and canal of the Giudecca, 262.—Venetian palaces, 263.
VENICE.
Gondolas, 265.—Santa Maria gloriosa de’ Frari, 265.—Santi Giovanni e Paolo, 266.—S. Stefano, 266.—Santa Maria del Carmine, 266.—San Zaccaria, 267.—Ducal palace, 267.—San Jacopo in Rivo alto. 268.—Scuola di San Rocco, 269.—Procuratie Vecchie, 269.—Zecca, 270.—Procuratie Nuove, 270.—Campanile, 270.—Loggia, 270.—Sansovino, 271.—Church of San Martino, 271.—San Giorgio de’ Greci, 271.—Church of San Francesco della Vigna, 271.—Redentore, 272.—St. George, 273.—S. Nicola de’ Tolentini, 273.—San Pietro in Castello, 274.—S. Simeon Piccolo, 274.—Santa Maria del Rosario, called Gesuati, 274.—San Barnaba, 274.—Santa Maria della Salute, 274.—Santissimo Salvadore, 275.—Prigione Nuove, 275.—Lions, 275.—Pictures, 276.—Painted outsides of houses, 277.
BOLOGNA.
Journey to Bologna, 278.—Residence at Bologna, 279.—Roman money, 279.—Paintings of Bolognese school, 280.—Church of San Petronio, 280.—San Stefano, 282.—San Giacomo maggiore, 283.—Cathedral, 283.—San Giorgio, 283.—San Salvadore, 284.—San Paolo, 284.—San Bartolommeo, 284.—San Domenico, 284.—Madonna del Monte, 284.—Portico, 285.—Certosa, 285.—Palazzo Ranuzzi, 285.—Torre degli Asinelli, 285.—Torre Garisendi, 285.—Disputations in Romish church, 286.—State of Italy, 286.—Superstition at Bologna, 291.—Mezzofanti, 292.
FLORENCE.
Journey from Bologna, 294.—Vetturino system, 294.—Apennines, 294.—Italian time, 295.—Florence, 295.—Cathedral, 295.—Different notions of antiquity, 299.—Campanile, 299.—Baptistery, 299.—Church of Santa Croce, 300.—San Remigio, 301.—Santi Apostoli, 301.—Unfinished fronts, 301.—Santa Maria Novella, 301.—San Lorenzo, 302.—Sagrestia nuova, 304.—M. A. Buonarroti, 304.—Burying-place of the Medici, 304.—Church of Santo Spirito, 305.—Annunziata, 306.—Madonna del Carmine, 306.—St. Mark, 307.—Cose stupende, 307.—Old nobility of Florence, 307.—Palazzo Vecchio, 308.—Loggia, 308.—Gallery, 309.—Palazzo Pitti, 309.—Palazzo Riccardi, 309.—Palazzo Strozzi, 310.—Palazzo Pandolfini, 310.—Casa Michelozzi, 311.
JOURNEY TO ROME.
Fiesole, 312.—Journey to Siena, 312.—Siena, 313.—Gutturals, 313.—Piazza, 313.—Cathedral of Siena, 313.—Hospital, 315.—Church of San Domenico, 315.—History of Siena, 315.—Neighbourhood of Siena, 315.—Ventriloquist, 316.—Radicofani, 317.—Acquapendente, 317.—Lake of Bolsena, 318.—Bolsena, 318.—Monte Fiascone, 319.—Orvieto, 319.—Cathedral, 319.—Bishop’s palace, 321.—Church of San Michele, 322.—Church of San Domenico, 322.—Church of San Lorenzo, 322.—Well of Sangallo, 322. Palazzo Soliana, 322.—Pal. Gualtieri, 322.—Bollicame, 322.—Viterbo, 323.—Cathedral, 323.—Church of the Trinità, 323.—S. Francesco, 323.—Monte Cimino, 323.—Lake of Vico, 323.—Capraruola, 323.—Church of the Teresiane, 324.—Ronciglione, 324.—Campagna, 324.—Sutri, 324.—Amphitheatre, 325.—Subterranean church, 325.—Bridge, 325.—Baccano, 326.—Arrival at Rome, 326.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.
General impressions, 327.—Capitol, 327.—Palatine hill, 328.—Disposition of hills, 329.—Lodging, 330.—Steps of the Trinità, 330.—Forum, 330.—Capitoline hill, 331.—Tabularium, 331.—Temple of Jupiter Tonans, 331.—Richness of detail in Roman architecture, 332.—Temple of Concord, 332.—Arch of Septimius Severus, 333.—Mamertine prisons, 333.—Column of Phocas, 334.—Temple of Saturn, 334.—Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, 334.—Temple of Romulus and Remus, 335.—Jupiter Stator, 335.—Form of shaft of the columns, 337.—Effect of slight variations, 337.—Temple of Peace, 338.—Progress of architecture in Rome, 338.—Arch of Titus, 340.—Temple of Venus and Rome, 341.—Coliseum, 341.—Arch of Constantine, 342.—Baths of Titus, 342.—Vivarium, 344.—Baths of Livia, 345.—Palace of the Cæsars, 345.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.
Temple of Romulus, 346.—Forum Boarium, 346.—Arch of Janus, 347.—Arch of the goldsmiths, 347.—Cloaca maxima, 347.—Temple of Patrician Modesty, 348.—Temple of Vesta, 348.—Foliage of the Corinthian capital, 349.—Greek and Roman styles of ornament, 349.—Temple of Fortuna Virilis, 350.—House of Rienzi, 350.—Pons Palatinus, 350.—Temples of Filial Piety, &c. 350.—Theatre of Marcellus, 351.—Theatre of Pompey, 351.—Portico of Octavia, 351.—Baths of Agrippa, 351.—Pantheon, 352.—Use of bricks, 353.—Use of discharging arches, 353.—Pyramidal form in buildings, 354.—Coffers on domes, 357.—Basilica of Antoninus, 359.
ST. PETER’S.
History of the building, 361.—Model, 362.—Expense, 365.—Cracks, 366.—Sacristy, 367.—Cause of its want of apparent magnitude externally, 369.—Internally, 372.—Sculpture in the church, 374.—Change of design from Greek to Latin cross, 377.—Gilding, 378.—Effect of magnificence, 380.—Pietà of Michael Angelo, 380.—Monuments, 380.—Mosaic, 381.
BASILICAN CHURCHES.
San Paolo fuori delle mura, 383.—Churches visited to obtain indulgences, 383.—Churches which have the Porta santa, 383.—Patriarchal churches, 383.—Ancient basilica of St. Peter, 386.—St. John Lateran, 387.—Corsini chapel, 388.—Cloisters, 388.—Scala santa, 389.—Triclinium, 390.—Baptistery of Constantine, 390.—Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, 390.—Santa Maria in Trastevere, 391.—S. M. di Ara Cœli, 391.—San Grisogono, 392.—Quattro santi, 393.—San Pietro in Vincolis, 393.—Figure of Moses, 394.—Santa Agnese fuori delle mura, 394.—Temple of Bacchus, 395.—San Lorenzo fuori delle mura, 396.—Santa Maria Maggiore, 397.—Chapels, 399.—Santa Sabina, 399.—St. Clement, 400.—Small courts, 400.—San Martino de’ Monti, 401.—Baths of Trajan, 401.—Santa Pudenziana, 401.—Santa Prassede, 402.—Santa Maria in Domnica, 402.—Marble boat, 402.—San Giorgio in Velabro, 402.—Ancient towers, 402.
LIVING AT ROME—MODERN CHURCHES.
Roman life, 404.—Play at Orphan school, 407.—Carnival, 407.—Race, 408.—Festina, 409.—Display of military authority, 410.—Italian language, 410.—Climate, 411.—Roman churches, 412.—Method of lighting, 413.—Church of S. Andrea, 414.—St. Ignazio, 415.—Church of the Jesuits, 416.—Santi Apostoli, 417.—Santa Agnese in Piazza Navona, 417.—San Carlo alle quattro fontane, 417.—Sant Andrea del Noviziato, 418.—Santa Maria di Consolazione, 418.—Three smaller churches, 418.—Santa Maria in Campitelli, 418.
ROME.
Roman spring, 419.—Easter ceremonies, 419.—Benediction, 425.—Vatican palace, 426.—Sistine chapel, 426.—Galleries of Vatican, 428.—Arazzi of Raphael, 428.—Camere of Raphael, 429.—Loggie of Raphael, 430.—Mode of considering paintings, 430.—Museum, 432.—Statues, 433.—Greek and Roman schools of art, 434.—Library, 436.—Omission of cornice, 437.
PALACES OF ROME.
General observations, 438.—Campidoglio, 439.—Museum, 442.—Cancellaria, 443.—Palazzo Giraud, 444.—Sora, 444.—Stoppani, 444.—Massimi, 445.—Farnesina, 445.—Architecture of Sangallo, 446.—Palazzo Saccheti, 446.—Farnese, 446.—Competitions, 447.—Architecture of Giulio Romano, 448.—Palazzo Cenci, 448.—Architecture of Vignola, 449.—Court of Palazzo Farnese, 449.—Church of Sant Andrea, 449.—Villa Giulia, 449.—Palazzo Alessandrini, 450.—Ruspoli, 450.—Quirinale, 450.—Combination of colours, 451.—Horses of Phidias and Praxiteles, 452.—Palazzo della Consulta, 452.—Architecture of Fontana, 453.—Palace of St. John Lateran, 453.—Sapienza, 453.—Architecture of Bernini, 454.—Palazzo della Propaganda, 454.—Ghigi, 454.—Barberini, 454.—Architecture of Borromini, 454.
ROME.
Piazza di Spagna, 456.—Piazza del popolo, 456.—Public gardens, 457.—French academy, 457.—Church of the Trinità de Monti, 458.—Capuchin convent, 458.—Piazza Barberini, 458.—Quirinal hill, 459.—Viminal, 459.—Esquiline, 459.—Church of St. Antony, 459.—Trophies of Marius, 459.—Arch of Gallienus, 459.—Temple of Pallas, 460.—Temple of Mars Ultor, 460.—Baths of Paulus Æmilius, 461.—Forum of Trajan, 461.—Column of Trajan, 462.—Basilica of Trajan, 462.—Church of Nome di Maria, 463.—Church of Santa Maria di Loreto, 463.—Effect of gilding, 463.—Sepulchre of C. P. Bibulus, 463.—Colonna palace, 463.—Baths of Constantine, 464.—Enormous fragment, 464.—Fountain of Trevi, 465.—Loggia of the Palazzo Rospigliosi, 465.
LETTERS OF AN ARCHITECT.
LETTER I.
JOURNEY TO PARIS.
Paris, 16th April, 1816.
It is a great advantage to me that I can address letters on architecture to a person for whose taste and judgment I have so much esteem, but who at the same time is not an architect. Being obliged to avoid a great many technical phrases and forms of speech, which often serve as a convenient shelter for ignorance or superficial knowledge, I shall find it necessary to study the subject myself more attentively on all those points which can interest a general observer, and to explain myself with more care and precision.
I shall not trouble you with any observations on English ground; and indeed, between London and Paris, the road is so well known, and so often travelled, that it seems almost an impertinence to detain you on it, except to examine the two magnificent cathedrals of Amiens and Beauvais; yet there are some particulars on this frequented track which strike an architect more than they would a general observer.
My bed-room at Calais, with its high ceiling and broad striped paper, was very different from what one finds on your side of the water. The bed is, almost every where in France, placed sideways against the wall. It has head and foot boards, and the square uprights which support them are terminated with a vase, or some such ornament, at least on that side of the bed towards the apartment. Above, a pin with an ornamented head, whose projection from the wall is equal to the width of the bed, supports a long curtain of white dimity, which falls in a pleasing curve over the head and foot boards, and being of a considerable width, may be drawn forward so as nearly to conceal the bed. This arrangement certainly leaves the room much more at liberty than ours, and looks better; and as it is not considered any impropriety to receive company in a bed-room, these circumstances are of more consequence here than in England; yet they are desirable every where, and the only disadvantage I perceive arises from the necessity of rolling out the bedstead in order to make the bed, an inconvenience apparently very trifling.
There are doubtless some peculiarities in the French towns, but on the whole fewer than I expected: the principal are, perhaps, that the houses are without parapets, and that they have dormer windows,[[1]] the front of which is usually upright over the wall of the house, the eaves being sometimes continued across, and sometimes omitted. There is no flat paving for the footpaths, but the streets are not narrower, if so narrow, as in the country towns in England.
Every body knows that the road from Calais to Boulogne is not pleasant. About Boulogne the scenery is much more agreeable, as we pass along a valley adorned with trees and hedges. There is, I am told, a law that all proprietors shall plant the sides of the road which passes by or through their grounds: unfortunately there is no law which compels the trees to grow, and a green stake is thrust into the ground, which may either live or die; if the latter, it is very easy to thrust in another the succeeding year. After passing the town of Samer, about ten miles from Boulogne, we again ascended the chalk hills, and had a most beautiful view, coloured with uncommon richness and splendour, as the landscape faded under the shades of evening; but I believe the charm depended principally on this colouring. We continued our journey through the night, and the next morning at eleven reached Amiens.
You did not, I believe, when in France, see the cathedral of Amiens, but you have heard of it, and of the beauty of its nave. The French say, that to form a perfect cathedral you must unite the front of Rheims, the spire of Chartres, the nave of Amiens, and the choir of Beauvais. The parts would not combine very well, but I hope at a future time to conduct you to all these edifices. The cathedral of Amiens was founded by Bishop Everard, in order to provide a suitable depository for the head of St. John the Baptist and the body of St. Firmin. The former saint, according to Rivoire, (Description de l’Eglise Cathédrale d’Amiens, p. 160) was beheaded in the prisons of the castle of Macheronte, or of Sebaste, (i. e. of Samaria). The Emperor Valens endeavoured in vain to transfer the head to Rome. Theodosius, more fortunate, brought it from the village of Cosilaon in Siberia, to enrich Constantinople; but whereabouts this village is situated, or when, or why, or how any part of St. John the Baptist travelled into Siberia, I have not been able to learn. A gentleman of Picardy being present at the assault of Constantinople, on the 12th of April, 1204, found among the ruins of an old building, called the Palace of the Arsenal, two great dishes of silver, in one of which was this head of the Baptist, and in the other that of St. George, as was fully testified by their respective inscriptions. The dishes were large and heavy, and the discoverer was in want of money; he therefore sold them to pay his expenses, reserving, however, two smaller vessels which immediately contained the sacred relics. What became of the head of St. George we are not told, but that of St. John was transported to Amiens, where it arrived on the 17th of December, 1206, the clergy and people going out to receive it. The record of this event bears date in March, 1210. The skull is not entire, the back part being apparently deficient, and there is an oblong hole over the left eye, supposed to have been made by the knife of Herodias.
After such a long account of one relic it would be unfair not to make some mention of the other. The bones of St. Firmin had been discovered some time before the acquisition of the head of St. John the Baptist, by a miraculous ray of light which shone upon the spot where they were buried; and the authenticity of the relic was farther proved, not only by a delightful and healing odour which arose from them, but also by a supernatural warmth which dissolved the snow then upon the ground, made the grass grow, and the trees put forth their leaves, and, in short, turned winter into summer.
I have given you quite enough of these fables, let me now turn to facts better authenticated. An old cathedral was destroyed by fire in 1218. The foundations of the present edifice were laid in 1220, according to the designs of Robert de Lusarche. Bishop Everard, the founder, died in 1222. The pillars of the choir and nave were completed in 1223; the north transept was erected in 1236, Geoffry d’Eu being bishop. Robert de Lusarche had, probably, died in the interim, as the architects, at the latter period, were Thomas de Courmont, and Renault de Courmont, his son. The vaulting of the nave and side aisles was completed under Arnold, who governed the church of Amiens from 1236 to 1247; at the same time a magnificent stone tower was erected over the centre of the cross. This tower was entirely of open work, it was destroyed by lightning in 1527, and the wooden spire, which at present exists, was erected two years afterwards. The building, exclusive of the side chapels, was completed in 1288, according to an inscription formerly existing on the pavement, now no longer legible. The following dimensions are from Rivoire, (p. 24) reduced to English measure. They are, perhaps, not all of them perfectly exact, but I had not opportunity to examine them minutely, and am not apprehensive of any material error.
| Feet. | Inch. | |
|---|---|---|
| Length of the front platform | 153 | 5 |
| Width of the central porch | 38 | 4 |
| Depth of ditto | 17 | 0 |
| Side porches, each in width | 20 | 7 |
| Depth of ditto | 14 | 10 |
| Width of each pier between the porches | 9 | 7 |
| Whole length of the front | 160 | 0 |
| From the portal to the gate of the choir | 234 | 6 |
| Length of the choir | 138 | 6 |
| From the choir to the chapel at the end of the rond point | 19 | 2 |
| Length of this chapel | 50 | 1 |
| Whole length internally | 442 | 3 |
| Ditto, externally | 479 | 5 |
| Width of the nave between the piers | 45 | 6 |
| From one chapel of the aisle to the opposite chapel | 104 | 5 |
| Length of the transept | 194 | 0 |
| Breadth of ditto | 45 | 7 |
| Height from the bottom of the piers to the summit of the vaulting | 140 | 8 |
| The pavement to the springing of the arches | 45 | 4 |
| Thence to the moulding under the galleries | 24 | 2 |
| Thence to the frieze[[2]] | 21 | 3 |
| Thence to the vault | 51 | 1 |
| Height of the side aisles | 64 | 0 |
| Distance between the piers | 17 | 0 |
| Height of the spire from the ridge of the roof, including the cock | 214 | 2[[3]] |
| From the pavement | 422 | 0 |
| Slope of the roof | 53 | 3 |
| Perpendicular height of roof | 46 | 10 |
| Height of the choir | 137 | 5 |
| Breadth of ditto | 45 | 6 |
| Height of the aisles and side chapels | 64 | 8 |
| Lateral width of the chapels | 28 | 9 |
| Depth of ditto | 28 | 10 |
| Circumference of the dial of the clock | 102 | 3 |
| Diameter of ditto | 34 | 1 |
| Height of the figures | 2 | 0 |
| Distance which separates them | 7 | 5 |
| Height of the north tower | 223 | 8 |
| Height of the south tower | 205 | 0 |
| Number of steps to the top of the highest tower | 306 | 0 |
Having thus given you a sketch of the principal dates and dimensions of this magnificent edifice, I will endeavour to give you some idea of its present appearance. A detailed account of all the parts would require a residence of some weeks on the spot, but my object is rather to communicate the impression produced on the mind of the observer, and to point out the leading sources of that impression, than to enter into minutiæ. The distant view exhibits a great square mass of building, a little varied by the slightly superior elevation of one of the western towers, and by a very slender spire or pinnacle of wood rising from the centre to twice the general height. The ridge of the roof of York Minster is 112 feet from the pavement. That of Salisbury Cathedral, 115 feet; St. Paul’s at London, 112; Westminster Abbey, 140; the cathedral at Amiens, 208 feet. This comparison may help you to form some idea of the appearance of the last mentioned edifice, towering above the houses of a provincial city. What was the design of the original central spire of open work in stone, and what was its height, it would be curious to determine. Central towers of that date in England seem to have been low and heavy, and if that of Norwich Cathedral be cited to the contrary, still it does not at all help us to form a judgment of what a spire of open work would have been. The spire and the upper part of the tower at Salisbury are thought to be of a more modern date. The highest western tower is surmounted by one of those steep roofs which still seem to have something attractive to French eyes, but which to mine are absolute deformities. On approaching the edifice, the richness of the western front is very striking. There is a certain similarity in the disposition of this part in all the French churches of the thirteenth century. The cathedrals of Amiens, of Nôtre Dame at Paris, and at Rheims, are distinguished from our English buildings by nearly the same particulars, though they differ much from each other. They assume in this part more of a pyramidal form; the space between the western towers is proportionally smaller than with us. The doorways are much larger; a rose or marigold window is placed over the central opening, and above that is one or more ranges of niches, with statues nearly hiding the triangular gable end of the nave. Sometimes one, or even two ranges of niches occur below the marigold window, as is the case in the example before us. Sometimes the window is between two ranges of niches, and in some instances there are two rose windows. These windows and niches form the elements of the composition, but the arrangement varies in almost every edifice. The division immediately above the porch at Amiens is marked by a range of twenty-two niches, containing as many statues, which are supposed to represent the kings of France, from Charlemagne to Philip Augustus; the latter died in 1223, and this coincidence of his death with the æra of the building seems to have been used by the modern antiquaries in assigning names to the statues. The profusion of ornament in this front is not without its effect, but we endeavour in vain to trace any simple principle of arrangement, and a certain degree of confusion diminishes the pleasure which would otherwise be felt. This objection is applicable more or less to the external of all Gothic buildings, and the more the parts are multiplied the more obvious it becomes: yet it is not a style of architecture which can succeed without a considerable proportion of ornament, and perhaps even of intricacy. On the inside of a Gothic edifice of the best periods, although the parts are numerous, yet they all seem to arise from the mode of construction, and to follow each other so naturally, that the eye and mind are led from one to the other through the whole system. With the outside the case is otherwise; the form of no one part seems to depend on that below it, but each might as well be surmounted by something different as by that which really succeeds it. The ranges of arches in these fronts have the effect of dividing the height of the composition into horizontal bands, and there can be no doubt that in the pointed architecture, the perpendicular lines should prevail over the horizontal. I think that in the present instance these horizontal lines are less striking in the building than in the usual engravings, perhaps because in reality we have no point of view sufficiently distant to permit the eye to embrace the whole composition.
I have a few more words to say on the outside of this cathedral. The two towers are of unequal height; the seat of the archbishop alone, according to my usual guide, Rivoire,[[4]] was distinguished by two equal towers, as is the case at Paris and at Rheims. In Turkey the privilege of more than one tower is still restricted to the royal mosques, but I believe it is altogether the fancy of this author that any similar regulation existed for the forms of Christian churches.
There are three doorways. This disposition, which is sometimes observable in our cathedrals, is very general in the larger religious edifices of France. The middle, says Rivoire, was for the clergy, that on the right for the men, that on the left for the women. The middle door at Amiens is called that of the Saviour, because his image adorns the pilaster at the meeting of the two leaves of the door, which here, and very commonly elsewhere in France, divides the doorway into two parts. The two sides, and the parts above, present a very elaborate composition, representing, as is supposed, the Last Judgment. Mr. Rigollot, a member of the Academy of Amiens, imagines that he traces in it the prevalence of the superstitions of Sabeism, and has given a description wherein he corrects some errors and inaccuracies of Rivoire; and a very ingenious, and I think in general satisfactory, elucidation of his own opinion. The right, or southern doorway is called that of the Mother of God, the image of the Virgin Mary being in a similar manner placed in the middle. That on the north is distinguished by the statue and name of St. Firmin, to whom the cathedral is dedicated. The latter doorway is farther remarkable by the twelve signs of the zodiac, which are sculptured on it, with the rural labours of the corresponding months of the year. It exhibits also fourteen figures of saints, of which St. Firmin and St. Dionysius are represented carrying their heads in their hands. Was it not St. Severinus who not only took his head in his hand after he had been decapitated, but actually walked with it to the altar, and participated in the holy communion?
On entering the church one is immediately struck by a fine appearance of space and airiness. This is partly owing to the great dimensions; the nave is 10 feet wider, and above 50 feet higher than that of Salisbury Cathedral. The side aisles at Salisbury are only 38 feet high. Those at Amiens are 64; and this I have no doubt also contributes greatly to the impression of superior magnificence. In length the French cathedrals are generally inferior to ours, but they are without screens, and the whole extent presents itself at once to the eye of the spectator. A range of side chapels, corresponding with the divisions of the side aisles, is also a noble feature which we have not in any English building, or have it only very imperfectly in Chichester Cathedral.
These dimensions and comparisons may perhaps assist your imagination in forming an idea of the building, but it is impossible to communicate the feelings produced by the first view of its interior. It not only far surpassed my expectations, but possessed a character and expression quite new to me. In our English cathedrals the eye is confined to one avenue, and the sublime effect is nearly limited to the view along it. Here the sight seems to penetrate in all directions, and to obtain a number of views, all indeed subordinate to the principal one, but all beautiful, and offering, by the different position of the parts with regard to the spectator, the greatest variety. I sat down for some time to enjoy this sublime scene, and then paced slowly up the nave, as far as the intersection of the cross, where my attention was arrested by the beautiful rose window at each end of the transept. Without seeing them one can form no idea of how much beauty a rose window is capable; the splendid colouring of the glass, glowing among the rich tracery, has a brilliancy and magnificence for which I can cite to you no parallel in England.
On the rise of the Italian school of architecture the preceding style, which then received the appellation of Gothic, was reproached as heavy, dark, gloomy, and void of simplicity. Nothing can be more unjust than this censure. In its interiors, on the contrary, it offers the greatest simplicity and harmony; not entirely free from defects, and occasionally exhibiting traces of the rude age in which it flourished, but bearing these as slight blemishes on a beautiful face. It is extremely light, as opposed to heavy, for no style of building performs, or appears to perform so much with so little material; and the blaze of daylight from its numerous and spacious windows is insufferable, when not corrected by the deeply coloured glass, and even by its coarse joinings. These rose windows, brilliant as they are when seen from below, I found, on nearer inspection, to be divided by very wide strips of lead, and these again had collected about them a quantity of dust, which still farther obscured the light, but all this was lost in the general splendour of the effect as seen from below. These two large roses of the transept open into a square space underneath them, so that, strictly speaking, they are not rose windows, but merely rose-headed. The circle, however, occupies so large a portion, and the remainder is comparatively so insignificant, that we must be permitted to call them rose windows. That of the nave comprises only the circle. The design of the tracery is, probably, somewhat later than that of the building; at least, in England we should attribute it nearly to the middle of the fourteenth century, here we know enough of the building to assign it with confidence to the thirteenth. Those of the transept I judge to be later still, chiefly on account of their union with the window below. The western rose has become internally the dial of the clock; the figures denoting the hours are more than seven feet apart, and the hour hand moves nearly an inch and a half in a minute. In that of the northern transept we find the pentalpha, a form to which some persons imagine a mysterious meaning to be attached. The same arrangement which prevails in the nave is continued in the choir, only the outer aisle being no longer divided into chapels, there is a double side aisle continued from the transept to the polygonal end of the building; to this part chapels are again attached, presenting five sides of an octagon. The ladies’ chapel, in the centre, is lengthened, but terminates in the same manner.
In the French Gothic there is no moulding along the ridges of the vault, except, and that rarely, in some of the latest edifices. This moulding, in drawings of English buildings, is generally represented as a straight line, but does, in fact, usually form a crooked one, descending to the direct arch, and rising to the intersection of the groins. In the French buildings this mode of construction is much more evident than with us, the intersection of the groins being always considerably higher than the point of the direct arch, and sometimes so much so, for instance, in the church of St. Germain des Près, in Paris, as to form almost a portion of a dome. In some of the late Gothic examples I think I have seen exactly the reverse take place, and the point of the direct arch made the highest in the vaulting.
It is totally impossible that any style of building should be peculiarly calculated for a particular set of opinions. Some Protestant writers attribute to Gothic architecture a mysterious connexion with the Roman Catholic religion, and, indeed, seem to think that all magnificent churches have a tendency to support that system. Such an opinion does not deserve consideration, but it is certainly true, that some buildings are calculated to excite emotions favourable to religious impressions, to produce a serious frame of mind, and one in which we are more inclined to acknowledge the present existence of superior power, and more ready to submit to the influence of this conviction. Such means of excitement are liable to abuse, and no person can remain long in these edifices, and observe what passes before him, without being made sensible of the power they possess by the degree to which it is abused. But as this abuse is by no means a necessary attendant on the use, it is not a fair argument against it. Mankind in general, at least in France and England, are dull and sluggish in the affairs of religion; they find it difficult to detach their thoughts sufficiently from worldly affairs. It is desirable, therefore, that every help should be given them, for in this, as in every other good object, human means are to be used, when they are put within our reach. A place of worship should, therefore, in the first place, possess in its style and decoration, a decidedly different appearance from a common dwelling-house: this tends to break the associations with the every day employments of life, and gradually to form new associations with the objects of religion, which become of considerable importance in the government of the attention. A merchant, on entering his counting-house, is more strongly led to think of ships and commerce, than on coming into a dining-room. Secondly, a place of worship should possess a decided character of power and sublimity: if from the conditions of our nature any style of building is calculated to induce serious feelings, that style is fitted for a church. In the third place, if any style be already connected in our imagination with the duties of religion, it is fitter for the purpose than one, which having equally the two former qualifications, is deficient in the latter. These considerations point out the Gothic architecture as preferable to every other, for the churches of our own country; but it would not be at all necessary, in the erection of new structures, to retain the awkward arrangement usually found in a parish church.
I have already observed that the chapels at Amiens are not coeval with the building, but some of them are very little posterior. They are said to have originated from the following circumstance. In the year 1244, Geoffroi de Milly, great bailiff of Amiens, hung five clerks, or scholars, without any legal process, because they were accused by his daughter of an assault on her person. It is uncertain whether they were really guilty, or whether, having surprised her in too close conference with her lover, she accused them in order to invalidate their testimony against herself. The bishop, indignant at this wanton abuse of power, after examining the circumstances, pronounced the following severe sentence, and though it must be confessed that the bailiff had fully merited it, yet it seems astonishing that so galling a penance could be strictly performed, which we are told was the fact. Geoffroi was to be conducted on the following Saturday after dinner and before vespers, i. e. between one and two o’clock, with his arms and feet naked, a halter round his neck, and his hands tied behind him, in the manner usually practised towards felons, from the place called Malmaison to the gallows; and after reposing there a little while he was to be reconducted as far as the church of St. Montau, at which place his hands being untied, the body of one of the said five clerks, with a cloth of fine linen, was to be delivered to him, and he was to carry it to the Mother Church, and thence to the burying ground of St. Dionysius, and afterwards, in the four following days to carry the other four bodies in the same manner, first to the Mother Church, and then to the Cemetery. Moreover, he was directed to appear at the cathedral at Rheims, at the other churches of the diocese, and at the churches of Rouen, Paris, and Orleans, and to attend the processions on one Sunday, or feast day, at each, with his arms and feet naked, his hands tied behind him, and without any thing to shelter him from being fully seen, and at each place, during the procession, the sentence of his condemnation was to be read. Moreover, he was to swear never to hold any office conveying jurisdiction, and to submit himself in all particulars to the sentence of the bishop, and to perform all that it enjoined within the time prescribed, and to bring back with him certificates from each place of his having done so. Moreover, he was to provide five basins of silver, each weighing five marks, in which were to be five wax candles, each weighing three pounds. These were to be kept constantly burning in the church at Amiens, and the criminal had to provide funds in perpetuity. Nor was this all; the day after the feast of “Monsieur St. Jean Baptiste,” he was enjoined to take a journey to the Holy Land, and never to return to Amiens, without the consent of the bishop and chapter. Not content with thus punishing the bailiff, the bishop issued a decree against the mayor and aldermen (echevins) of Amiens, for having permitted the bailiff to proceed to such extremities against the five clerks, condemning them, under penalty of a thousand marks of silver, to found six chapels, and to appoint to each a rent of twenty Parisian livres, and in consequence of this decree were founded the first chapels of this church. Before quitting the nave I must point out two monuments too interesting to pass unnoticed, though such objects do not come within my general plan, except as they afford examples of architecture. They are on the right and left of the western doorway, and represent, in brass figures of the size of life, bishop Everard, the founder of the church, and Bertrand D’Abbeville, who completed it. They were originally placed in the midst of the nave, but were transferred in 1762 to their present position. On the pavement of the church is a labyrinth, indicated by the arrangement of black and white stones which compose it. Such an ornament occurs in many French churches. I do not know if it had any mysterious meaning.
Finding myself very cold while making my sketches, I walked round the church, through the galleries, and in the roof. The latter is very well constructed, three braces resting at different heights on each side of the king-post, exemplifies the origin of an English word for that part, roof-tree.
The timbers are generally small, but they are well disposed and well put together. They are said to be of chesnut, a statement still more general in France than in England as to the timber of old buildings, but I have no proof that it is not oak. The rafters are laid flatwise; the laying them edgewise is an improvement of modern date in England, and has not yet got into general use in France. The tie-beam is placed several feet above the vaulting. The central spire is also said to be of chesnut. It is well built, but the ornaments, which look sharp, and accurately defined, from below, appear round and clumsy when close to the eye. One may walk also on the outside over the roofs of the side aisles and chapels, among the flying buttresses, and behind the statues of the front gallery.
I found a very fine point for an external view of the cathedral in the garden of the Palais de Justice, but the cold and snow interrupted me. The palace seems now to be a school. Soon after I entered the garden, the maid-servant came in, in order to drive out the boys. They were quite as untractable as English boys usually are under the same authority, but after some quarrelling she gave one as loud a box on the ear as I ever heard; it rung through the court, and echoed from the ruins of a neighbouring monastery. One of them hid himself behind a tree, and after the danger was over, came out to tell me that he was very fond of drawing, that they had a drawing-master in the school, that they did little but draw, and that the master would not let them use compasses, but sometimes allowed them to measure. I objected to the latter liberty. “Ah Monsieur, vous savez que quand on commence à dessiner, on ne peut pas juger des mesures.” “Mais pour vous,” I replied, “qui dessinez bien?” “Ah pour moi qui dessine bien, ce n’est pas permis, il me gronderoit bien s’il trouvoit que je mesurois quelque chose.”
I stayed at Amiens the whole of the 13th of April, dining at the table d’Hôte, and accustoming myself to French language and French manners. The salle-à-manger was ornamented with a paper which seems very common at the inns, representing the principal buildings of Paris, not badly executed. Although the room is about forty feet long, there is no repetition of the pattern; you may easily conceive that an immense number of blocks must have been used. Indeed, I was once told by a paper-hanger in London, that he had seen papers in England which were executed by means of 150 blocks, and that he used to think that a very great number; but going afterwards to Paris, he had there seen some which required two thousand five hundred. My landlady conducted me into another room, where she shewed me the representation of a chase, in which both the forms and the colouring were really very good, and into a third, which was adorned with the history of Cupid and Psyche. I do not say the execution was such as you would be satisfied with in a painting, but yet all the parts were expressed with a considerable degree of truth and accuracy, the groups were well disposed, and the light well managed.
About noon, on the fourteenth, I again found a place in the cabriolet of the diligence, and proceeded to Beauvais, snow falling almost all the time. It was dusk when we arrived there; and the high, black mass of the choir rising above the houses of the town, all covered with snow, did not prepossess me in favour of the building. During the night the thermometer sunk to 25° of Fahrenheit, and the next morning was excessively cold, with frequent showers. Before reaching the cathedral, I inquired at a bookseller’s shop for some account of it. He had no such work, but shewed me a history of the town, “publiée sur la demande de Monsieur le Maire de Beauvais, et aux frais de la ville.” On looking over it I found little to answer my purpose, and begged permission to copy a few lines which might perhaps be useful to me. He most politely begged me to take the book, and keep it as long as I wanted it. I observed an account of the church of St. Etienne, said to be of very high antiquity, and the bookseller pointed out to me the description of an image, which, he assured me, had been a pagan idol: “Et comment, monsieur,” said I, “peut on s’assurer de la grande antiquité de cette statue?” “Eh,” replied he, “vous le trouverez dans les commentaires de César.” This was said with the greatest air of science imaginable.
On approaching the cathedral I was surprised at the richness and beauty of the external decoration. Seen from the south-east, it is much superior in this respect to Amiens, because the ornaments and their disposition are more dependent on each other, and seem more connected with the construction of the building. There are two ranges of pinnacles on the buttresses of the choir. Those of the inner range are slender, and carried up nearly as high as the walls of the clerestory. The outer are lower, and of more solid proportion; both ranges are ornamented, and their effect is very rich and magnificent. The “portal,” using this word to include the end of the transept, is of late date, and very much ornamented. The entrances are, you know, at the ends of the transepts, the nave never having been erected; and here again, on entering the church, the great window, with its splendid rose, terminating the vista, displays all its beauties. Passing down the centre, the view of the choir is really sublime; and the slender columns, the triple range of windows, and the loftiness of the upper ones, have an appearance almost supernatural. It is considerably higher than that at Amiens; and to judge by the eye, I should say that the ridge of the vaulting does not fall short of a hundred and sixty feet, but I do not think it on that account to be preferred. The columns at Beauvais are too slender, the arches between them too narrow, and the vault too high. Every quality is carried to excess. If the nave were built, the height would not appear so disproportionate; but it would still be too great, and the want of proportionate width would be more conspicuous. Another important objection is in the groining of the roof, which is too complicated. In a common groin one vault crosses another at right angles: in this instance two smaller vaults cross the principal one obliquely; we have therefore three vaults crossing each other in the same point; or, perhaps it would be better to say, that six vaults meet in one point. There are dates on some of the arches of the transept of 1575, 1577, 1578, 1580. This mode of construction was certainly introduced much earlier, but I do not know precisely at what period. In England, I think we find a similar construction in part of Canterbury Cathedral; and it is represented, but not very clearly, in Britton’s work on that edifice, pl. 17. The pillars of the choir are alternately larger and smaller, which renders it probable that the disposition of the vaulting was contemplated at the time of the foundation of the church. It has been suspected that these intermediate piers are posterior to the design of the building, but this does not appear to me to be the case. Whittington says that this roof fell down in 1802; whence could have arisen such an error?
The transept is furnished with side aisles, which are not so high as those of the choir. The choir has at its commencement a double range of side aisles, an arrangement productive of great beauty. The pillars of the choir are formed by small shafts, attached to a circular pier. In those of the transept the smaller shafts are united by curved lines to the principal shaft, so that each pillar on the plan is bounded by an undulating line, without any angle. Even in the earlier part the bases are more capricious than at Amiens; the pillars themselves are more slender, the capitals less distinct: all of which are proofs of its erection posterior to that cathedral.
I have still to state a few dates of this building. The foundations were laid in 991, by Hervé, fortieth bishop of Beauvais, but nothing of this construction remains to give any character to the present work; the roof and vaults were burnt in 1225. In 1281 the great arches of the choir fell down, and mass could not be said for forty years; and this perhaps may give us the era of the present choir, i. e. about 1324. Yet there are fragments undoubtedly of an older edifice; as, for example, at each end of the aisles of the transept, where there is a small wheel window. The transept was not begun till 1500. It was finished, with a central tower which rose to the height of four hundred and seventy-five feet. If this account be correct, it appears rather remarkable that the transept should contain no trace of Roman architecture. The Chateau de Gaillon, in Paris, begun in 1490, and finished in 1500, contains ample evidence of the introduction of that style, though it still retains much of the Gothic in the ornaments and their arrangement. There are, however, I believe, other buildings in France of the early part of the sixteenth century, perfectly Gothic.
My observations in the cathedral were interrupted by the office, and, as it was the first opportunity I have had of witnessing these ceremonies, I stayed to see what was going forward, paying half a sol for my chair. Each individual crosses himself on entrance. This, the use of holy water, and the bowing to the altar, seem very ridiculous to a Protestant. The first and last may be thought to announce, for the moment at least, attention to sacred things, but it would be difficult to assign any rational motive for the introduction of the holy water. Historically, it may, perhaps, be deduced as a symbol of purification from sin, but in the actual practice such an application appears absurd. I saw some water prepared and consecrated at Amiens, but the ceremony is not very impressive; and neither there nor at Beauvais did the dress of the officiating priests appear to me either dignified or graceful. The kneeling of the congregation consists in this: that each person turns the back of the chair from him; and tipping it a little, places one or both knees against the seat. In one not previously seated, the change of position is hardly observable.
The oldest fragment in Beauvais is a part of the ancient church of Nôtre Dame de Basse Œuvre. The east end presents a pretty large circular-headed window, with a flat, broad reticulated ornament round it in low relief, and some imperfect figures above. A portion of cornice, with the billeted moulding, also remains, and a few of the side arches, the whole being but a portion of the ancient nave. A floor has been inserted internally, to make it suitable for a magazine of wood, and the whole strengthened with brick piers. I can readily believe it to have been erected early in the eleventh century, or perhaps in the tenth, before the full development of the Norman style of architecture; but there is too little of it, and it is in too damaged a condition, to be of great interest. The work already mentioned assures us that it was erected in the third century, and that one of the existing figures was a pagan idol, as proved by its nakedness.
The church of St. Stephen is also very ancient, and it is far more perfect than Nôtre Dame de Basse Œuvre. It is said to have been erected or restored by St. Firmin in 997, but I suspect that this is too early for any part of the present design. The western front presents fragments of about the year 1200, but sadly injured during the revolution. The sides are adorned with a range of very little arches, forming, not an arcade, but an ornament under the cornice; a few of them, however, rest on slender shafts. This, I apprehend, is somewhat more ancient. The northern end of the transept has three semicircular-headed windows: the southern has two, and over them a fine wheel window, with figures representing the wheel of fortune; the gable is ornamented with interlacing rods of stone. There is also a fine Norman doorway on the north side. Internally the nave appears to have undergone no considerable alteration since its erection. The pillars are formed of square piers, with four large semi-elipsoid shafts attached, and four smaller cylindrical ones, nearly detached. The bases are attic, but of a form which indicates the beginning of the Gothic taste in that particular; and perhaps we may say that the whole, both inside and out, announces an erection of about the middle of the twelfth century. There were, I apprehend, no pointed arches in the original edifice. The transept is of mixed architecture, and the choir is of a late style. Its vaulting bears date 1548, but the design of this part must be attributed to the fifteenth century.
There are several other fragments in Beauvais. Two ancient towers, at the entrance of the episcopal palace, with high French roofs, and two Norman towers behind. Four Saxon arches, opposite the flank of the palace, have belonged to some richly ornamented building; and there is some mixed construction in the ancient walls. Parts of these are said to be of the fourth century, but internal evidence of this is wanting.
The soil about Beauvais is chalky, divided by small, narrow valleys, with steep sides, which afford situations for the vines: the little hill of Ste. Symphorienne, just out of the town, presents a very good view of it. The stumps of the vines rise about a foot from the ground; the poles were disposed in conical heaps, much as our hop-poles are, but the vine-poles are shorter. In some of the orchards, which are abundant, there are gooseberry bushes among the larger fruit trees, and these are the only things which look green. In the evening I again found a seat in the cabriolet of the diligence, and arrived at Paris about nine o’clock this morning. I have established myself in a small room in the Hotel du Phôt, Rue du Phôt; for which I am to pay forty francs per month, and two francs per month to François, who makes the bed, cleans the room, blacks shoes, brushes coats, and, in short, performs the united services of valet and chambermaid. The situation is pleasant, but rather too much out of town.
LETTER II.
GENERAL ACCOUNT OF PARIS.
Paris, April, 1816.
In my last I conducted you, among the intricacies of Gothic architecture, to Paris. I have now to tell you what I have seen in this city, and in two or three places, at no great distance, which I have visited; but before I plunge again into the uncertainties of dates, and the mysteries of round and pointed arches, zigzag ornaments, and trefoils, I am disposed to send you some general observations on Paris and its vicinity, at the risk of repeating what you have heard or read twenty times before; and I will begin by a little of the internal domestic architecture, exemplified in my own bedroom, which I have had plenty of time and opportunity to examine, and which I find to correspond with what I have generally observed elsewhere. In the first place, the rooms are usually papered; and it is very rarely that one sees the lower part of wainscot, or with a dado. It is indeed sometimes papered in a different manner, and with horizontal stripes about three feet from the floor, to indicate surbase mouldings. The floors are of hexagonal tiles, waxed and rubbed, in order to give them a sort of polished surface. We see no lofty double chests of drawers, but all are of a height to serve also as tables, and they are almost universally covered with a marble slab. This is a very handsome arrangement, as the polished stone always looks neat and clean, and it is not injured by a little water accidentally spilt upon it. There is frequently a column at each front angle, and the upper drawer advancing a little before the others, forms an architrave, the whole face of which draws out. The bed I have before described to you. There is no shelf over the chimney, but generally a looking-glass, and frequently a picture. The chamber which I occupy has an open fireplace for burning wood, but a more usual arrangement is to have a large stove, cased with glazed tiles, within the room, which communicates a moderate but lasting warmth at a small expense of fuel. My window looks out into a little garden, and I am almost close to the Boulevards on the one hand, and to the garden of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées, on the other. The plan of these boulevards is a noble conception, and one of the proudest monuments of useful magnificence that Paris has to boast. They form a wide street, or rather avenue, lined with trees, round the oldest and most thickly inhabited parts of the town, introducing the country into the city, and providing both for the health and pleasure of its inhabitants. They seem to have been originally planned to surround, and not to divide the city. Those on the north side were cleared and planted in 1660; on the south, not till 1760. They form a pleasant promenade, though not every where equally so, and they are within the reach of a short walk for all the inhabitants of Paris. Places of public entertainment abound, as you may suppose, in this circuit; theatres, coffee-houses, restaurateurs, hotels; indeed, such places are very numerous throughout Paris. The guide books tell you that it contains 3,000 hotels, 2,000 restaurateurs, 4,000 coffee-houses. The estaminets (pot-houses) are very frequent, and wine and spirit shops almost without number. Add to these the traiteurs, patissiers, confiseurs, and epiciers, and you may imagine that Paris is not a place to starve in. In one of my rambles I amused myself, for some distance, with counting the number of houses appropriated to these purposes, and found more than every other applied to one or the other of them.
The garden of the Tuilleries consists of straight walks, in avenues of lime and horsechesnut trees, cut into regular forms. There are beds of flowers near the palace, and in the summer it is further ornamented with rows of fine orange trees. The Champs Elysées is a less ornamented continuation of the same system. Between the two is a large open space called, originally, the Place of Louis Quinze, afterwards of Concord, and of the Revolution; to the south of this one may see, over the Seine, the magnificent portico of the Chamber of Deputies, and to the north, the beginnings of an edifice which was to have been the Temple of Glory, but what its future name will be is very uncertain. Nearer is the Garde Meuble, a building intended to surpass the celebrated façade of the Louvre. It is very beautiful, but why the architect has not fully succeeded I shall endeavour to explain at a future time. A fine avenue, bounded by a double range of trees, continues from the Elysian Fields to the Barrière de Neuilly, and thus we have a straight line from this barrière (begun on a magnificent scale, but not yet completed) to the front of the Tuilleries, which, if mere length could produce the impression, would certainly be very magnificent. To a certain degree it is so, and the elevation of the ground, towards the barrière, is very favourable to it, but the grandeur is not in proportion to the apparent effort.
However pretty the winding walks of our English gardens may be, they are not at all suited for a place of public resort, where any impression of magnificence is intended. They never show the people, which is a point of great consequence. The disposition of the objects in straight lines, has in itself an imposing, or to use a term more English, an impressive effect, but this has its limits, and I suspect not very extended ones. The too great length of the line makes the individual parts appear little, and the mind is not satisfied with the general impression of sublimity, unless it find the character supported by the objects in its immediate neighbourhood. Beyond a certain point almost any additional length is nearly lost, and, in proceeding along it, we feel its want of variety, without any compensation. I am persuaded that, if a man were placed at the point where two narrow avenues meet, one of them a mile in length, and the other two, he would not readily distinguish the difference. By extending the line too much, also, in places of public resort, it becomes impossible to fill it with people, and this deficiency is more sensible than the length of the avenue.
One of my first employments at Paris was to ramble over it and take a general view of the city. I crossed the Seine at the Pont Louis Quinze, and walked along the noble quays as far as the Island, admiring, on the opposite side, the vast extent of the united palaces of the Tuilleries and Louvre, which, whatever may be the defects and incongruities of their architecture, must always, from their long continued lines, communicate to a stranger the idea of great magnificence. The quays themselves are also an object well worthy of attention, they form a wide street on each side of the river, which is embanked in stone throughout its whole course, in Paris; and whether I looked up the river, towards the Pont Neuf and Nôtre Dame, or downwards, to the Chamber of Deputies, the Pont Louis Seize, the Champs Elysées, and Mount Valerian, I had always a noble scene before me. The narrow quays and crowded shores of the Thames, in London, do not permit any scene of this sort. The completion of this design is due to Bonaparte, and it certainly is an honour to him. Some writers have complained of the want of variety, and that the Parisians are thus shut out from the natural banks of the river, but the natural banks of a river, running through a city, are merely mud and rubbish.
I continued my walk to Nôtre Dame, and afterwards, returning to the south shore, proceeded to the Jardin des Plantes, or du Roi, as you please. I then crossed the Pont Austerlitz, one of the new bridges built by Bonaparte. This is of iron, as is also the Pont des Arts, or du Louvre, but the latter is for foot passengers only. The Parisians boast of their bridges, but without great reason; this Pont d’Austerlitz is fine for an iron bridge;[[5]] the Pont Neuf has little pretension to beauty; the Pont des Arts is a light, not to say a slight construction of iron, for foot passengers; the Pont Royal is a well-constructed bridge, but hardly a handsome one; the Pont d’Jena is a caricature of flat elliptical arches, and apparent lightness; and its merit is confined to some ingenuity in the construction, in order to obtain this effect; which, nevertheless, is certainly a blemish. Nothing is of more importance in a bridge than an appearance of solidity.
In this tour I did not by any means confine myself to a direct course, but turned off to the right or the left, if I saw any building of more consequence than ordinary, or if the ancient aspect of the houses near gave me reason to consider the general character of the street deserving of notice.
The streets on the south side of the river, within the ancient walls, are, I think, still more narrow and winding than those on the north. But all Paris abounds with crooked dirty lanes. We complain of the obscure situation of many of the principal buildings in London; nothing can be worse placed than some of those in Paris. However detrimental this may be to the appearance of the building, considered individually, I do not know whether it may not, occasionally, heighten the general impression of magnificence. The apparent waste of architecture gives an idea that the means are abundant, and that the objects have been produced without effort; and the notion of painful exertion is always highly prejudicial to the sentiment of sublimity.
The Palais Royal is an immense building, inclosing a large court, or garden, containing not only shops, but splendid coffee-houses and great salles-à-manger. Nothing in London can give you any idea of this place; from its immense extent, the variety and splendour of its exhibitions, and the constant crowd to be met with. “The number of arches is 113; the ground floor of each, in shops and coffee-houses, &c., lets for 3,000 francs per annum, the first floor for 1,200, and the third and fourth for 500 each, thus making the annual produce of each division, comprising one arch, and the parts above it, 6,000 francs, or 240l., and, consequently, that of the whole, to 27,120l., to which an addition is to be made for the Galerie de Bois, the shops of which produce each 1,200 francs per annum, but of their number I am ignorant.”[[6]] The architecture is not good, yet the great extent of the garden, and the continuity of the surrounding buildings, decorated with a uniform style of ornament, produce a rich and striking coup d’œil; and it must be observed, that this uniformity consists in the repetition of parts, which, though not perfect, yet when compared with the London rows of brick-houses, or the almshouse Gothic of the House of Lords, may justly be esteemed magnificent.
The Café des Mille Colonnes is in the Palais Royal, and is perhaps the most celebrated in Paris. It is a large room, surrounded with half columns against the walls, and all the spaces not occupied by the doors and windows are filled up with looking-glass. But its celebrity has been less owing to its architectural splendor than to its beautiful mistress. The lady was seated at the bar in a very handsome chair, dressed in a gown of crimson satin, and the bar itself, and all about her, was highly ornamented. This is usually the most finished and decorated part of a French coffee-house, and this heightening of enrichment, in the principal point of the apartment, is certainly well judged, and tends much to enhance the splendor of the whole. It is the same in principle, as far as architecture is concerned, with the highly finished altar of a church, and those who possess the poetry of the art will feel the importance of these accessories. You see I am considering the lady merely as an ornament to architecture, but unfortunately, this highest enrichment is not at the command of the artist. After satisfying my curiosity with a general view of the city, the next object was to acquire some knowledge of its inhabitants, and on the 18th I began to deliver my letters of introduction. I do not mean to give an account of all the visits I paid, but merely a sketch of such as I think may interest you. One was to Mr. Du Fourny, professor of architecture. On the pavement, at the entrance of his apartment, is the word salve, copied from a mosaic at Pompei, and his rooms are ornamented with various fragments of antiquity. He was very angry with the Duke of Wellington for having assisted in stripping the museum, and attributed the whole to the English government, but a little further conversation served to explain his idea, which was, that the English might have hindered it if they would, and that they ought to have done so. This is a very frequent ground of complaint amongst the French, but I know not what claim they can imagine themselves to have had to our interference in their favour. That the union of these objects was not for the general advantage of art, seems to be acknowledged by almost all those who have the best opportunities of observing its progress, and Mr. Du Fourny was one of upwards of eighty French artists, who, much to their honour, petitioned that the spoils of Italy might not be brought to Paris. It has been imagined that this request proceeded from an idea, that the Louvre being thus filled, no employment would remain for the native artists, and that in fact the market would be overstocked. But it is sufficiently obvious that these objects are not brought into the market, and that without them no one would have thought of filling the Louvre with paintings, while the existence of such a gallery excites the taste for collections, and multiplies the employment of the painter. The ill effect of such an immense collection is, that it gives a certain sort of familiarity with a degree of excellence, beyond what artists of these degenerate days are capable of attaining, and forces them to seek distinction in extravagance and manner. This consequence would be less to be dreaded if the union of second-rate artists in academies did not give them a degree of consequence and influence beyond that to which they are naturally entitled. It has been considered as a very extraordinary reproach to the French school, that its members did not improve in point of taste by the habitual acquaintance with these glorious productions; but no school would have improved. The artist who hunts them out in different places fixes them in his memory and his heart, he makes use of them without fear, or at least he is not afraid of showing, in his productions, what he has been studying; and it is perhaps an advantage, that at last he has not the original painting at hand to render him ashamed of his own effort. The artist to whom they are constantly accessible has before his eyes the incessant reproach of want of originality, and is obliged to shun an imitation of style, painful in so many ways to his feelings and his reputation.
On another occasion I called on Denon, who received me in the most friendly manner, and shewed me his Egyptian drawings. The spirit and life that he puts into every thing is delightful. He has a very good museum, containing, as might be expected, a large collection of Egyptian antiquities. He possesses also some very fine paintings, and a most valuable collection of drawings of the Italian masters.[[7]] I noticed a bust of Napoleon, and observed to him that it seemed to be a prohibited figure in Paris. He replied, that it was the bust of his benefactor, and that political events could not discharge the obligations of private gratitude. Amongst the slavish flattery which on both sides has lately so disgraced the French character, how noble does this sentiment appear!
On the 22d, M. De Bure, the well known bookseller, took me to the royal library. It occupies two floors, surrounding a court above 300 feet long, and 75 feet wide, the rooms at one end being double. The printed books are said to form 350,000 volumes, and there are more manuscripts than would fill the shelves of the London Institution. The whole extent of surface for books must, I conceive, exceed 25,000 feet. Here is a large library of large paper copies, and a series of rooms for books of prints, maps, drawings, &c. The height of the bookcases is about 11 feet, and over them is a gallery. The books are frequently in a double range, the larger behind, and the smaller in front, so that you see the former over the latter. Among other things is an immense collection of what they call topography, which contains the plans and details of a great number of buildings, some of which are Gothic. I took some pains to see what there was; but the want of any arrangement which would lead me to the different subjects, made it a difficult task, and the drawings, when found, appeared for the most part, to be very poor and inaccurate. There are several drawings on a large scale, made for the purpose of explaining some alterations in the choir of Nôtre Dame. These exhibited particularities, principally in the vaulting of the bas chœur, which appeared to me very remarkable, while others were quite incomprehensible. On referring to the building I found both the one and the other totally false; a gross inaccuracy, so immediately within reach of correction, gives ground to suspect similar defects in many others.
After having satisfied my curiosity at the library, I called upon Humboldt. He is a most interesting man, for he talks a great deal, and as he has seen much, and thought much, almost every word he says conveys both pleasure and information. Within a quarter of an hour he led me deep into the Mexican antiquities, shewing me the history of Adam and Eve, and the fall of man, exhibited in the hieroglyphic paintings of the country, and explaining to me all the particulars. He observed, that this coincidence with the traditions of Western Asia was a very wonderful fact: as from their geographical position, and other circumstances, the Mexicans, and other tribes of North America, have been supposed to be derived from the Tartar or Chinese nations of Eastern Asia, where no such history is retained. He talks of visiting the ruins of Babylon. I told him I thought he had travelled enough; he said he had hardly begun; and I replied, he would weep like Alexander, for more worlds to travel in.
After this conversation, M. Humboldt conducted me to the Institute, where he introduced me to Richard, and pointed out to me Jussieu, Latreille, Lacepede, Laborde, and several other of the present distinguished literary characters of France. Nothing could be more kind or attentive than his whole conduct.
Here also is a very fine library, which owes its foundation to Cardinal Mazarine. The small room, for the ordinary meetings of the Institute, is, I suppose, 50 feet long; and the principal room of the library 60 feet. Both are filled with books.
On the 24th I attended a public meeting of the Institute. Of all the dull things resorted to by way of amusement, I think a public meeting of the Institute is the most stupid. The room occupied for the purpose was anciently the church of Les Quatre Nations. Its form is a Greek cross, or perhaps rather an octagon, with four recesses; and the dome, and the recess which anciently formed the choir, are occupied by the members. The auditors, seated in the other three recesses, each of which is divided into two heights, neither see nor hear well; but a favoured portion occupying part of the centre, are better off. This was the first meeting since the Institute had been new modelled, and it was very fully attended. M. de Vaublanc made a long speech. He was followed by the Duc de Richelieu. The third was M. De Fontanes. Choiseul Gouffier, as representative of classical literature, read an essay on Homer. Cuvier, the champion of natural history, produced a report on the progress of science, and if his view of the subject was not very profound, or his mode of reasoning always perfectly accurate, it was the better suited to a public assembly. M. de Campenon was the last I heard. He read an epistle in verse. You will not expect me to tell you much about the subjects; there was little in any of them worthy of being remembered. The burthen of the song was the praise of their wise and good king, ce beau roi, ce grand roi, but what monarch is too poor to buy praise? It seemed indeed rather out of place, if we consider this as a scientific meeting, but in truth, it is merely a public exhibition to please the good people of Paris. The style of speaking is very disagreeable to a stranger. The periods are divided into short portions of a very few syllables, the last of which is dwelt upon longer than the others, and if you repeat the syllables tutitaa, tuttaa, tutitaa, tutiritaa, tutitaa, tuttaa, lengthening out the aa sufficiently, you will have no bad idea of French elocution.
Among the distinguished men whom I saw at Paris, I must not omit to mention M. Visconti, whose modesty and plain good sense in conversation are equal to his vast knowledge of antiquities. I had to take up the cudgels in his apartment in defence of Gothic architecture, but did not succeed at all, and I felt myself very much cramped from the want of a familiar acquaintance with French terms. My opponent was an Italian, and his shoulders touched his ears when I ventured to admire the simplicity of the Gothic, as exhibited in the insides of the finest cathedrals.
The first architect in Paris, in point of taste and knowledge of design, is Percier, and probably the first in Europe. I had a great deal of conversation with him about Gothic, which he does not much admire, but prefers that of the south of France, to that of the north. However he is not so bigotted against it as to wish to exclude it altogether from art, but reserves it for an occasional “bon bouche,” by way of variety; while his really substantial every day food is the Greek architecture, or rather the Roman. M. Percier is not less distinguished for his kind and judicious treatment of the young architects and students in architecture, than for his professional talents. Here is no jealousy, no keeping back information; for every species of assistance and advice they all look up to Percier: such an union is delightful.
The sçavant who is supposed to know most of Gothic architecture in Paris is M. Millin. He is certainly an able antiquary, and a man of general information, but not very profound in any thing, perhaps not even in his favourite pursuit. He has published some works of considerable value on French antiquities; but architecture is not the part in which he is strongest, though his “Antiquités nationales” consists chiefly of architectural subjects. He offered me the use of his library, which is a very excellent one on these subjects, and the permission would be of great value, if my stay at Paris were long enough to enable me to avail myself of it. I have every reason to believe that the offer was perfectly in earnest, and that he would have been gratified by my acceptance of it.
LETTER III.
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.
Rheims, May, 1816.
I engaged a young French artist of the name of Le Blanc to accompany me in an excursion to Chalons sur Marne, and Rheims, in order to assist me in sketching the Gothic Architecture of those two places. The road is not very pleasant; the first part lies mostly through a common field, but with trees of a tolerable size on each side: these trees admit of a side and front view of the country, but not an oblique one: from the straightness of the road, the front continues always the same, and the side view escapes in a moment, so that we have no time to dwell on any object. Tired of one everlasting defect, I began to wish the trees altogether out of the way; but before reaching Chalons, I became still more tired of an open country, to which the eye could hardly distinguish any boundary, and heartily wished for the trees again. The surface of the ground is a continued gentle undulation, and whether with or without trees, the straight road makes this form extremely sensible, and it is hardly possible to conceive any thing more dull and wearisome. This character however is not without exception. La Ferté is situated in a very pleasant valley, with scattered trees, steep banks, villages, and distant hills; and a little beyond the town, the road winds round the head of a charming hollow, of no great depth. The hills are steep, and partly woody, and the scene rich, with the mixture of trees, hedges, and cultivated ground; meadows, vineyards, and abundance of orchards, whose delicious fragrance was wafted by a soft and gentle breeze, very different from the cold winds which swept over the naked country. Chalons offered to our curiosity two Gothic churches. The cathedral, of which I have little to say, and that of Nôtre Dame, which both for its antiquity, and the beautiful effects of certain dispositions not usually met with, is extremely interesting. We find here a number of particulars, which generally accompany each other in these ancient French churches: these are, First, square towers, with semicircular headed openings. The mouldings round the windows are often ornamented; but the buttresses (which have little projection) and the surface of the walls, are always unadorned. Secondly, the windows are without tracery, and those of the choir are disposed three together, the middle one being the largest: this arrangement prevails also in Salisbury Cathedral, and in some other English buildings of the same period. Thirdly, detached single columns, which might almost be called Corinthian, support the arches at the back of the choir. Fourthly, the side aisles of the choir are generally in two stories, and frequently of the nave also: the upper story is supposed to have been for the use of the women. Fifthly, there is a gallery or triforium round the choir, above the two stories of the bas chœur, and below the windows, which is not continued along the nave. Sixthly, the end of the choir is circular, not polygonal, and the little chapels which surround it, and which are hardly ever wanting in France, are also terminated in portions of circles: in the later styles of Gothic Architecture both these became polygonal. Seventhly, the mouldings and ornaments externally are more like the Roman, than they are in the Gothic of a later period. Some of these peculiarities may be traced from the ponderous architecture which preceded it, and some may be pursued into the more ornamental style which followed. In attempting to arrange the productions of architecture in a chronological series, we shall find many aberrations in the style of building, from the exact order of dates: a fashion may be continued in one province, some years after it has ceased to be practised in another. Even in the same city the genius of one man may introduce a mode of construction afterwards generally followed, and there may yet be a considerable interval between its first introduction and its general adoption. It may be said then, that the cathedral of Amiens is less early than that of Nôtre Dame at Paris; meaning thereby to infer, not a precise priority of date in the latter, but that it exhibits indications of an earlier stage of knowledge or of taste; and announces a state of art, which, generally speaking, preceded that exhibited in the former.
I think I can now distinguish four styles of French Gothic; the earliest is that which I have just described, as exemplified in the church of Nôtre Dame, at Chalons; the second, that of the thirteenth century, is exhibited on a magnificent scale in the cathedral of Amiens. Here the lower part of the tower is ornamented with niches and statues; the upper part is comparatively plain, and very light. The windows are single, much larger than in the preceding style, divided by mullions, and I believe always rose-headed. There is only one story of aisles, which is nearly, or quite, as high as the two were before. The piers behind the choir, and every where else, except those of the chevet, are bundled, and adorned with rich capitals, representing detached foliage, or sometimes other objects: those of the chevet are sometimes, but not always simple. This word chevet, I have adopted from Whittington, without knowing whether he is correct in the use of it. It means, I think, in common use, the head-board of a bed. The part indicated by it in churches, as I understand it, is the circular or polygonal end of the elevated building forming the great avenue of the church. It is called also by the French the rond point. Our cathedrals rarely finish in this manner, and I do not recollect any appropriate name for the part in our language. Milner, I believe, calls it the apsis, but this is more properly applied to the great semicircular niche of the ancient Basilicas, in which the architecture of the nave was not resumed, as it always is in Gothic churches. This rond point or chevet, is, in this style, always a portion of a polygon, and not of a circle, and the chapels attached to it are also polygonal. The mouldings are much deeper, and more strongly contrasted than in the former style. Thus, at St. Remi, at Rheims, the bases are moulded nearly as in the first of the following figures,
Fig 1.
Fig 2.
in the cathedral of the same city, as in the last: the first exemplifying the taste of the first period; the second, that of which we are now treating. You may find in the one all the parts which are observable in the other, and in the same order. They are both modifications of the ancient Attic base, but managed very differently in the two examples, and so as to produce very different effects. A similar system of diminished heights, increased projection, and deeper hollows, is carried still further in the succeeding period, but the original disposition is no longer so strictly observed. During the prevalence of this style, the distinct leaves of the capital, imitated however clumsily from the ancient Corinthian, began to give way to running foliage. Besides the edifices already mentioned, the choir at Beauvais exhibits a late example of this style, where some of its characteristics are giving way to those of the third.
In the third style, the roses over the windows were generally succeeded by variously disposed foliage; and even the great rose windows were sometimes displaced for more intricate ornaments, or if the circular form was retained, the winding divisions of its area assumed something of a leafy form. In the former styles, the portals were almost exclusively adorned with shafts, placed in reveals, i. e. in receding angles made for them, thus,
and with statues; or three-quarter columns and statues, were placed against a sloping surface. In this, hollow mouldings are introduced, with a beautiful running foliage, the middle of which is worked in entire relief. The capitals of the piers and shafts are diminished both in number and size; and the shafts themselves form part of the masonry of the piers. This mode of construction is, however, occasionally found in much earlier buildings. There are specimens of this style in Paris, but no good one; and I have not met with any fine building altogether belonging to it.
The fourth style is more arbitrary and fanciful than the others, and less reducible to rule, so that it is difficult to say when it began or ended. Perhaps we should not estimate its full establishment earlier than the fifteenth century; but some buildings of the fourteenth exhibit more or less of the following characteristics. The piers, instead of being composed of a central mass and surrounding shafts, seem to be sometimes bundles of mouldings, with deep hollows between them; sometimes, as in the transept of the cathedral at Beauvais, they present merely an undulating outline, the projecting parts of which have the appearance of ribs, and branch out on the vaulting. The following sketches may serve to explain the general progress of the plans of the piers: in the first style they are sometimes massive cylinders; sometimes as at a. In the second, they are often as at b, but perhaps more frequently have only four attached shafts. The third varies from this towards C, and is at times still more complicated: D and E belong to the fourth style.
I have thought at times that the last mode (E) was adopted from economy. It is posterior in date to the other, and perhaps might be considered as forming a distinct style, but it is not accompanied with such a marked difference in the other parts as to enable me to separate it. The cathedral of St. Wulfram, at Abbeville, offers excellent examples of both sorts of piers. The portal and the five first arches of the nave in that church are the commencements of a most magnificent edifice, with the earlier characters of this fourth style. The remainder is an economical continuation of much inferior architecture, probably of about the year 1500. In the first the piers are formed somewhat in the manner above represented at D, in the other they are as at E; in both, the parts divide, and find their bases at different altitudes; and this peculiarity, and the want of capitals, I consider as the two most distinguishing marks of this style; for the idea of columns being thus lost, the capitals are almost always omitted. This style is also distinguished by more fanciful tracery, by mouldings interlacing with each other, and by the crenated ornament lying before the other ornaments, instead of forming the inner edge of the opening, thus:
the mouldings a a being continued close behind the ornament, and entirely detached from it. There is a crenated ornament in the great doorway at Amiens. It is on the first of a succession of ribs forming the vault of the portal; but though the inner ribs may be seen behind it, it does not lie over, or rather on the mouldings, as in the fourth style, but stands as the termination of a separate part, or division, of the architecture. This crenated ornament is also sometimes placed obliquely. Compound arches of this form
are frequently repeated in the divisions of the windows; and curved gables,
instead of straight ones, in the ornaments of the buttresses and pinnacles. In this style the architects seem to have had an aversion to flat surfaces, as well as to right angles among their mouldings. They were fond of dividing the thickness, and increasing the apparent intricacy, by giving to each half a different ramification; making for instance two sets of mullions and tracery in one opening, one before the other, and totally without correspondence.[[8]] They divided the mouldings into separate parts, and placed those of their bases at different heights, one set of vertical mouldings passing between the bases of other vertical mouldings, and the bases of these again, are interrupted by the high plinths of the former bases, as if each penetrated the solid stone, and reappeared again where that did not cover it; many of these fancies are evidently taken from basket work.
The remaining fragment of the church of St. John the Baptist at Soissons, belongs to this style, and the new tower and spire at Chartres form a most beautiful specimen. The shrine work that surrounds the choir at Chartres is also an exquisite miniature example, which I shall mention more particularly hereafter. At about two leagues from Chalons, at a small village called L’Épine, is a little church of the fourteenth century. One tower only has been completed, and crowned with an elegant spire; but had the front been finished, it would offer perhaps the most beautiful specimen of Gothic external composition in the world. The arch of the doorway is large; even more so than the usual proportion in French churches, and its ornaments reach to the top of the rose window over it. The spire is short, with little flying buttresses at its base. It rises from an octagonal turret placed on the tower. Many of the parts themselves may be thought clumsy, but they are beautifully disposed, and every little defect vanishes in the perfection of the whole. Inside also it is an elegant building, if you except the white wash and yellow wash with which it is at present variegated. The front, including the two first arches of the nave, appears to be somewhat posterior to the rest of the church.
If we compare these examples with the buildings in our own country, we shall find the first nearly to correspond with the earliest specimens of what has been called the early English. The eastern parts of the cathedral at Canterbury form the best example I can cite to you; Salisbury Cathedral, and the transept at York, both agree with it in some particulars, while in others they approach to the second French style. Of this, after making some allowance for national differences, Westminster Abbey will furnish you a pretty good idea, or the eastern end of the cathedral at Lincoln. The nave at York would also belong to this style, excepting the vaulting and the west window. Of the third style good examples are rather deficient in England as well as in France; and perhaps it might be considered only as a variety of the second, yet it has a distinct and peculiar character. In our own buildings it is marked by a more complicated arrangement of the ribs on the vaulting; and in general it may be observed, that the English architects paid more attention to the enrichment of this part than the French. After this the two nations held a different course, and I can produce you no parallel to my fourth French style; nor have I met in France with any building like the choir at York, King’s College Chapel at Cambridge, or that of Henry the Seventh at Westminster.
I hope this general view of the subject will enable you to comprehend more easily my accounts of particular buildings, but in order to explain myself more fully, I shall request your attention to a very curious building of early date, which has been the subject of much controversy in France.
The church of St. Germain des Prés claims to be the oldest in Paris.[[9]] The first edifice was begun by Childebert in 557, and finished in 558, a degree of expedition which does not announce much magnificence; yet we are told that it was in the shape of a cross, and that the fabric was sustained by large marble columns, the ceiling was gilt, the walls painted on a gold ground, the pavement composed of rich mosaic, and the roof externally covered with gold. This description is by Gislemer, a monk of the abbey, who lived at the end of the ninth century, after the church had been twice burnt by the Normans; and perhaps it rather gives us the author’s opinion of what a church ought to be, than what this once was. The building however does not appear to have been totally destroyed, since Morard, who became abbot in 990, perceiving that the repairs since its ruin by the Normans, had been hastily and slightly executed, determined to pull it down entirely and rebuild it; and he is said to have had the satisfaction of completing it, nearly as it exists at present, before his death, which happened in 1014. We learn from the inscription which was formerly legible on his tomb, that he added to the church a tower, containing a bell (signum): this addition may seem to throw some doubt on the extent of the works executed by him. A dedication took place in 1163, but we cannot suppose the building stood complete and useless for all that period. The old cloister was taken down in 1227, and another begun and finished in the course of the same year by Eudes, the abbot. A new refectory was commenced in 1236, and in 1244 the great chapel of the Virgin was undertaken. These were executed from the designs of Pierre de Montereau, and are cited as proofs of his exquisite taste and skill. The Chapter House, and a beautiful chamber which adjoined it, were constructed about the same time, and the dormitory over them in 1273; but all these parts have been destroyed during the revolution. A new cloister was erected in 1555, but in 1579 the church is described as being much out of repair, and though some restorations and alterations were made in 1592, yet in 1644 it was in a most dilapidated and dangerous condition. The nave was covered with the fragments of the ceiling, and in parts with the tiles of the roof; the pavement was so sunk, that it was necessary to descend to it by steps; and the vaulting of the transept threatened to fall in. The whole of these deficiencies were repaired in the course of two years, the vaulting of the transept was renewed, and the nave for the first time vaulted with stone. The pillars were ornamented with composite capitals, some of the windows enlarged, a new doorway opened to the south, and an alteration made in the disposition of the choir, which seems to have been the only part of the fabric which had been kept in sufficient repair. As it now stands the church is not a very large one. The inside is low and gloomy;[[10]] in the nave and part of the choir, the piers consist of four half columns attached to a square pillar, the vaulting of the nave is slightly pointed, but the known recent date of this part renders its form of little consequence, nor is that of the choir of much more historical value. The piers of the chevet are cylindrical. All the arching is round, except that of the chevet, where the French and Whittington say it was pointed from necessity; but this is not very evident: the openings are smaller, but this is not the only way of carrying the arches to the same height. This may be done in the first place by making a Gothic arch formed from two centres, with a larger radius than the semicircular arches, (a pointed arch with the same radius would not rise so high) or with an arch from two centres, and the same radius on a base somewhat more elevated, or lastly, by a semicircular arch on a much more elevated base. The following diagram will explain this better than words.
To judge by the eye, the arches of St. Germain des Prés lie nearly in the middle between the second and third, i. e. between b and c. The base is considerably elevated by a perpendicular line continued above the capital, and the radius of the curve is smaller than that of the semicircle of the arches in the square part. As the architects have in some degree availed themselves of this elevated base, it is evident that they might, by doing it a little more, have preserved the semicircular form, and they must have been conscious that they had it in their power to do so. There is no gallery along the nave, but we find one round the choir, with square-headed openings. It has been much disputed whether this was, or was not the original form. M. Du Fourny contends, that as the first ceiling was of wood, and probably flat, it was highly natural that they should make these openings square-headed; but I think he is wrong. On the two towers at the entrance of the choir, we see openings, the lower parts of which are exactly similar to those abovementioned, and they are divided in the same manner by a little pillar; but these are arched above. It is probable that the arches have been removed in order to make room for the windows of the clerestory above, which in fact come down to them, but of which the lower part is filled up. All the windows are round-headed, (except those of the little chapels) without tracery or division of any sort, ornamented with a billetted moulding externally, and entirely plain within. Those of the chapels are pointed, but with the same ornament, and equally without tracery. There are some Saxon (or Norman) arcades below these windows; but there can be no doubt that these chapels in their present form (exclusively of the vaulting) are somewhat posterior to the church. The vaulting of the aisles is circular, and remarkably arched on the ridge, so as to present nearly a succession of portions of domes. The capitals, as usual in the Norman architecture, are very various, some resemble baskets, others are formed of a collection of figures of animals: some bear a resemblance to the Corinthian, but the masses are smaller in proportion to the size of the capital, and the relief less strongly marked. In this I think the artist judged rightly, and that the looseness of the Corinthian foliage would have been inconsistent with the massiveness of such a pillar. Here are also some decidedly composite capitals under the vaulting, but these were probably introduced in the repairs of 1644. Whittington says, that the proportions of the columns of the choir approach nearly to those of the Corinthian order. The shafts of the latter have full eight diameters in height: those of the former about four and a half.
The western tower is entirely incrusted in a wall of modern masonry except at the top, where we may observe a story of what we call Saxon architecture, with circular headed windows divided by little columns. In the other two towers, which flank the clerestory of the choir, the arches are also semicircular; but the openings are separated by piers, not by columns, and the workmanship of both, though somewhat differing, is more rude than that of the western tower. Judging by the little portion still exhibited, I should conclude this the latest of the three. Yet, as the masonry of these two ruder towers forms an essential part of the edifice, and the aisles are continued through their lower story, without exhibiting any difference of style in that part, we can hardly suppose them prior to the rest, more especially as the arches of the recesses, corresponding with the gallery of the choir, are surmounted with pointed arches. I cannot attribute this form to any alteration, because these arches do not correspond in style with any other restoration of the building. I must therefore be content to attribute the body of the church to Morard, excluding the vaulting, and to doubt about all the rest.
The western portal of this church exhibits the pointed arch. It is at present ornamented with shafts set in reveals, but some of them are restorations, and occupy the place either of statues, or of columns with statues attached to them: above is a series of ten small figures, whose faces have been broken by the Iconoclasts of the eighteenth century. The lower figures have been adduced as proofs of the antiquity of the tower, because they are supposed (two of them at least) to represent the family of Childebert, but the conclusion certainly does not follow from the premises, and I have no doubt that this portal, ancient as it is, was posterior to the body of the church. To make a theory for the chronology of this edifice from the dates we find in books, compared with the evidence of the architecture, we may suppose the bulk of the western tower to have been built in the eighth century, but nothing of this work remains exposed to view: the body of the church, northern tower, and lower part of the southern tower by Morard, between 990 and 1014: the upper part of the southern tower very shortly after. The upper part of the western tower followed. The western portal was certainly posterior to 1028: the reasons for fixing on this date are derived from the cathedral at Chartres. Bulliart does not give any representation of the arch of this doorway, and Whittington’s whole theory seems to indicate that he supposed it semicircular. I shall resume this subject in my observations on Chartres.
I have kept you so long vacillating about St. Germain, that you are tired of it, and so am I. After all, one derives but little satisfactory evidence from a building so rude, and so frequently altered, but it has been strongly pressed into the history of French architecture, and I could not pass it over; and now, after this terrible digression, I will return to the church at Nôtre Dame, at Chalons, an edifice in many respects similar, but of a much more finished construction, exhibiting more of its original form, and to judge from a comparison of the internal evidence, of a date very little later. It is an excellent specimen of what I have called the first style of French Gothic, but it is not entirely free from alterations. This church is said to have had formerly eight towers, and as many spires. I cannot make out the places of more than four; two at the end of the nave, and two at the entrance of the choir, immediately beyond the transept. Such an arrangement seems not to have been unfrequent; but here, both in this building, and in the cathedral, these towers flank the aisles of the choir: at St. Germain’s at Paris they abut upon the clerestory, and the aisles pass through them. On one of the towers in front, there is a wooden spire, the general form of which is an acute octangular pyramid, with a small square pyramid on the spaces left at each angle of the tower. This is the arrangement of the pinnacles over the buttresses of the cathedral of Rheims, but it has nothing to do with the Saxon towers of this building. The style of these towers much resembles the summit of the western tower of St. Germain, but is more ornamental, the semicircular headed windows being divided by groups of little columns, and the parts subdivided by a detached column. The projections are remarkably bold. There is no pointed arch in any of these towers inside or out, except in the upper story of two of them, and here they are without doubt of a later date; and the architecture of the church, which is mostly pointed, is not so united to the towers as to bring in the parts with perfect regularity. There are two stories of aisles to the nave as well as to the choir, and in some points of view the effect of this is so pleasing, that I feel quite reluctant to condemn it. The upper story cuts in places some ancient mouldings. In this vaulting a is the lowest point of the ridge, b is somewhat higher, and c still higher.
The piers of the chevet are circular, with capitals in some degree resembling those of the Corinthian order, and the slender detached columns behind the choir have, still more nearly, Corinthian capitals and proportions. They present something peculiarly graceful and pleasing in their appearance. As they certainly do not appear calculated to sustain the thrust of an arch, it is difficult to shew a reasonable ground for the admiration one cannot help feeling. The union of circular chapels with the circular end of the choir and its aisles, each part having its ornaments exceedingly well disposed, is also a beautiful circumstance in the external view; but it is rather conceived than seen in this instance, as the outside is much encumbered by small houses, and there are some enormous plain buttresses, on the date of which I will not pretend to decide: if they are posterior to the church, the original ceiling must have been of wood. The pavement is almost entirely composed of old monuments engraved in stone, exactly in the manner of the brass plates in England. Many of them represent the architecture of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries: one or two, from their extreme simplicity, may be taken from the architecture of the twelfth. There are none in which the arch is not pointed, and the trefoil ornament is always exhibited. Amongst, I dare say, two hundred monuments of this sort, I observed only one figure in mail, and that I could not find again on searching for it; and a fragment of one in plate armour: the earliest date is 1201, but the figures are not perfectly clear. There are also tombs of a blue stone, inlaid with white. I longed for Mr. L.; here were materials for an excellent lecture on the progress and changes of dress among our forefathers. I do not know that there is any thing amongst them which might not be found in England, but at the same time I know no place in England where there is such a collection of costumes.
The cathedral at Chalons has a tower at each end of the west side of the transept, a disposition not at all pleasing. Parts of these towers seem to be of the same date with those of Nôtre Dame, but they have been altered and added to in the seventeenth century, at which time the present vaulting, the two spires, and the whole of the west front, were erected by the Cardinal de Noailles. The body of the edifice appears to belong to the thirteenth century. Its nave has four ranges of windows: those of the clerestory; those of the galleries or triforia, great part of which are opened into windows; of the aisles; and of the side chapels. The last form no part of the original design; they are very low, and it would be an improvement to take them away. The slender spires which surmount the old towers, are perforated in all directions; and though they cannot be much praised, have something of a light and elegant effect. There is a considerable quantity of good stained glass in Nôtre Dame, and some likewise in the cathedral, but not so much; and the great rose window at the west end of the latter is entirely without it. I was in the church in the evening when the setting sun shone full into the building, and produced a painful glare, instead of the rich mellow splendor of painted glass in similar circumstances.
Chalons was the first place where I observed in common use the semicircular tiles, which are usually shown to us in Italian landscapes, but they were small and ill laid, and had a crowded effect.
We left Chalons early on the morning of the 30th of April, and for the first six leagues saw nothing but a boundless common field. The diligence does not change horses, but stops to rest them for an hour or two in the middle of the journey. The harness was partly rope, and partly leather, and some of the traces were chains. The rope traces are rather apt to break, because no one thinks of putting new ones, as long as there is any chance that the old ones will hold out the stage, but the chain traces are worse. They are originally slight, but when a link gives way its place is supplied by a bit of leather; this seldom lasts long, and it is not uncommon for it to give way a second time in the same stage, but with the most heroic perseverance the postillions apply another piece of leather. I have not yet met with the phenomenon of an iron chain entirely of leather, but I hope to see some considerable approach to it. The latter half of the ride presented to our view a range of hills, about two miles distant on the left, not very high, but steep and broken, the upper part mostly covered with wood, and the lower with vineyards. These hills form the edge of the materials occupying the Paris basin, which every where exhibit a strong contrast to the rounded swells of the chalk country. There were also some little hills on the right, but these were naked, except a few groups of trees at the base. This, though not a beautiful landscape, was a considerable improvement on the shelterless plain of the morning. There was something at least to amuse the imagination, but it did not last long, and we returned long before reaching Rheims to the usual expanse of common field.
LETTER IV.
GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.
Paris, May, 1816.
Having conducted you to Rheims, I now proceed to give you an account of what I saw there, and if it should contain a few digressions as long as those in my last, I hope you will forgive me, for this Gothic Architecture offers continual temptations to lead me out of the direct road. I shall begin, not with the cathedral, but with a much more ancient building, which is supposed to have served as a cathedral before the present edifice was erected. The church of St. Remi is said by Whittington to have been dedicated in 1049. I know not whether he mean the nave or the choir, but they are certainly of different periods. The Recueil des Abbayes, &c. says it was built in the time of Charlemagne, and consecrated by Leo IX., who was pope from 1048 to 1054; the nave, except the vaulting, is much in the style of St. Germain des Prés, at Paris, but the pillars are of various shapes, and do not seem the result of one design. There are two stories of aisles to the nave, and to the straight part of the choir, and above these are the principal windows of the clerestory, with semicircular heads, and over them a range of circular openings, which I do not recollect to have seen elsewhere. The buttresses, externally, are alternately semicylindrical with a small projection, and rectangular with a very considerable one; the first are parts of the original structure, and evidently denote the roof to have been of timber, and not vaulted; indeed all the vaulting appears to be posterior to the walls and piers; the latter were probably added at the same time with the vaulting which rendered them necessary. The middle of the western front is a restoration, in which many old parts have been re-used, and the fragments of marble and granite render it probable that the spoils of some Roman building were employed in the ancient edifice. The two old towers remain, the southern doorway, and the window over it are beautiful specimens of what I have denominated in a former letter, the third style of Gothic; and are probably of the fourteenth century. The choir is of the first style, very much resembling that of Nôtre Dame at Chalons, and though this church is certainly inferior in general effect to the one just mentioned, yet some of the partial views it presents are, I think, superior to any thing there. The flying buttresses of the choir are supported, on their first separation from the building, by a little column; and a narrow gallery, which surrounds the clerestory, passes between these columns and the body of the church. The same disposition prevails at Nôtre Dame at Chalons, at Amiens, and at the cathedral at Rheims. There are some granite shafts of columns in the church, which have perhaps belonged to an ancient temple.
Under this church is a crypt, where we are shewn the tombs of Clothaire the First, and of Sigismond, king of Burgundy. The former died in 561, probably at Soissons; the latter was thrown with his wife and family into a well at Orleans, and we should not certainly expect to find him in the same chapel with one of his principal enemies at Rheims. A simple vault, or succession of vaults of small dimensions, can give us no internal evidence of the time of its construction.
And now, in order to preserve something of a chronological order, let me transport you from Rheims to Mantes, where I have since seen a church which is a puzzle for the antiquaries. Whittington says that it was built by Eudes de Montreuil, and I understand him to quote Millin for the assertion; but I cannot find the passage in that writer. On the contrary, Millin tells us that it was built by the same architect who built Royaumont. Now, Royaumont was finished in 1228, sixty-one years before the death of E. de Montreuil, which took place in 1289. The first church which was erected at Mantes is said to have been built in 865, but it was destroyed by William the Conqueror; and we certainly see at present no remains of any edifice of that date, yet Millin seems inclined to consider the northern doorway of the western portal as part of the original construction. Altogether this church has the appearance of a building that has undergone considerable alterations at different periods. In what I take to be the original work, the nave has two stories of aisles, the end of the choir is round, and the windows are without tracery. In the clerestory and in the lower aisles the windows are pointed; in the upper aisles they are entire circles; all have Saxon ornaments externally, and are quite plain within. All these circumstances indicate a style prior to that existing at the beginning of the thirteenth century, which is the date generally assigned to the edifice, under the auspices of Blanche of Castille, mother to Louis the Ninth. Two towers have been added at the west end. The southern, which is said to be the most ancient, is a very strange composition of slender Gothic. The upper story but one is surrounded by a colonnade, if the expression be admissible, of two ranges of columns, one above another, without either arch or architrave between them, but merely connected with the wall by a stone slab on each capital of the lower range. The upper range supports arches, on which rest several unconnected slabs, steeply sloping, wrought into scales, and conducing neither to the beauty, the strength, nor the shelter of the edifice. The north-west tower, built, according to the tradition of the place, three hundred years after the other, is much less light in its construction, and not much more handsome. It would rather appear more ancient than posterior to the first, if there were any difference, but the summit is comparatively modern, and this has probably given birth to the opinion that its date is so much posterior.
Many of the chapels appear to have been built in the thirteenth century, at which time the vaulting of the nave and choirs was perhaps added, and some of the windows of the upper aisle were altered from their original circular form, into that which they now bear. Later still (in 1405) the porch of the southern door of the western entrance was erected. It is very beautiful, and is the only part of the edifice which is so. Besides these, are a great many other incongruities which are probably assignable to different periods. The vaulting is with oblique groins, as at Beauvais. You know, that in oblique groining, the piers are usually alternately larger and smaller. In this church, the direct arch between the greater piers seems to be formed on an equilateral triangle, or nearly so, rising on the capitals of the shafts; but on the smaller piers the perpendicular line is continued considerably above the capital, and the direct arch between them is consequently very obtuse. Perhaps it was this whim which attracted the admiration of Sufflot, who is said to have been lost in astonishment at the hardiesse of the vaulting, although the nave is only 34 feet wide. The boldness of the architect is however sufficiently conspicuous in other respects, for the piers of the chevet are only 1 foot 11 inches in diameter, to support a vaulting which rises 102 feet 6 inches (English measure) from the ground. One of them is consequently crippled, and has been banded and supported on every side with iron. M. Gabriel, one of the companions of Soufflot, in his examination of this church, contends that the six columns of the chevet might all be cut away, and that nevertheless, by the scientific disposition of the stones, the upper part and the vaulting would remain secure: this indeed would be something wonderful. All the arches of the nave and choir are pointed.
So much for Mantes, but I have still to trespass upon your patience before I bring you back to Rheims, with an account of a building, which from its early date, its peculiar architecture, and its great magnificence, I consider the most interesting specimen of the Gothic style in France, or probably in the world. I had conceived, from what Whittington says of it, pp. 54, 55, 57, that I should find a building of the Norman taste, but this is not the case; Chartres is decidedly Gothic, of a peculiar manner indeed, but such as one would suppose posterior to all the three edifices above described. There are some additions to the original building, but these are extremely well marked, and the mass of the edifice is so clearly the result of one design, and the production of one period, and the time of its erection is so well authenticated, that it takes place of all other cathedrals in antiquarian interest, and yields to few in beauty. Let me relate to you what information I have been able to pick up on the spot, it may help you to form some idea of what one has to wade through to arrive at any satisfactory results in the history of French Gothic. I first bought a little book of the history of Chartres, in order to obtain the dates of the different parts, but I learnt from it little of what I wanted to know. The author begins by telling us, that the ancient nations of Gaul were the most religious people in the world, and that the innocence of their lives, and the holiness of their priesthood, made them worthy to participate in the most important revelations, and to have the future incarnation of the Word shewn to them, long before it was accomplished. There were, he says, three classes of people to whom this communication was made, the Magi, the Sybils, and the Druids. The first learnt it by their knowledge of astrology, the second received the gift of prophecy in recompense of their virginity, and the Druids knew by a prophetic spirit rather than by any fortuitous prediction, that a virgin would one day bear a son for the salvation of the world; and they consequently raised altars in several places, inscribed virgini parituræ, (did they write Latin?) and amongst others there was a very celebrated one at Chartres.
When afterwards Christianity was preached in these parts, there were three circumstances of similarity in the Christian and Druidical rites, which greatly facilitated its progress. The worship of the virgin, who, according to their traditions, was to bring forth a son; the offering of bread and wine, usual in their sacrifices; and the adoration of the Tau, that is, of the cross. The Christian service was performed at the ancient altar of the virgin, and crowds thronged from all parts of the universe to present their offerings. The present cathedral is built over the grotto where this altar formerly stood.
The most famous relic here was the shift of the virgin, which was stolen from a Jew widow by some pious patricians of Constantinople. It was taken from them by an emperor, whose piety was, I suppose, of the same sort, and presented to Charlemagne, who brought it to Aix. It was removed thence by Charles the Bald, and given to the cathedral at Chartres. This relic has of course performed abundance of miracles, but most of these are what would be called by many people in England special providences. And, if amongst us, we had no division into sects, would not these special providences soon become to be considered as miracles, and alleged as proofs of the truth of particular doctrines? We have no reason then to pride ourselves on our freedom from such superstitions, as it depends on circumstances over which we have no control, but much cause to be thankful, not that we have this or that form of worship, but that we have the liberty of thinking for ourselves on religious subjects. This book is not an antiquated work: it was printed in 1808, and may serve to prove, that whatever injury the revolution may have done to religion in the minds of the French, it has by no means rooted out superstition.
There is a public library at Chartres, containing between twenty and twenty-five thousand volumes, and I there found a history of the city deserving more attention; although even in this, the author employs 200 pages in telling us what happened before the arrival of the Romans. This folly seems as strong in France as it is said to be among the Welsh; and many of the local histories are prefaced by an account of Samothès, the son of Japhet, who first peopled Gaul, and a long series of princes, who gave successively their names to the Druids and Bards, to the Celts, the Gauls, and even to the Francs. These, instead of being a German nation, were the subjects of Francus, the son of Hector, called Astyanax and Scamander by Homer, who came to France and married the daughter of Rhemus, king of Rheims. It was only a return to the land of his forefathers, for Dardanus, the founder of the Trojan line, was a Frenchman.
But to return to this History of Chartres, which was written by a M. V. Chevard, and printed at Chartres. It assures us that the old cathedral was burnt in 1020; that Fulbert, who was then bishop, began the present edifice almost immediately, but that it was not completed at the time of his death, in 1028, although it appears to have been considerably advanced. We are even told that it was finished before the middle of the eleventh century, but this word is often used very loosely in the accounts of Gothic buildings. Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror, who died in 1083, covered the main body of the edifice with lead. The basnef, the towers, and the west front, were finished in 1145. The south porch was added in 1060, by Jean Cormier, or Jean Le Sourd, physician to Henry I. of France. The famous steeple is one of those of the western front. The place was formerly occupied by a wooden one, but this being burnt in 1507, gave rise to the present, which rose almost immediately from the ruins. I had heard so much of the height of this steeple, that the first view of it disappointed me in this respect, but the great elevation of the body of the building in the French churches, effectually prevents any such extreme impression of height as is produced by the spire of Salisbury Cathedral; or, at least, the elevation must be indeed enormous to occasion it. The vaulting of these edifices is more lofty, and the space between that and the timber roof is much greater than is usual in England; indeed, sometimes in our churches the direct tie-beam is omitted, in order to bring the vaulting absolutely into the roof. The roof itself is also higher. Altogether the ridge of the roof at Chartres must be full 50 feet higher than that at Salisbury, and 50 feet added to the mass of the building, and taken from the spire, will greatly diminish the apparent elevation of the latter. The height of the edifice is very much lost in its bulk. It even forms a base for the lighter part, and in some degree a standard by which to measure it. Afterwards, however, in walking round the town, and seeing the cathedral in different points of view, I gave to the height its full value. The impression was not that of a very high steeple, but of a very lofty church: an effect greatly enhanced by its fine situation, on the summit of a hill, with the town collected at its foot. The whole height of the new spire is 403 English feet. The upper part of the tower and the spire, are of the most light and beautiful work imaginable. The ornaments are executed with the greatest delicacy, and in entire relief, the stems of the vines, and the bunches of grapes which enrich the mouldings being entirely detached, and the work suspended merely by the extremities of the leaves; and all the veins and ribs are shown as if they were to be seen at hand, instead of at an elevation of 300 feet. Even parts, which cannot be seen at all from below, are finished with the same care. The staircase, by which one ascends this spire, forms a little tower of itself, also of open work, quite independent of that which supports the spire. The opposite spire is much more solid and simple in its form, and seems to be part of the edifice of Fulbert; its height is 365 feet, and its appearance is more like that of Norwich than any other English spire I am acquainted with, but the resemblance is not at all continued in the tower which supports it. There are several pinnacles rising above the base of the spire, and the whole composition is more Gothic than at Norwich. As the cathedral was two or three times destroyed by fire, before it was erected in its present form, i. e. before the time of Fulbert, it is possible that some of the lower part of this tower belonged to an earlier edifice; the pointed arch is however exhibited in it. The whole western front is very beautiful. The porch is ornamented with statues and columns, as at Rheims and Amiens, but not in such profusion, nor is it so deep. The execution is also more stiff and rude, and the resemblance is probably much stronger to the western doorway of St. Germain, as it existed before the revolution, than to either of these buildings. Some of the statues are merely stuck to the little columns behind them, under others there is a projection to receive the feet, but very small, and apparently insufficient. Over them are small canopies, which are likewise attached to the shaft of the column. The capitals of these columns, instead of foliage, are formed of little figures, with canopies over them, surmounted by what have the appearance of little models of large buildings. It is remarkable that, although the arches of this doorway are somewhat pointed, yet the architecture represented in the models never is so. In the south portal, on the contrary, which I shall describe by and by, where these models are tenfold more abundant, a considerable number have pointed arches. This circumstance seems very extraordinary if this western doorway was built, as is asserted, eighty-five years after the southern porch. Over the great door is a triple window, the middle division being the largest and highest, the only instance of this disposition in the building. Above this is a magnificent rose window, but of simpler arrangement, and a larger portion of solids than we find in those of a later date. The windows of the nave and choir are also terminated by a rose, but with this singular difference, that in the great roses the exterior is ornamented with mouldings, while the internal faces are plain; in the smaller ones, on the contrary, the internal faces are moulded and the outside is plain.
The southern porch is very curious on many accounts. It was built, as I have already said, in 1060, by Jean Cormier, physician to Henry I. This date is important, because it seems exceedingly well authenticated, and the addition of the porch proves the church, if not finished, yet to have been in a state of great forwardness at that period. There are openings, not arched, but square-headed, combining all the parts of this porch into a sort of open portico. It abounds with detached shafts, of which there are none within the church, with large and small figures, and with models of architecture, in some of which, as I have already remarked, the pointed arch is exhibited. The arches of the porch itself are all pointed. The footstools of the figures are usually themselves grotesque human figures, and many of them with crowns. These statues, and the canopies over them, are much better managed than in the western front. They are rudely finished, but the labour bestowed on the lace of some of the garments shews that this rudeness was the effect, not of negligence, but of want of skill. The foliage of the capital of the columns spreads over the underside of the canopy. Above the porch is a range of five windows, of equal size and height, and over these a rose window. In the transept at Amiens, the angular spaces between a similar range of arches, and a circle above them, are opened, and form additions to the rose window; here they are closed, and no attempt is made to unite them. There is, as usual, a gallery in front of the gable, and at each end of this gallery is a small octangular tower, surmounted by a spire. This seems to have been a common mode of finishing in the early French Gothic; it occurs at a church in Soissons, which bears all the marks of antiquity; and in other places. The general opening of the windows, both in the clerestory and aisles, in this church, is round-headed, but they are divided by a large plain mullion (such as I have never seen elsewhere) into two parts, each of which has a pointed arch, and over them is a rose.
It was, perhaps, part of the original design to have a tower on each side of each end of the transept, and one on each side of the choir, but the parts which are now exhibited of these towers, above the roofing of the church, seem to be of later date; none of them are finished, and what has been performed of the two latter does not correspond with the work of the other four. These are ornamented with numerous little shafts, extremely long and slender, most of which are united to the solid masonry, but those at the angles are detached, in order to give an exaggerated appearance of lightness. I imagine them to be posterior to those of Nôtre Dame, at Paris, but earlier than those at Rheims; but among the various efforts which ultimately completed the first mentioned of these churches, we cannot determine during which the towers were built, and the priority of date is left in great uncertainty, for the style of building is not decisive, or rather, I have not sufficient knowledge to be able to determine it from that character. The northern front of the cathedral at Chartres presents a similar style of ornament, but without the projecting porch, which makes so important and interesting a feature on the south.
Chartres is very rich in painted glass; in this respect it far exceeds any other cathedral I have seen; the colours are deep, without losing their brilliancy, and the light is stronger than at Rheims, although the windows of the aisles, with only one or two exceptions, are painted, as well as those of the clerestory. The glass is said to be half an inch thick; I believe this is not much thicker than some of the old glass in York cathedral. Many of the windows contain escutcheons. This church is 461 feet long internally, and the vaulting is 113 feet high, the piers of the nave are composed alternately of octagonal pillars, with four circular shafts attached to them, and of circular pillars, with as many octagonal shafts attached to them. All the arches and the vaulting are pointed, except perhaps (and of this I am not sure), that the cross vaulting of the nave may be of circular arches. The construction of the roof has been much praised, but it is not good; the timbers are all small, and the trusses are very close together. At the point of the choir there is as usual a maître poutre of immense size, which you are told supports the whole roof, but which in fact supports nothing, being itself suspended by the converging rafters. There is a space of about six feet between the tie-beam and the top of the vaults.
SHRINE-WORK AT CHARTRES.
London. Published by J & A Arch. Cornhill. March 1st. 1828.
The single story of side aisles, the polygonal end of the choir, the piers which support the groins behind it, and the windows of the choir single, and not disposed by threes, all unite to refer this building to the second style of French Gothic; which the greater massiveness of the work, and the presence of some circular arches in the towers, might otherwise render doubtful. The single story of aisles and the greater height of the building seem to indicate a later period than Nôtre Dame at Paris, but on the other hand the smaller windows, surmounted in the nave by a single rose, the more solid divisions of the great rose windows, and the style of finishing externally, announce an earlier stage of the art. If I had to estimate the date from the architecture, I should be very much puzzled by many peculiarities, either very rare, or not met with elsewhere; but on the whole, excepting a portion of the towers, I could not have placed it before 1150.
With good proportions, beautiful parts, and finely coloured windows, you will conclude that the whole impression produced is sublime; but I wish I had you here, where you would find some better proof of this, than the cold conviction of your reason. The people seemed very devout, and were all day long kissing the pedestals, and various parts of the decorative architecture, about a figure of the virgin, which is almost black. In this part of France the virgin is usually represented with a very dark complexion; and such is, I believe, the case with the most popular images of her in all Catholic countries. There is a labyrinth in the pavement which is said to be a league, measured along all its folds; a countryman applied to me to know if this was true. I told him it was impossible, and shewed him that the number of turns, multiplied by the length of the middle one, only gave 1320 feet, but he was determined to believe as his fathers had believed before him.
I must not quit the cathedral without mentioning the beautiful shrine-work which surrounds the choir, to see which is alone well worth a journey to Chartres. It consists of forty-five compartments, forming a sort of continued gallery, and contains in all about two hundred and fifty figures, each of three feet high. It is a very curious specimen, both for the extreme delicacy of the workmanship, and as a model of the last period of Gothic architecture in France. It is complete point lace in stone, and some of the threads are not thicker than the blade of a penknife. The style is rich and beautiful, or at least many parts are beautiful; but as a whole, it wants simplicity, and is inferior in design to the architecture of King’s College chapel at Cambridge, and perhaps even to Henry VII. chapel at Westminster; but the extreme intricacy of the multiplied ornaments in the last-mentioned building does not please me. In the work at Chartres the disposition of the masses is much more simple and intelligible, but the tracery and detail of the ornaments are even more confused. It is worthy of notice that the vaulting continues entirely simple, and without any trace of the palm-tree branching, exhibited in that of King’s College chapel, or of the still more complicated arrangement of that of Redcliff church at Bristol. This fine work is in two series, the first of which is said to have been executed with the surplus of the money raised for erecting the spire. It is precisely of the same style as that erection, if we make allowance for its greater delicacy, adapted to the different nature of the work; but no dates are marked on it: this forms the largest part. The second series exhibits some traces of the knowledge of Roman architecture, and has dates from 1523 to 1530. This is ornamented with arabesques in imitation of the Italian cinque cento. I observed two dates of a later period, T. Bovdin Mil vic xi, and a similar inscription of 1612, but there is no difference of style to account for them.
I was led by the accounts of Chartres to suppose I should find some vestiges of very high antiquity in the crypt under the cathedral, but I was disappointed; there seems to be nothing but what is coeval with the building, and the vaults do not extend under the whole edifice, but only under the chapels and side aisles. The people in this neighbourhood are more unfavourably disposed towards the Bourbons than those who live to the east of Paris. A woman observed that I was one of those who had brought back Louis XVIII. She had nothing to say against them or him, but the tones of her voice did not promise that she would say any thing for either. The conducteur of the diligence perhaps was not a Napoleonite. “Whether God or the devil, Napoleon or Louis XVIII. be on the throne,” he observed, “the laws should be obeyed. There were revolutions in France before this, of which they talk so much; for instance, in the times of Charles V., who drove the English out of France; and if the French were now as devoted to their country as they were then, these things could never have happened.” I could not be displeased with any Frenchman for a feeling of soreness at the interference of foreigners in the affairs of his country, however political circumstances may have required it.
The two churches last described, and that of Nôtre Dame at Paris, may be considered as belonging to a style of Gothic, intermediate between the first and second of those I have enumerated; and as I wish to give you a sort of historical series elucidating the progress of architecture, I shall here introduce some account of the French metropolitan edifice. This is said to have been originally founded by Childebert, in 522. It had 30 marble columns, and very large windows, according to the account left us of it by Fortunatus, a cotemporary poet.[[11]] This description, however, has nothing to do with the present building, which was commenced in 1010 by Robert the Pious. After his death it was neglected, and little was done till 1165, when Maurice de Sully, a liberal and munificent prelate, filled the see of Paris, and to him we seem to have been indebted for the greater part of the edifice. He destroyed the old church of Childebert, which had existed till this period; and in the year 1181 the eastern part was so far advanced, that it was consecrated by Henry, the Pope’s legate, and by the bishop himself, who died the next year. Odo de Sully succeeded, and prosecuted the work with great zeal till his death in 1208, so that for forty-three years from the resumption of the work, it was carried on with spirit, and we must suppose a large portion of it was completed. Pierre de Nemours, who died in 1220, is thought to have finished the nave and western front. The last figure of a king exhibited in its galleries is that of Philip Augustus, who died in 1223, and this is one reason for supposing it finished in his reign, but it is not a very strong one. The south transept was not, however, begun till 1257, as we are informed by a Gothic inscription on the porch, and an ancient church of St. Stephen was then destroyed to make room for it. The present rose window was renewed on the model of the ancient one in 1726. The date of the north transept is unknown; it probably preceded the south; but its porch and chapels are assigned by Le Grand to the fourteenth century.
The front is heavy, but not so heavy as usually represented in engravings; I think this appearance arises in part from the square solidity of the towers, and in part from the horizontal lines being marked too strongly, a circumstance which always produces a bad effect in Gothic architecture. I have not been able to determine whether it was intended to crown these towers with spires: I am inclined to answer in the affirmative, but rather from analogy than from direct proof. According to Landon there were twenty-five statues of kings in the arches over the western porch, viz. thirteen of the first race, nine of the second, and seven of the Capetian. They entirely filled one range of arches and no more. Now there are two ranges of arches above the doorways in this front, the lower of which, according to the elevation given by the same author, presents twenty-four niches, and the upper twenty-six. Query, how many statues were there, and where did they stand? Felibien, in his plate of the elevation, which is much better than Landon’s, figures twenty-eight niches in the lower arcade, viz. nine in the middle, seven on one side, and eight on the other, and four on the buttresses. The upper arcade is a gallery not intended for statues, the middle part of which is open on both sides. The arches of the lower range have trefoil heads, and appear from below to be entirely composed of models of architecture. The canopies of the portal abound also with models of architecture, resembling in this, and in the style of sculpture, the south portal at Chartres. Perhaps the design of these, though not the execution, may be attributed to the time of Maurice de Sully, in 1165, but this brings the date a century later than that of Chartres. I wish very much to discover that the south porch in that cathedral was of 1160, instead of 1060, but I cannot persuade myself that the physician of Henry I. lived to build it a hundred years after his sovereign’s death. The Matilda mentioned as having contributed to the church, may be the widow of the emperor.
Whittington says, “The eastern end, which is triagonal and very plain, was probably one of the first Gothic structures in France (1168). This plainness, from a proper regard to uniformity, was maintained in the subsequent part of the building, excepting in the chapels, which are of later date;” this I do not comprehend; the eastern end is semi-circular, and is richly ornamented externally with slender shafts, and spires of different heights, which may perhaps have been added at the same time with the chapels, if these are indeed posterior, but assuredly they do not make part of them. It seems to me that those parts which remain without ornament have never been completed, for they exhibit abrupt terminations, which were not in the taste of the Gothic architects at any period. All the flying buttresses are exceedingly slender, and altogether the construction of Nôtre Dame may be considered as among the boldest, and most successful, existing in Gothic architecture; although even here we find some traces of the too great operation of the thrust of the arches of the side aisles.
On entering Nôtre Dame one is struck with the double range of side aisles and open chapels besides, making an entire width of seven divisions, instead of five, as at Amiens, or three, as in our churches. It is generally supposed, that if two dimensions of a building are great, they will appear of less magnitude if the third be great also. For instance, in a very large building, great height will diminish the apparent extent in the plan, great length will diminish the apparent width, and a narrow room will look higher than a wide one of the same height and length. Yet certainly the impression of space is much less at Nôtre Dame, than in the narrower and loftier edifice at Amiens. One of our travellers has estimated the size of Nôtre Dame as about half that of Westminster Abbey; and some non architectural friends with whom I have talked on the subject, thought that he perhaps underrated it, but that certainly the French building was much smaller than the English. Nôtre Dame is 416 feet long internally, and 153 wide: the length of the transept hardly surpassing the width of the nave and side aisles. Westminster Abbey is 360 feet long and 72 wide. The transept, indeed, is 195 feet long, but the whole internal area of the French building must be at least twice as much as that of the English. Whence is this very false estimate of its size? Does it depend merely on the injudicious arrangement of the parts, or is it in some degree to be attributed to a patriotic determination to find every thing best in our own country? Here are two stories of side aisles, and this double range, and the very slender columns which divide the openings of the upper, are in some points of view very pleasing. There are three arches over each of the larger openings below, united into one common arch; but the space included between the three smaller arches and the larger one is a blank wall. This has a very bad effect, especially as it is a part in which we are accustomed to expect ornament; indeed the arrangement of this gallery is inferior to that before noticed in Nôtre Dame at Chalons. The vaulting of the nave and choir is with oblique groins, as at Beauvais and Mantes. The vaulting itself, according to Millin, is only 6 inches thick.
With the cathedral of Nôtre Dame I conclude what I had in my mind to say to you of the progress of Gothic architecture, previous to its full development in the cathedrals of Amiens and Beauvais. Another proud specimen of architecture of that period is found in the cathedral of Rheims. It was founded, we are told, in 818, but I have some doubt whether the early structure thus spoken of was not the church of St. Remi, and not one occupying the site of the present cathedral. It was burnt in 1210, together with great part of the city of Rheims. A new cathedral was immediately begun, but the ancient crypt was left; now we are not shewn any ancient crypt at the cathedral, but there is one at St. Remi. The work went on with great rapidity, for the altar was dedicated on the 18th October, 1215, and the body of the church was finished in 1241. It appears probable that this finishing does not include the famous western front, which however was completed before 1295. Thus you see the bulk of the building was erected in thirty-one years; while at Paris two active bishops could not bring theirs to so forward a state by forty-three years of persevering exertion, although the foundations were previously laid, and probably a considerable quantity of materials prepared, and although the transept was not included. The size was not much greater, and the expense must have been decidedly less, on account of the inferior richness of the latter building. This difference is rather surprising, especially when we take into consideration, that the Parisian bishops had the support of the monarch. Of the portal, or west front, the plate in Whittington is the best I have seen, though it retains many errors of a large but very bad engraving, published in 1625. It must have been partly copied from this, or from some other, which may be traced to a common origin, but not without a reference to the building, because several mistakes are rectified, and the details are better given, though the drawing is on a much smaller scale. One important error is not to be attributed to the old plate; the octagonal turrets placed at each angle of the western towers, are not closed, but entirely open, consisting merely of the slender shafts, which are kept in their upright position by numerous iron ties. The part above the arches supported by these shafts is the base of an unfinished spire, and the whole summit of the towers is evidently of a temporary nature; even as a temporary finish, however, there neither are, nor apparently ever were, any fleurs-de-lys.
In the richness and magnificence of the external architecture, Rheims is superior to any other cathedral I have seen, and probably to any which has ever been erected. Whittington’s plate above cited will give a tolerably correct idea of the western front, but none of the effect produced by the same profusion, extended over the whole surface of a great building. I do not know whether the view of the back of the choir is not even more striking than that of the great entrance, the buttresses all terminating in little spires, all the parts running up into pinnacles, all subordinate to a spire, 256 feet in height, which crowns the rond point, and is surmounted by an angel of gilt bronze. I do not know, by the bye, whether this angel be of gilt bronze, but I know that such a piece of magnificence existed at Chartres, and my imagination, rather perhaps than my memory, pictures it here. Nothing but an angel would do in such a place, the situation is far too dangerous for that of any human being. This spire on the chevet, perhaps rather hurts than assists the general effect of the church, when seen from a distance, but after passing near the back of the choir, no one could wish it away, and if the spires in front, and whatever was intended in the centre, were completed, it would probably form an agreeable accessory from every point of view. All these spires and pinnacles are richly decorated, and what is more, the ornaments are highly beautiful, both in design and execution; the sort of plume which finishes some of the pinnacles, is one of the most graceful terminations I have met with. There are some trifling differences of detail in the corresponding parts, but the general form is always similar, and the character is uniformly preserved. None of these differences are distinguishable without examination.
Passing from the outside to the interior, the first circumstance which struck me was the obscurity of the nave, contrasted with the light of the aisles. The coloured glass of the former has been preserved, while that of the lower windows has very little colour. The opposite disposition of white glass in the clerestory, and coloured in the nave, would be preferable, yet this has a better effect than I should have expected à priori, and I conceive would even find advocates. It is probably owing to this arrangement that the coloured glass at Rheims seems to have little brilliancy. The whole length of the building is 466 feet, that of the clerestory 386, the width of the latter 47. The nave is 121 feet in height; the aisles I suppose about 54 feet, or something less than half: all the parts are well finished, but the interior has by no means the predominating beauty of the exterior. We may judge of details by rule, but the only true method of estimating the excellence of an architectural composition is by the sentiment it produces. I must acknowledge that this is in some respects, an uncertain criterion, as the impression produced depends in part upon the temper of the mind at the moment, and even on the feelings of the body. However, we may make allowances, and we may repeat the trial under different circumstances. It is on this ground that I pronounce the inside of the cathedral at Rheims to be inferior to that of Amiens or of Chartres. The capitals of the columns of the nave in this cathedral are of very full and deep relief; the foliage runs round the capital, and is often very gracefully disposed; this is a step towards the third style of French Gothic, the first and second having in general only detached leaves or figures. The construction of the roof is very curious: the architect seems to have intended to gain double strength by applying a king-post truss on each side of the timbers of a queen-post truss. The latter rises on the outside of the walls, the former on the inside, and its principal rafters meet in a point considerably lower than if they followed the direction of those of the other truss. The tie-beams are about 12 feet above the point of the vaulting. All the timbers are said to be of chesnut, and the proof is, that no spiders are found upon it. Over the great arches of the intersection are four semicircular arches, evidently intended to discharge the weight of a central tower or spire, from the pointed arches of the internal vaulting, and therefore proving the intention of raising such a tower. From the frequent mention we find of central towers in the descriptions of the French churches, it is probable that this intention was coeval with the design of the church. Of all these described stone central towers or pyramids, however, I have not had the good fortune to meet with one, and a large proportion of them seems to have been destroyed.
Besides its Gothic architecture, Rheims has to boast an interesting relic of Roman times. It is unfortunately built up in the modern wall of the city, and not easily seen, except in a general view of such parts as project from the face of the later work. Three columns and an arch are sufficiently visible, and parts of three other columns; and enough remains to enable one to make out the plan, and to shew that there were three nearly equal arches, and eight columns disposed in four pairs; the larger intercolumns are of course occupied by the arches, the smaller have niches and medallions; the entablature is entirely gone, but it is possible to creep into a vault in the thickness of the city wall, where we see near at hand the soffite of one of the arches, with the ancient stucco. The design was not very simple, but the execution is good for its purpose. The flutes of the columns finish square under the capital. The astragal of the necking has been cut; the capitals are too much wasted to form any decided opinion from them, but on the whole it appears to be a monument of a good period.
There is also a vaulted chamber, probably a sepulchre, which was discovered in 1738. The vault is ornamented with octagonal compartments and roses, in stucco, and the walls with painting. I did not see it, and only know it from a little printed description, for which I am indebted to the kindness of Comte Gregoire.
LETTER V.
RETURN TO PARIS.
Paris, June, 1816.
I have tried your patience in my last two letters with long disquisitions on architecture and on dates. I propose to give you in this, a little more of what Humboldt would call my personal narrative, i. e. to mention every thing which I think will at all interest you, but for which I have prepared no other place. I dined every day at Rheims at the table d’hôte, the time for which was five o’clock, but it was called half-past four. The company usually assembled a few minutes before dinner, and consisted in all of about twenty persons; five of them were members of a Juré, of a sort of court of appeal: who the others were I cannot tell you: there were some changes every day, but several were constant attendants. In England we so constantly see fish at the commencement of the entertainment, that we fancy this to be its natural place. In France the order of dishes follows rather the mode of dressing than the substance of the meat, and you have first boiled, then fried, afterwards stewed, and at last roast. Birds in each mode follow the more solid food, and here, with the roast meat, we often had plain boiled fish. The French rarely eat the meat and vegetables together, each is considered as a distinct dish, and eaten separately; indeed all the mixtures are made in the kitchen, and you hardly ever see a Frenchman unite in his plate the contents of two different dishes—that is the cook’s privilege. Thus you see the spirit of independence distinguishes us from our neighbours even in these trifles. Last came cheese, pastry, and fruit. Among the last were always walnuts, and one of our amusements was to crack them in various modes. The man who bore the bell in this exercise placed the back of a knife on the nut, and struck the edge with the naked palm of his hand, so forcibly as not merely to break the shell, but to smash it completely. French knives are seldom very sharp, but these were nearly new, and better than common, and I have often met with blunter at an English table. The conversation, as you may suppose, was various: politics were sometimes incidentally mentioned, but never formed the direct subject. The institution of juries seemed to be considered too good to admit of any question. An advocate related to us various stories which had occurred to him professionally; and as they were well told, I was much interested by them. One was of a Chouan chief, who being accused of rebellion, was desirous, against the opinion of his advocate, of clearing himself by certain witnesses of expurgation. I do not recollect the term, but the fact was, that these witnesses were to give evidence on oath, not merely as to character, but also to express their full assurance of his innocence. I do not know if any thing of this sort now exists in France, or whether it was general at the time the advocate was speaking of, or confined to some province: you will recollect, that we had such a custom in the ecclesiastical courts in England. The first witness called, said that he knew personally nothing about the prisoner, but relying on common report, he believed him to be a rebel. The poor Chouan fainted on finding his hopes thus blasted, but the advocate taking advantage of the name, which was a common one in the country, contrived, by confounding him with other persons, to get him off.
Some time afterwards, as the lawyer was travelling from Bayonne to Rochelle, the diligence was attacked by a party of rebels, but he being asleep, did not at first comprehend what was the matter, till one of his companions pulling him by the arm, and at the same time calling him by name, told him he must get out. The chief of the robbers hearing the name, inquired for further particulars, and on learning who he was, embraced him eagerly, and though his face was half covered with a mask, the advocate felt his tears on his own cheeks. There was some money belonging to government in the carriage; this was taken; but the Chouan would permit none of the private property to be touched, and gave to the driver a pass, by means of which they arrived safely at Rochelle, through three other bands which infested the road. The advocate wrote a particular account of the whole story and sent it to a gazette, but the government of the day, unwilling to have it acknowledged that a Chouan could possess gratitude, or any good feeling, would not permit the publication.
Just out of Rheims there is a fine public promenade, planted with several rows of good sized trees, with many diverging paths; it leads from the highest gate of the town, down to the water-side, and is really a very pleasant place in itself, and particularly so in a country so generally bare as this is. No French town of any size seems to be without an accommodation of this sort, which is alike conducive to the beauty of the place, to health and pleasure. Why is it that we have so few examples of the sort in England? Is it that our taste, or our pride, would not permit us to enjoy it? Or does it proceed from a sort of stinginess, which so strongly pervades some of our public institutions, while in others they are characterized by the opposite vice of profusion? Beyond the promenade is a public garden, called Trianon. Here a ball was given one evening, the price of admission to which was two sols, “une mise decente” was essential, but a person might be admitted in jacket and trowsers. Some persons were dancing in a small garden by the light of a few lamps, and others were looking on, but the company was not numerous, and my companion complains that dancing is gone out of fashion in France. Nobody, he says, dances now but old women and children.
The weather was very cold at Rheims, and one morning (2nd May) even frosty; the last day of my residence there was wet. The diligence to Soissons, on Sunday, being full, I hired a carriole, which is something much like a taxed cart, but lined with tapestry. We were seated on a bundle of straw; there were two horses, one between the shafts, and one outrigger. The first part of our road lay through an open common field, as usual, but on looking back, the appearance of the cathedral was very fine. The two towers, rising at the end of the long range of building, put me in mind of Westminster Abbey, though nothing can be more different when the parts are considered separately. The latter part of our journey seemed somewhat more pleasant, but a mizzling rain would not permit us to enjoy it.
Before reaching Soissons, our outrigger, which carried the postillion, became very restive, and we dismounted. As soon as he seemed a little more quiet we got in again, but were hardly seated, before the horse began again to kick and twist himself about: in a few moments the postillion was on the ground. I jumped out, and ran to him, but he had already disengaged himself. He was entangled in the traces, and seemed to be among the horses’ feet, so that I expected to have found him with half his bones broken, but he was not materially hurt. The vicious animal did not cease kicking till he had thrown himself down and broken the traces. He was afterwards quiet enough, and we reached Soissons without farther difficulty at about half-past three. After dinner I walked out, in spite of the bad weather. The first object was the ruin of the church of St. John the Baptist. The two western towers only remain, each crowned with a spire; the rest was destroyed at the revolution, and some huge masses of masonry lie scattered about, the remains of the ancient edifice, but no vegetation yet softens the crudeness of the ruin; no mosses or lichens break the harshness of the lines, and give richness and variety of colour; no venerable trees spread their majestic branches around, and by their deep and solemn shade give spirit and relief to the building. The inhabitants of Soissons obtained permission for these towers to remain as ornaments to their city, and even as they are, they are very beautiful, and time will render them more so. They are of a late Gothic, with the characteristic compound arch in the details, and enriched points to the trefoils. Each tower terminates in a small spire, but it preserves, quite to the bottom, a pyramidal form. I took my course along the rampart, where there has been a broad walk, but it was cut up by the garrison in order to raise defences against the Prussians in the last war. The effort was of little use, and the town suffered much; the greatest scene of ruin was where a powder magazine blew up; it divided the fortifications quite to the foundation, destroyed all the houses near it, injured a great many more, and shattered the windows throughout the place. Repairs are commenced, but the town in general looks very melancholy and forlorn, and the windows of the cathedral are still patched with straw. I continued my walk along the rampart, but the thick weather did not permit me to see much of the prospect. It looks, in one part, over the public promenade, but the old trees were destroyed by the Prussians, and the present are only about six feet high. What a long time it will take to repair the injury of a few weeks! The rampart here making a sudden bend, I left it, and passed by what once was a church dedicated to St. Leger. The southern front is of early Gothic, but I shall leave that for a comparison with some other Gothic buildings: I could not obtain admittance. Thence I proceeded through the principal square, where the town-hall once stood. My next object was the cathedral, which, in character, is something like that at Rheims, but far inferior in scale and execution: the south transept finishes in a semicircle, having been the choir of a more ancient church of the early French Gothic. During my absence Mr. Le Blanc found out a vault in the convent of St. Medard which had served as a prison to Louis le Debonnaire, in 833. This day was observed as the anniversary of the return of Louis XVIII., and two candles were placed, in the evening, on the outside of one of the windows of our room, by way of illumination, and a few drunken soldiers rambled about the streets, crying vive le roi! White flags, or handkerchiefs, were very generally hung out at the windows during the day, but I saw nothing which indicated any popular enthusiasm in favour of the Bourbons. Next day the weather became yet worse, and in the afternoon, we took our places in the diligence and returned to Paris; my post, as usual, was in the cabriolet. The conducteur was the son of a man who had a little property of his own of about thirty acres, but he had followed the prince of Condé, to whom he was attached, out of the country, and had lost it all. This story contains nothing improbable, but it is amusing to hear how constantly those in the lower stations of life, had been reduced by the revolution. My blanchisseuse, who is the most graceful woman in the world, and speaks the best French, was obliged to have recourse to washing dirty linen, as the means of gaining a subsistence, in consequence of that event, and there is scarcely a cabriolet driver who has not been a man of some importance.
This journey presented some very pleasant scenes; always, I believe, in valleys among the strata lying above the chalk. The forest of Villars Coterie, containing sixty thousand arpents, belonging to the duke of Orleans, makes an agreeable variety, though it is too uniformly a covert of small trees to be beautiful. Several straight avenues are cut through it; and when we passed any which looked quite clear and even, and exhibited the sky at the termination; the conducteur, and a third person in the cabriolet, never failed to pronounce them superbes, magnifiques, or to apply some other epithet equally sounding, and wondered much I did not join in their admiration. We arrived at Paris about seven o’clock, on a fine but cold morning.
On the 11th of May, at seven in the morning, I attended M. de Fontaine’s lecture on botany at the Jardin du Roi. The room is larger than the lecture room at the Royal Institution in London, but without galleries; and the entrances are at the top, above the ranges of seats. It had the appearance of being pretty nearly full, but this could not be the case, as it is said to hold one thousand two hundred persons, and the number then present was only estimated at six hundred; this, however, is a good class. The ascent of the steps is very steep, which gives every possible advantage of seeing, but the room is too large; and those on the back can neither hear nor see very distinctly; besides M. de Fontaine’s manner is not calculated for so large a place. He speaks at times very rapidly, and seemed rather to pitch his voice to some ladies near him, than to the remoter part of his audience. The subject was quite elementary, explaining the different parts of plants, and their uses; without any thing of the principles of classification and of natural affinity, the part in which the French school is supposed to excel. The garden used to be called des plantes, but now du roi. I do not know the reason of the change. It is very large, but only a small portion is appropriated to the science of botany; it is divided into large squares, by straight and wide walks, which are always open, and form an agreeable promenade, but you cannot enter into the squares without permission. One of these is intended to contain a collection of plants arranged according to the system of Jussieu, but it is very defective, especially in the plants of France, a sensible proportion of which are under wrong names. Many parts are much too crowded, as you may easily comprehend, when I tell you that they allot for each forest tree, a space of about four feet square; other squares are dedicated to experiments in horticulture and agriculture. There is one square appropriated entirely to experiments in standard fruit trees; some of these have a whimsical appearance, especially those where new roots have been given to old trees. Two, three, four, or even five young slips are planted near the tree intended to be so treated, and the heads being cut off at a proper season, the top of the remaining part is inserted into the old trunk and grows to it. The slips continue to increase in size, and in two or three years the old trunk may be cut away. In some instances the reports are very favourable to this process, and in one case in particular, where the original wood was sound, the addition of these extra roots had made the tree increase very much faster than a neighbouring tree, apparently of equal strength, which had been chosen as an object of comparison. The department of grafts contains also a number of curious particulars, and M. Thouin, the professor, was so good as to accompany me, and to explain the various experiments. Virgil has said, that if you pass a vine through a walnut-tree, it will bear the most large and beautiful fruit, but bitter and uneatable. To use M. Thouin’s expression, “le fait est faux,” he made several attempts to conduct a vine through the trunk of a walnut-tree, but as soon as it began to enlarge sufficiently to feel the confinement, it uniformly died, and he was never able to procure any fruit from it. He then passed a vine through a pear-tree, whose wood being softer, did not compress it so much as entirely to stop its growth; but the grapes produced above this insertion did not differ in size or flavour from those below. If then, he reasoned, the grapes are altered in size or flavour by passing through a walnut-tree, the converse of the proposition ought to hold good, and we shall alter the walnuts by passing a branch through a vine; the experiment was tried, but both grapes and walnuts remained as they were before.
Another graft is called ‘des charlatans;’ Pliny says that Lucullus shewed him a tree producing grapes, apples, pears, cherries, and other fruit, belonging to trees having no relation to each other, from the same root; and this, he tells us, was effected by grafting. It has been a problem ever since, among gardeners, to produce this tree of Lucullus; M. Thouin has succeeded, not by grafting, but by planting the several stocks in a hollow trunk.
From the garden I went into the museum of natural history, which is open to persons with tickets, from eleven to two, three times a week. The first floor contains a large, but ill-disposed room, for fishes and reptiles, a library which I did not see, and an extensive suite of rooms for the collection of minerals. There is an interesting collection of extraneous fossils, and especially of those of the plaster beds at Paris, but, altogether, it rather fell short of my expectation, not in the substances, but in their arrangement. We are told also of a geological collection, but the specimens are not geologically disposed. The upper floor is thrown into a single room, divided into several parts, but the divisions are left open at the middle, so that the whole is exposed at one view; it is very long, of a moderate width, but low in proportion; and it is either partially, or entirely in the roof; in short, it is by no means handsome, and has completely the look of an enormous garret. I shall give you what I suppose to be the dimensions of each part; they are wholly from guess, but may help you at least in the comparative sizes. First part 28 × 24, principally monkeys. Second part 60 × 28, contains an elephant, a rhinoceros, and an hippopotamus, all in glass cases; it looks rather ridiculous to see these enormous things taken so much care of, but they are fine animals and well preserved. An Arabian and Russian horse, the quagga of Vaillant, a zebra, and the young of each of these stand exposed in the room. Other quadrupeds are placed in glass cases around it. Third division, 86 × 28, also quadrupeds. After this is a little space forming the segment of a circle, which seems awkward, ugly, and useless. Fourth part 108 × 28, birds all round; the cases are extremely deep, and the birds, except a few very large ones, are placed on little stands side by side, all facing the spectator and nearly close together, so that little is seen either of the side or back of the bird. This might be the more easily obviated as there are frequently several specimens of the same species. The plate glass of the cases is magnificent. The subjects are well preserved and scientifically arranged. Another segment of a circle follows. Fifth part, 36 × 28, also birds; along the middle of the three divisions, three, four, and five, runs a stand of two tables united,
and a part rising above them in the middle; containing a superb collection of insects, shells, zoophytes, podophthalmata, and eggs of birds; and, since the light is introduced on both sides of the apartment, they are very well seen. Sixth, 60 × 28, quadrupeds, mostly deer and antelopes; in the middle is a great basking shark, a camel, oxen, and the giraffe killed by Vaillant.
On the 12th of May I walked up Mont Martre. It is a curious looking place, having apparently been, in its original state, a hill neither so high nor so steep as Hampstead Heath, but all the sides have been dug away to procure gypsum, and only the top remains, with the roads leading up to it, presenting all round either steep banks or perpendicular faces. The gypsum is dug out of two beds, of which the upper is, I suppose, twenty-five feet thick; of the lower I did not see the bottom. It has very much the colour and fracture of coarse lump sugar, but the grain is rather finer. Between the two courses, and above the upper, are beds of white clay, at least when dry it appeared quite white; but there are some intermediate beds of clay and sand of a darker colour, and the whole is crowned by a thick bed of yellow sand, which forms the soil of the summit of the hill. This is a very narrow strip, with a row of windmills, from whence I enjoyed an excellent view. Paris was covered with a little whitish smoke, at least that was the case over the most thickly inhabited part, but nothing like the dense yellow fumes of London. By the appearance of the horizon, I judged my elevation to be about equal to that of the summit of the Pantheon, and a little above that of the dome of the Invalides. The cross at the top of the former is about 280 feet above the pavement, and as this building stands on an elevated spot, Mont Martre must be more than 300 feet above the Seine. Below the quarries, and sometimes between them, are vineyards as open as the corn-fields in England, and mixed with the vines are currant and gooseberry bushes, and a few larger fruit trees. The vine stumps were about three feet a part, and the leaves, which had just begun to appear, were dark and shining. About Chartres the young vine leaf is almost always covered with thick down. Here and there was a bush of hawthorn not yet in flower, whence I conclude the Parisian spring is not a great deal more forward than that of the south of England.
I leave you to conclude that I have seen the elephant, the catacombs, the observatory, and a hundred other curiosities of this city; they are too familiar for any novelty of description, yet I ought not entirely to omit a visit to the Ecole des Mines. Here is a superb collection of minerals; the objects are very numerous, and the specimens frequently very beautiful. The arrangement is by provinces, distinguishing those which are lost to France, from those which still constitute part of the country. It occupies a range of rooms of about 130 feet in length towards the garden, and one or two besides, in which the specimens are arranged mineralogically. There is also on the ground floor a library, and a further collection of minerals. I was likewise conducted to the collection of M. de Dré, which, for the beauty of the specimens, is said to be the finest in Europe. In all these museums, I have been struck with the arrangement which displays every thing at once; a great deal of room is necessarily given up to this purpose, but it is well applied, for the ease which it offers of reference and comparison, as well as for communicating an air of magnificence which is suitable for public institutions. Two large paintings of David are at present exhibited, and I did not fail to visit them. The subject of one is Leonidas about to attack the Persians, after he found that they had discovered a passage over the mountains. That of the other, the interposition of the Sabine women who had been carried away by the Romans, to prevent the battle between the two people. The drawing is said to be, and I dare say is, perfectly true to nature, but not to beautiful nature. The stories are not very well told, nor the figures well disposed or well lighted. The relief is excellent, and in spite of the harsh colouring, some of the figures seem quite to stand from the canvass.
I have already anticipated the results of my excursion to Chartres, Dreux, and Mantes. This journey gave me a better idea than I had before of French cross road travelling. A cabriolet is an enclosed one horse chaise. A pot-de-chambre differs from a cabriolet in being deep enough to admit two seats, one before the other, each seat usually holding three persons, all looking towards the horses; the back is the seat of honour, but it is a very unpleasant one. The cabriolets de poste will rarely hold more than two persons conveniently, and one I had from Chartres to Dreux, would not even do that. The difference on taking a voiture or a cabriolet de poste, is, that the former does not change horses. Travelling post for two or three persons, (independently of food and lodging) costs just three francs per league. For travelling in voiture, you make what bargain you can, but to judge from my own experience, the terms are favourable, when you have to give two francs per league, and a few sous ‘pour boire’ to the postillion. I paid on the occasion above-mentioned eighteen francs, without understanding whether the precise distance were nine leagues, or only seven, and that two more were allowed for the badness of the road: indeed nothing could be worse. The high roads in France are good, though I am not quite reconciled to the pavé; but the cross roads are very bad, and the worst points are usually in the villages. There is probably more traffic at these parts, and as nothing is ever done to them, they are consequently the worst. The government only takes care of the great roads; and every thing of public convenience, not done by government, is either neglected, or if performed at all, it is in a very slovenly manner. What is more provoking, is, that one sees heaps of gravel by the road sides, collected from the fields and vineyards, but which it appears to be nobody’s business to dispose over the road. We had a very skilful driver, who galloped among the deep ruts, which it seemed impossible to avoid, and still more impossible to follow. Travelling in the royal diligences costs about fourteen sous per league, and you give the postillions two sous each stage, or about one sol per league, and the conductor, perhaps, twice as much, in all seventeen sous; the league is about two miles and a half English. You may therefore calculate French posting, where you have to hire the carriage as well as the horses, at twenty-four sous, or one shilling per mile; travelling in voiture at ninepence; by the diligence threepence halfpenny, or for two people, to keep up the comparison, sevenpence. The scenery on this excursion was better than on the preceding, without being good, except on our return through St. Germain en Laye, and Marli, where it is highly beautiful. The Seine winds under a steep woody bank; the other side of the river is comparatively flat, but well cultivated and well shaded; I can think of no nearer resemblance than Richmond Hill. Here is more hill, and consequently more variety, but it has not the richness of the English scene; and the banks of the Seine are not to be compared with those of the Thames, either for natural or artificial ornament.
After again returning to Paris, I amused myself with some excursions in the neighbourhood, either on foot, or in some of the conveyances, like our short stages, which abound here. In one of these I passed the bridge at Neuilly, perhaps the most celebrated in France, having five arches, each of 120 feet span, so that the width of the river must be about that of the Thames at London Bridge. The Seine has been called a ditch, but at Paris it is wider than the Thames at Richmond, and at Neuilly, the scale marked a depth of ten feet. In 1740 it rose to 26 feet. In looking along this bridge from the water’s edge, the arches all seem rather crippled, perhaps owing to their being formed of segments of circles, but this is not a very obvious defect, and the bridge is certainly very beautiful: if however, the arches were not quite so flat, it would be better. The double line of arch is ungraceful, and were it not very apparent that the outer line is false, the bridge would be ugly.
After rambling about some time without any particular object in view, I found myself unexpectedly by the palace of St. Cloud. I wondered at first what magnificent building was before me, having quite forgotten that it lay in my route; but after I had convinced myself of the fact, and admired the noble view from the terrace, I set myself to consider the front, which is composed of a central building, and two advancing wings of smaller elevation; but it is hardly worth any particular criticism. Reading in large letters the usual inscription, “parlez au concierge,” I did as I was bid, and immediately entered the palace. The state rooms are very magnificent, yet there is much bad taste, much of mere show and glitter, and great abundance of painted imitations of marble, miserably performed. The Salon de reception is, however, really grand. The hangings are dark crimson, with black roses; there is a very deep gold border, and gilt moulding; a rich gilt cornice, and a painted ceiling. This is the only room of which the border is altogether decidedly lighter than the walls, as recommended by Mrs. Schimmelpenning, and nothing can be more beautiful than the effect.
I continued my ramble to cascades without water, and to a tower which is called a pyramid. The river sweeps beautifully under the fine hanging woods of the park, and if the banks are less bold, and the natural scenery less striking than at Marli, the artificial accompaniments, with Paris in the distance, are superior.
There are at Paris three courses of Botanique rurale, that is, three botanists make weekly excursions with a number of pupils. Jussieu is the public professor of this branch, and his high reputation induced me to wish to join his party. There is no difficulty in it, the lecture is perfectly open, and no introduction is necessary. On Wednesday, 29th May, I repaired to the appointed place (of which public notice is always given) at the entrance of the avenue of St. Cloud. I was told that the class sometimes amounted to two hundred. On this occasion there were, I suppose, half the number, but it is difficult to judge, as a large portion is always scattered about. It was quite a novelty to botanize in such a crowd, and a very amusing novelty. The party seemed to be taken from all classes, among them were several ladies, and many who had the appearance of gentlemen, but the larger portion, I apprehend, were students in the School of Medicine at Paris, and these are in great measure derived from a lower class in society, than that which peoples the English, or even the Scotch universities. No person can exercise the trade of an apothecary, without a certificate of having attended certain courses of botany. Some were evidently mechanics, and one or two private soldiers. It has, I understand, always been the case in France, that among the private soldiers, there have been some who have attended the different courses. How honourable this is to the French character, and how much more favourable to morals, than where the only resource for an idle hour is the alehouse! Nor should I be satisfied with the observation, that they would be better employed in working for their families. Man has a right occasionally to relaxation, and to some exciting amusement; nor do I believe that either his moral or physical health can be well preserved without it. In England, a gentleman or lady would not choose to be seen in such an assembly of all classes; why is it that our pride will not permit us to enjoy, without excluding our inferiors? In fact, with all our boast of superior religion and superior charity, there is more of contempt in our manners towards the lower classes, and less of kindness, than in, I believe, any other nation of Europe. It may be merely in manner, and may regard only trifles; but as nine-tenths of human life is made up of trifles, I am more indebted to him who will make me happy in them, than to him who would relieve me in the other tenth of serious misfortune.
The plan of instruction seemed to be for the students to collect plants, and to present them to Jussieu for names, which they write down, and then preserve the plant, without any examination of the characters. I heard him thus supply names to Veronica chamædrys, Ranunculus acris, and many other flowers equally common in France and England; whence you may suppose that no very intimate knowledge of the science is expected from the pupils. In plants of less frequent occurrence, the professor himself was not very ready, and often appealed to a manuscript list which he carried with him. One brought him Hypnum curvatum, “C’est une mousse,” but the student was not satisfied, and Jussieu at last thought it might be H. myosuroides. I do not know if these species have been accurately distinguished in France. Another brought Bromus mollis, he called it B. secalinus, and seemed to me to misname several others; whence I conclude that he was not ready in distinguishing species: a sort of knowledge which is not, I believe, the forte of the French botanists, but which, without overvaluing it, one had certainly a right to expect from the professor of botanique rurale, since it seems to make the exclusive object of his lessons. I confess his employment of thus merely giving names to pupils who know nothing about the matter, must be very tiresome, but it is his own fault that it is so. He might have selected six or eight of the best informed pupils, and have referred to them, all those inquirers who did not know the most common plants, or who wisely determined Serapias grandiflora to be a Convallaria; and out of every twelve pupils, I suppose at least ten were in this state, and these of course were the most troublesome. He then would have had leisure to look about a little himself, and to have entered into details with those who were more advanced, and explained to them, as they brought him the different plants, the particulars in each tribe to which they ought chiefly to attend. Those whom he pitched upon to be his assistants would have been proud of the office, and the distinction would have been no small stimulus to their exertions. Among the number of pupils with whom I conversed, I found only two who had any idea of examining the plants and judging for themselves: to hear the name given by Jussieu to the individual, and to write it down, seemed to be the whole object of their ambition.
I professed myself curious about the Orchideæ, and every body tells me, as I had before heard in London, that the neighbourhood of Paris is very rich in Orchideæ. Oh! you will find them at Meudon, at Montmorenci, at Sceaux, at St. Maur; and as long as I deal in generals, I seem to be gaining information; but when I inquire about particular species, and the exact places in which they grow: I find only that the French are very skilful in warding off questions they cannot answer.
Another of my excursions was to Versailles. The road is not unpleasant, and I cannot say that I was disappointed in the palace, or in the gardens, for I neither expected nor found them beautiful. The size of the former is, as you know, immense. Internally, there are two principal suites of apartments, one of which is gilt upon a white ground, the other harlequined with different sorts of marble, and enriched with painting and gilding. In general, both are bad; but in the former it seems to be the disposition, and not the nature of the colours which displeases, as the bed-room of Louis XIV., and the antichamber, where the style of decoration is more simple and in better taste, are highly beautiful. In the marbled suite also, a long gallery, on the ceiling of which are painted the exploits of Louis XIV., and a saloon at each end of it, are very handsome; principally because the architect has been contented with fewer marbles, and disposed them less capriciously.
In the park, the great object has been to display long, straight avenues of trees; but the intervening parts are irregularly disposed, and contain corn-fields, meadows, and wild thickets. Even in the gardens, nothing is attended to but straight walks, and near the palace varied figures in coloured sand are disposed upon the grass-plots. There are some noble orange-trees, but they are cut into the form of mops, and the orangery, though a fine building, supporting the terrace, has the air more of a place intended for coolness, than one to secure warmth and light. There are two magnificent flights of steps, but not being directed towards the palace, they are rather deformities than beauties, as they have the appearance of leading to nothing. The water-works are not expected to play till the 25th of August. It requires three months to supply the reservoirs, and they are exhausted in half an hour.
The dishes at a Parisian restaurateur’s are sufficiently numerous, but going to one with a party of Frenchmen, I found that it was usual to multiply the number still more, by ordering a portion for two or three persons, and dividing it among a greater number. I pleaded ignorance of French cookery, and left my companions to provide for me, which they did extremely well. I do not know that I have mentioned a practice very common here of ordering a bottle of wine, and only drinking and paying for the half. I have seen a man order two bottles of different sorts, and pay for half of each; and on another occasion, at Legacq’s, one of the guests acknowledged to three quarters, and paid accordingly. After dinner we drank our coffee at the Café d’Apollon. This is an establishment uniting a coffee-house and a theatre. The stage is a little elevated, and the lower part of the coffee-room forms the pit; above are two ranges of galleries, instead of boxes, provided with seats and tables as below; the representation is continued great part of the day and all the evening, but there is some legal impediment to the performance of regular pieces, and the actors are not very good. However, the novelty of the thing makes it amusing for once or twice, and the room is handsome. It is furnished on each side with a range of pilasters, ornamented with gilding, and really good both in design and execution, and the space between the pilasters is filled with looking-glasses, so that the whole is very splendid.
I have not yet completed all I had to say to you about the Gothic edifices of Paris and its neighbourhood, and indeed it would be unpardonable to omit the church of the once famous abbey of St. Denis. The first church here is said to have been founded by Dagobert about 629.[[12]] We are told by the early writers that it was executed with consummate art; the columns and the pavement were of marble; the interior brilliant with gold, jewels, and precious stones, and the roof of the building immediately over the altar was covered externally with pure silver. In spite of all this magnificence, it was taken down in the following century, to be rebuilt on a larger scale, by Pepin, and it was completed and consecrated in 775 by Charlemagne; in 865 the abbey was occupied and plundered by the Normans, but apparently not destroyed; and it seems to have remained nearly in the same state till the abbacy of Suger, in 1122. This prelate, after repairing the dormitory, refectory, and other parts of the abbey, determined on giving to the church, larger dimensions and a more magnificent character; how much he performed is not certain. It is thought not to have amounted to a complete rebuilding, but that after having restored the towers and the west front, he turned his attention to the interior, and, a part of the church being completed, it was dedicated in 1140. In June, in the same year, he laid the foundation of the rond point, which was finished in 1144, but after this he still continued his restorations till his death, in 1151. Notwithstanding all that was done at this period, the church was in such a state of decay in 1231, that Eudes Clement undertook to rebuild the greater part of it from the ground, in which he was assisted by St. Louis and his mother Blanche. The choir appears to have been nearly finished under this abbot; and the rest of the new work, which consists of the transept and nave was carried on by his successors, and terminated under Matthieu de Vendôme in 1281. Even the western front is not of one style of architecture, and there is much of it which I feel inclined to attribute to Suger, but which the French antiquaries consider as belonging to the older edifice, while some of our English ones would contend, perhaps, that it was built by Eudes Clement. It is not however of the style adopted in the thirteenth century in France, but corresponds with my first style of French Gothic. The day I was there was cold, and I was unwell; and the reflection, that I could return at any time, relaxed my efforts, and now I am about to leave Paris, without having repeated my visit. What appears of the inside, I rather believe to be of the thirteenth century than early in the twelfth; and I should assign to it a later date than that of the cathedral at Amiens, because all the parts are more slender. The windows are very large, and rose-headed. The church seems all window, and as the glass is at present without colour, and the building of a pale stone; the glare is very disagreeable, and diminishes greatly the admiration which the lofty and elegant architecture might justly challenge. Underneath the choir is a crypt, supposed to have been part of the church of Pepin, or, if you will, of Dagobert. Whittington accedes to the former opinion, although some ancient capitals, still remaining, offer models of architecture with the pointed arch; and I rather suppose them to have been part of the erections of Suger, between 1140 and 1150. On one of them is a curious car, and they are worth notice, whatever the date of them may be. Adjoining to the church is a very beautiful sacristy of modern architecture, ornamented with paintings of the present French school, some of which have great merit.
Having now conducted you, as well as I can, to the conclusion of the thirteenth century, I shall look back, and communicate a few gleanings of subjects, either less interesting in themselves, or which I have not had opportunity to examine particularly. At Braine sur Vesle, near Soissons, and at Poissy, I observed churches, perhaps rather Norman than Gothic, which seemed to merit investigation. There is a very pretty little church at Soissons decidedly Norman, although the arch of the doorway is slightly pointed. The church of St. Leger, in the same city, founded by St. Gauzlin in 1129, is not of so early a style, but rather of the first Gothic. The southern front has an opening of three equal simple parts, not united in a common arch: above this is a window with three divisions, and a rose in the head, formed of little pillars placed round a centre, probably the earliest form of a rose, or wheel, or marigold window, but here rather puzzling, as it only forms part of the opening, whereas we usually find the roses kept perfectly distinct in the terminating windows, till the middle of the thirteenth century. At each angle the buttress takes the form of an octangular turret, ending in a little spire of stone, but carved to represent shingles. The gable has only small, square-headed openings, and rises higher than these spires.
At Chartres is a church, dedicated to St. André, whose western front exhibits a handsome Norman doorway, with a triple window of early Gothic, and over that, the arch of a window of the fourth style, probably of the fifteenth century; at which time a choir was added to the original church, extending on arches, across the river. This choir is entirely destroyed, but the arches which supported it remain. There is also a handsome Norman gateway in the castle at Dreux. To return to Chartres; the church of St. Peter is praised by Whittington, at least I suppose him to mean this, by his church and convent of St. Père, built by Hilduard, a Benedictine monk, in 1170. It is also praised in the description of Chartres which I purchased, but I think with very little reason. The windows of the body of the building, divided by moulded mullions, announce a style decidedly posterior to that of the cathedral. The lower part of the choir, and the aisles, are very rude and heavy, and may be much more ancient than the upper part. It is now used as a parish church. At Dreux there is a cathedral of late Gothic, but it is not good either in design or execution, nor is it on a large scale: a small piece, however, on one side, is pretty. At Limay, near Mantes, is a Norman tower and spire; and the present external wall presents a series of arches walled up, which seems to have divided the aisles of the ancient edifice. The inside was so full of people, that I could not enter. The church of St. Germain Auxerre is said to be one of the oldest in Paris: this can only be true of some remaining portions of old work: the west front was built in 1435. The moulded ribs, instead of shafts, the entire want of capitals, and the bases of different heights, would have induced me to assign even a later period.
St. Jacques de la Boucherie has a fine Gothic tower of the latest style; it was erected in the reign of Francis I. St. Severin, St. Martin, St. Nicholas des Champs, St. Gervais, St. Étienne du Mont, and St. Eustache, form an instructive series of the downfall of Gothic architecture in Paris. In general they are not beautiful, yet there are in each of them some happy effects. St. Severin is the best, because the purest Gothic, and it has an air of space and lightness, which is very pleasing; but it is on a small scale, and the workmanship rude. Some parts of it are of a much earlier style.
The Count Alexandre la Borde is preparing an interesting work on French antiquities. The monuments of the thirteenth century are plentiful in France, and many of them exquisitely beautiful. Buildings of an earlier period are said to be more abundant in the south; and M. La Borde was so good as to shew me drawings of some ancient churches in those parts, of the greatest magnificence. Large edifices of the fourteenth, and beginning of the fifteenth century are rare, but of these he also has some beautiful drawings. The style of them much resembles that of our decorated Gothic, but what has been very happily called the perpendicular style seems never to have prevailed in any part of France, either as to the disposition of the tracery in the windows, or to the palm-tree vaulting exhibited in King’s College Chapel. There are here and there some traces of an approximation to the latter, but they are heavy and awkward. The last specimen free from the decorations of Roman architecture in Paris is, probably, St. Gervais, built in 1581 (omitting all consideration of the western front, which was added in 1616). The first, in which Roman decorations are introduced, is, I believe, St. Eustache, and in this point of view both these churches merit attention; in the former a crown-like pendant in the centre of the vault of the Lady Chapel is curious, and many think it beautiful. The latter church is altogether Grecian in its parts, throughout the nave and transepts; but their disposition and arrangement, the lofty proportions, and the general effect, are completely Gothic. The vaulting of the rond point is by a rather complicated system of ribs; that of the Lady Chapel is still more intricate, and is indeed a very curious example of the architecture of the time, and much admired by the French antiquaries: it is however heavy and unpleasing, and has the air rather of a modern imitation, than of late Gothic. I observed a date of 1640 on one part of the north transept. The church was begun, according to Le Grand, on the 19th of August, 1532, and finished 1642; the portico was added in 1754: as that of St. Étienne du Mont was rebuilt by Francis I., the date of these two churches could not have been far apart.
Even to the last age of French Gothic it is rare to see any mouldings along the ridge of the vault, and the groining, with the exception of the oblique groining which I attempted once to describe to you, is generally simple, and varies very little from first to last. Before I left England this subject had excited my attention, but I did not arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. In some of our Saxon architecture, for example, we have groins, where the ridge of the cross vaulting is considerably arched; but I am not sure that the principal vault forms, on the line of the ridge, a series of arches, as it does in the continental architecture, and so remarkably in the church of St. Germain des Prés. In our Gothic of the thirteenth century I believe the cross vaulting is always arched on the ridge, and the ridge of the principal vault forms also a series of arches nearly flat; but whether these arches are the same in the cross vaulting and principal vaulting, whether they are pointed, or segments of circles, is what I have not been able to determine. In our last style of Gothic architecture, two very different modes of vaulting prevailed; one was nearly that formed by a portion of a sphere cut off by four vertical planes, or like a handkerchief exposed to the wind, and held by the four corners. The arch was, however, seldom quite circular, but had something of a point; the other was formed by courses spreading out beyond each other half round a common centre, so that the vault was formed by a number of funnels touching each other; or rather, while they touched, to form the principal vault, they cut each other to form the cross vaulting. These funnels were universally concave on the section, not straight lines forming regular cones; the intermediate spaces were either left flat, or filled up with pendentives smaller than the funnels, but of the same form. This sort has been called the palm-tree vaulting, because the ribs, gracefully spreading from the tops of the little shafts, present something of the form of a palm-tree, and as this is a much prettier name than funnel-shaped vaults, we will, if you please, adopt it. If you imagine these palm-trees to close against each other in all directions, you will have an arrangement differing less in its appearance from the first than you would readily imagine. If you suppose a square room covered with a true groin, and cut off in the height of the vaulting, the plan at the section would take the form shewn at a,
in the Gothic of the thirteenth century, it will frequently, I believe, have the shape at b,
the angles of the groins being rather kept back; on the method first described it will be as at c:
in the palm-tree roof thus:
The transition from b to d does not appear difficult; but it seems to me, that between these, in England at least, the straight ridge, or one very nearly straight, came into use; and even one where the ridge descends towards the meeting of the groins.
LETTER VI.
EDIFICES OF PARIS.
Paris, June, 1816.
Methinks I hear you rejoice that my everlasting disquisitions about Gothic architecture must at length be nearly finished. Do not, however, be too sanguine, the subject may recur again when I move southward, and I suspect that you will pronounce on my architecture, as I do on the trees by the road sides; while you have it you will think it very tiresome, and wish it away, but when it is gone, the barrenness and emptiness of the remainder will make you wish the architecture back again. In the observations which I am now about to give you on the modern buildings of Paris, you will at least escape a multitude of doubts about dates. I shall follow the order of Le Grand and Landon’s Description de Paris et de ses Edifices, as their little prints may help me to recall my observations; and let me add, that the criticisms of these authors are usually very judicious. In their general observations they praise too highly to correspond with the impression of any taste not educated in France; in their details, they perhaps, censure too much to be safe guides to a person who has not studied the subject, because these criticisms occur in the descriptions of celebrated buildings, with whose merits, they take it for granted, that their readers are familiar.
The church of the Assumption is circular, 62 feet in diameter, and I suppose, 100 feet high; whatever may be its precise elevation, it is certainly much too high. The eight pair of pilasters which surround the lower part, are spaced unequally; four of the intervals being larger than the other four, in order to give ample room for the altar, the pulpit, and the doorways, and to suggest also something of the form of a cross. In the upper part the disposition is regular; the effect of this discordance is exceedingly bad. The Val de Grace has a rich appearance externally, the inside is a warehouse, and has not character enough to make much impression under such circumstances; it is the design of François Mansard, one of the most celebrated architects that France has produced, but not finished under his direction. The interior of the church of the Sorbonne is handsome, but they are now fitting it up as a workshop for a sculptor. The architect was Mercier, who built also for Cardinal Richelieu the old part of the Palais Royal.
The Dome of the Invalides is the masterpiece of Jules Hardouin Mansard. The church and hospital are from the designs of Liberal Bruant. A striking defect in its present state is, that the gilding of this dome terminates too abruptly. It insulates that part from the rest of the building, and from all other surrounding buildings; there is nothing to carry off the effect. On this consideration it would be better with less of this ornament, but it is an experiment which does not leave a doubt of the advantage of employing it externally, for the production of beauty and magnificence; and it is equally conclusive against Repton’s idea of gilding the dome of St. Paul’s, an operation which would not only produce a harsh spot, disagreeing with every thing around it, but would be in itself disagreeable. So much has been done at the Invalides, that it is easy to imagine the rest, and to perceive that no breaking down of the boundaries, no accessory edifices, also gilt, could make such a lump of metal pleasing. We learn then, that in thus employing gilding, we must take care not to dispose it in a too continuous and apparently solid mass; to apply it principally to one part of the building, but not to confine it there, but to let it re-appear in smaller quantities on some other parts; and, in a city, not to limit it to one edifice, but to let others in some degree partake of it. I say nothing of the expediency of gilding from the short duration of its splendour, which is quite another consideration. The inside of the church at the Invalides is heavy and displeasing. It has two stories of arched aisles in the height of the pilaster, both are low, but the upper is particularly so, and very awkward. The interior of the dome (which quite forms a second church) is rich and magnificent, but there is too much light, or rather perhaps, a great deal of the light is placed too low, and the painting and gilding are not well disposed. Externally, the merit is principally confined to the dome and its drum, which are very beautifully managed. As for the hospital, it has no beauty. A very whimsical idea occurs in the garret windows in the front of the building, which represent suits of armour with holes in the breast; a more palpable instance of bad taste can hardly be cited, since the artist has thus destroyed the idea of defence, which he appears to have intended to excite. We frequently see, in France, the garret windows highly ornamented. This has sometimes a good effect; but it is principally where the architecture retains something of the Gothic. In the Hotel de Clugny, which exhibits a good deal of that style, they are very richly decorated, and communicate a character of domestic architecture to the edifice, which is at once pleasing and proper; a peaceful dwelling should not look either like a church or a castle. I do not know whether it would be impossible to make the garret windows of importance in Roman architecture, but I have never seen it done successfully.
The church of the Quatre Nations, that is to say, the central building of the palace of the Institute, is neither handsome without, nor convenient within. Viewed externally it appears little, and I believe this is, in part, owing to the irregular disposition of the columns. The want of regularity destroys the idea of their being essential parts of the building, and they become mere ornaments, placed according to the caprice of the architect. The openings under the dome are also greatly too large, and this not only has the effect of diminishing the apparent size, but also communicates to the whole an appearance of disproportion. The front is ornamented by four lions, which supply as many threads of water: these are not inserted in the engraving of Le Grand’s work. The whole building together is certainly fine, but I think rather too low; and I have my usual complaint to make of the smallness of the centre, and of the high roofs to the pavilions. On the inside of the central building, the disposition of the galleries in recesses, on three sides of the dome, is not bad for effect when they are filled with people; but the spectators, who find themselves in so many holes in the wall, have reason to be dissatisfied.
I spent some hours, a few days ago, at the church of St. Geneviève, entering with M. Rondelet, the architect, into all the details of the original construction, and of the settlement which had taken place. It was built by Soufflot, for Louis XV., who allotted to the erection an additional four sous on every ticket in the lotteries. The annual produce of this was valued at 364,000 livres, nor does it appear that the amount fell short, but in the beginning, the directors anticipated their revenues in the purchase of the ground, and perhaps also in the conduct of the edifice; and various other expenses, and some considerable buildings, were saddled on the funds, so that in 1780, after the death of Soufflot, and twenty-five years after the commencement of the building, the works were at a stand for want of money. In 1784 a precise estimate was formed of the sums yet required, and it was found that, to complete the building according to Soufflot’s plan, it would require 5,340,000 livres, and 1,203,000 for the square round it, and for the avenues; and the amount of the funds appropriated, after paying the interest of the sums borrowed, was 193,500 livres per annum, so that it would have required thirty-four years to terminate the work, and ten years and a half more to repay the debts. M. Rondelet, in his Mémoire Historique, enters into an explanation of the proposed mode of raising money for the purpose of carrying on the works, which, I confess, I do not understand. The income seems to jump from 193,000 to 278,000, without any cause; they were to borrow 400,000 livres per year, and to repay 100,000 of the old debt, which, to my dull understanding, seems just the same as borrowing 300,000. For the loan they were to pay interest at five per cent., and by this method it was calculated that they should raise enough to complete the building and surrounding improvements in twelve years. In fourteen years afterwards, supposing the funds to remain untouched, and no farther expenses to intervene, the creditors might be paid, but if by any accident the works should be prolonged a few years more than was contemplated in this estimate, the interest of money borrowed would exceed the funds. After all it comes to our approved plan of paying debts with borrowed money. For five years, i. e. 1785-6-7-8-9, the works seem to have gone on with spirit, and near 2,500,000 livres were expended. At this time all the solid work of the edifice was completed, and it appears, that about the end of 1789, the first serious alarm was excited, although some cracks had been observed as early as 1776. In 1789, a stone broke in one of the pillars of the dome, and in replacing it, the faulty construction was betrayed.
It is doubtless very interesting to an architect, to understand the construction of those buildings, where any difficulty was to be overcome, in which the efforts of the artist have perfectly succeeded. It is, perhaps, still more instructive to trace the causes of failure in those which have exhibited some considerable defect. The true maxim of an architect is, to spare nothing necessary to make the building perfectly firm and durable, but at the same time to admit nothing superfluous; a building which stands secure might, perhaps, have been equally secure with a portion of materials, and, consequently of expense, considerably smaller; a building which fails, we are sure was not strong enough; and if it do not begin to fail till after it has received its whole weight, it becomes particularly worthy of attention as an elucidation of the minimum which may be employed, or rather, which must be avoided, for the evil on one side is so incomparably greater than that on the other, that it would be a folly not to err systematically in some degree, by giving more strength than is absolutely necessary. The piers of the dome of St. Geneviève did not so decidedly yield to the pressure as to stop the progress of the building till nearly two years after the dome was completed and the centres removed. It was not till 1795, when, in order to adapt the edifice to its republican destination, some masses of hard stone, intended to receive the ornaments, were cut away, that any considerable defects became sensible. The slight motion given by the repeated jarring of this operation was sufficient to destroy the equilibrium of the forces.
The soil on which this church was built had been found on an examination, previous to laying the foundations; to be full of pits, some as much as eighty feet in depth, which had been dug to procure an earth for a sort of coarse pottery, a circumstance which does not give us a favourable idea of any part of the foundation. These pits were very carefully filled up, and the foundations, and erection of the vaults, carried on so as to give a perfectly firm basis for the superstructure. This operation has completely succeeded, and does not exhibit the slightest trace of failure or settlement. These works were begun in 1755: in 1764, Louis XV. placed the first stone of one of the pillars of the dome, an honour which is supposed to have excited some jealousy against the architect. Great clamour was raised against the price paid for cutting the stones, and the cautious and scientific method of proceeding at first adopted, was abandoned exactly at the point when care and nicety were most necessary. The piers, consequently, instead of being built of stones perfectly squared, with true beds, were composed of such as presented merely an even face, whilst frequently the internal mass was very defective.
Soufflot himself seems to have directed the beds of the stones to have been wrought smooth for a depth of four or five inches from the external face, and the remainder to have been roughly sunk three or four lines, in order to receive the mortar; a method bad in itself, as it evidently throws the principal weight to the face of the pier, i. e. to the weakest part, instead of spreading it equally over the whole surface, or with rather a tendency to the centre. Even these directions had not been attended to; but the builder, content to make the outside of his work fair, had used stones in many instances which were wedge-shaped; and joints which only presented a thickness of one or two lines externally, were two inches, or two inches and a half, wide on the inside; the filling in stones by no means fitted their places, and the interstices thus left, were so little filled with mortar, that in one place, on examination, the work admitted several pailfuls of grout. In order to obviate any immediate ill effect from the unequal beds of the stone, calles, or little bits, generally, as it appears, of wood, were inserted, in order to support each block to its level. Above the piers of the dome the work was better executed, both in principle and practice, and the internal surfaces were merely picked to hold the mortar, without any sinking, under the direction of M. Rondelet; yet, even in this part, the want of large stones has made it necessary to introduce a prodigious quantity of iron-work to support arches, where the construction required a single stone.
The first appearance of weakness, as I have already observed, was in 1776, when on removing the centres of the great arches some few pieces flanched off, but they were of little consequence. In 1779, while they were continuing the drum of the dome, new appearances of the same sort occurred, and Soufflot employed workmen to sawkerf[[13]] the joints, in order that the weight might bear more upon the solid mass of the pier; and during this operation the calles were taken out wherever they came within reach. After the death of Soufflot, which happened in 1780, an examination of the cracks and flanchings was undertaken; but it was not till 1788 that they began to replace the broken stones. Nevertheless, in 1797, when Rondelet first published his work (if I understand him right), there were in one of these pillars three hundred and sixty-seven cracks, of which one hundred and thirty-eight formed lezards; two hundred and eighty-three flanchings; sixty-four points where the stone had been crushed by the incumbent weight; fifty-four separations of the upright joints; three hundred and forty-four pieces renewed, thirty-seven of which had been renewed a second time.
It is marvellous that under such circumstances they should have continued the work, since it was evident, from the pieces twice supplied, that the progress of the settlement was going on sufficiently to make itself sensible, even while the centering of the dome remained; yet it does not appear, as I have already said, that any immediate mischief followed the striking of those centres, and it was not till 1796 that the ultimate stability of the edifice was considered doubtful. At that time a commission of architects was appointed to examine the state of the building, and report on the best means of proceeding. These gentlemen examined the piers, and completely ascertained the defective mode of workmanship which I have above explained; and they found that the piers and columns under the dome, had settled irregularly in consequence of it. One pier had sunk five inches and two lines, French measure, the whole of which must have taken place in the height of the columns (thirty-seven feet eight inches), as every thing above and below was firm. Such defects in the workmanship seemed sufficient to account for the failure of the construction; but it was necessary to know, whether if perfect, the piers would have had sufficient solidity, and whether there was any defect necessary to be attended to in the disposition of the weight above. Soufflot made some experiments to ascertain the pressure which the stone ‘du fond de Bagneux’ used in these pillars, would support; but it appeared probable that the instrument he used was defective. Rondelet therefore repeated the experiments, both with Soufflot’s machine, and with one of his own contrivance. According to the first, each pier would support a weight of seventy million three hundred and sixty-two thousand, seven hundred and twenty pounds, supposing it to be a single block of stone; according to the last, of twenty-seven millions, three hundred and twenty-nine thousand two hundred and twenty-two; a tremendous difference, and yet the estimate is still probably too high, as even in Rondelet’s machine, some power is lost by friction. As however it is probable, that from the bad construction of the piers, the weight was not supported by more than a fourth part of the superficies; their strength, calculated on Rondelet’s machine, would not exceed six million eight hundred and thirty-two thousand, three hundred and five pounds, while the weight of a quarter of the dome was ascertained to be seven millions, four hundred and forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty. We must, however, be careful how we make use of these combinations of experiment and calculation, since it would appear from them that the piers of the bridge of Neuilly, to support arches of 120 feet span, instead of 13 feet thick, as they actually are, need only have been about four inches, and the walls of a house five stories high, require only three lines and a half in thickness at the bottom. As for the distribution of weight the commissioners condemned the method adopted, owing to a change in the plan during the progress of the work, of making the drum of the dome pass a little on the outside of the line of the uprights; but they contented themselves with recommending the establishment of centering to relieve the weight, while the broken stones were removed, and replaced with such an incrustation carefully worked, as would be sufficient to sustain the whole building.
All the principal architects before Soufflot have given their domes a strong tendency towards the centre, but it does not appear to me that this is necessary, nor even in most cases expedient; nor was that of St. Geneviève faulty from the adoption of a different maxim, any farther than as it tended to throw a larger portion of the weight on the three-quarter columns at the acute angles of the piers.
The centres for this method of restoration were already ordered, when, at the solicitation of the builder, another examination by the inspectors of the Bridges and Ways was ordered by the minister. In France, the architects and engineers never agree; and therefore, in order to have an opinion of their own, these inspectors, although they could not help finding the same causes of failure, yet voted the centering proposed by the architects unnecessary; stating that the defective construction of the piers, and the consequent danger of the building, had been much exaggerated, and that the incrustation recommended was insufficient, and injurious to the beauty of the architecture; and instead of this, they advised the insertion of angular flying buttresses. This would have added to the load, without increasing the strength of the edifice, since the direct pressure, and not any lateral thrust, was the source of the evil.
The architects and engineers continued debating while the evil was increasing. Two mathematicians were appointed to examine the reasons on both sides, but they declined pronouncing which was right, and it was agreed that the architects, the inspectors, and mathematicians, should each report separately to the minister of the interior. Other commissioners were appointed in 1798, who were frightened at the progress of settlement which had taken place in the two years preceding, and requested the immediate erection of the centres proposed by the architects; but unfortunately they desired that M. Rondelet, M. Gauthier, inspector general of Ponts et Chaussées, and M. Patté, who had published in an early stage of the work, some observations on the insufficiency of the piers, should be joined with them. The indulgence of this request produced new difficulties and new debates. At last, in 1799, a commission of the members of the Institute recommended the completion of the erection of the centres; and this appears to have been executed; but nothing farther was done till 1806, when it was decided to restore the building to its original destination as a church. The pillars were rebuilt under the direction of M. Rondelet, on the principle at first recommended by the architects. The whole now seems perfectly firm, and the appearance of the building, if you will allow a person to judge who never saw it in its original state, not at all injured. It is certainly a beautiful edifice, the general proportions are good, and there is much grace and elegance in the outline; but there are also many defects. To begin, as usual, with the outside. The columns of the portico are too wide apart, there ought to have been eight instead of six in the front row. The two columns forming a projection on each side beyond the line of the portico, are great blemishes; very injurious to the general effect, and the more so, because they are palpably placed there for no other purpose than to enhance it; and the four internal columns on each side, are most awkwardly doubled against the external columns and the pilasters. If instead of these eighteen columns, there were sixteen, disposed like those of the Pantheon at Rome, this part would have been incomparably finer. The body of the building is too plain for the portico; the eye requires either pilasters, or something which might produce a similar effect, to be continued all round, in order to preserve the same character throughout the edifice, or at least some returns at the north and south entrances, of the magnificence of the western front. It is as necessary in architecture as in painting, to avoid every thing which makes an unconnected spot in the composition. The breaks which exist as apologies for the want of pilasters, have a foolish and unmeaning effect; and the uninterrupted continuance of an ornament of the height of the capital, is heavy and displeasing. Above this, the pedestal, if I may so call it, of the dome, by its plainness and simplicity, forms a relief to the more ornamented portions of the building, and affords a noble base for the upper part. The columns of the drum are well proportioned and well arranged. The attic above them is perhaps rather too high, and the flat ribs of the dome itself are objectionable, especially, distinguished as they now are, by being painted yellow on a gray ground. This dome is triple, and the outer is, in parts of its surface, only eight inches thick. It is not a portion of a sphere, but like those of most modern churches, would form a point, if the summit were not cut off to receive the lantern. This is right, where a dome is elevated, and surmounted by another form of edifice. In a building where a dome and its direct support constitute the whole of the apparent mass, or even where the dome forms the centre of a building, not very high in proportion to its extent, the portion of a sphere is better; but where the effect of height is intended, the somewhat pointed form of the dome maintains the general tendency to a pyramidal form. This is hardly accomplished at St. Geneviève, principally, however, I believe, from the injudicious truncated form of the lantern, which was not a part of the original design, but an addition of the present architect, and intended to support a colossal statue of Fame. It has never been finished; and perhaps when surmounted either with such a statue, or with a ball and cross, it will have a better appearance, because it will be more in harmony with the general form of the edifice. In the interior there is less to censure, and I never enter it without fresh pleasure. In its light and elegant appearance, it resembles the church of St. Stephen, Walbrook, more than any other edifice in England; and like that perhaps, is rather deficient in the solemnity which ought to accompany a religious edifice. There is no heaviness in any part, but in some respects rather the contrary appearance of insufficiency. The new piers are no stronger than seems necessary to support the work above; yet I must confess, that the disposition of the columns, forming the nave into squares, each of which is covered with a shallow dome, though giving an air of lightness, produces a certain degree of confusion, and is vastly inferior in majesty and sublimity, to a nave with a continued vault leading to one central dome. It is perhaps this circumstance, more than any other, which communicates an air of gaiety, one might almost say, of levity, to the interior. The four square pillars over the columns, which advance at the angles to support the smaller domes, are preposterously little. There are other defects in the details of the building, which I shall not point out to you; but in spite of them all, one cannot refuse it the rank of one of the most beautiful edifices in Europe. A stranger is usually conducted to the vaults below, whose long, low, gloomy arcades, produce a solemn impression; especially when connected with the idea of their destination to receive the illustrious dead. The individual objects they contain have no other merit. They consist of paltry wooden models of proposed monuments to Voltaire and Rousseau, and plain stone sarcophagi of some of the imperial generals and nobles.
The church of St. Roch was built by Mercier, for Louis the Fourteenth. It is pleasant to follow the boasted architects of that age, and to judge of their merits by comparing them with one another, and with their successors. That school is entirely gone by in Paris, and a very different one, more closely founded on the Roman architecture, has succeeded. Though sufficiently varied, they are however both French; as far as the buildings which have been erected enable us to judge. The design may show the taste and talent of the architect, but the adoption and execution are more connected with the taste of the age and country. In both schools there is much knowledge, and much imagination and ingenuity; in both there is a deficiency in purity and nobleness of taste; yet the present is certainly much preferable to the old. No modern architect would cut up his building so unmeaningly as is done in the front of St. Roch; nor would it be admired if he did. This is the design of J. R. Cotte in 1736, and has been much praised in its time—a short one for the durable productions of architecture. There are now, I think, several French architects who would produce a better design for the interior; for notwithstanding the effort to give effect by the succession of four edifices one within another, presented to the view at a single glance; and by the gilding and painting with which it is adorned, it is not impressive. It is, however, rich and showy, and deserves observation, independently of the sculpture with which it is ornamented, some of which is very good. In the extreme niche is a crucifixion in marble, illuminated by a concealed light from above, with very good effect; by the side of this is a calvary, where a similar management is attempted, but with less success, principally because there are several lights instead of one.
There is a great display of architecture both inside and outside of St. Sulpice, but neither the one nor the other is pleasing. The latter (the front at least) is by Servandoni, and is very much admired; but I think the defects are not merely in details, but in the choice of form, and the disposition of the principal parts. The use here made of two orders is not good, and the upper, with its piers and arches, and half columns resting on the insulated columns below, is quite too heavy. The lower part of the towers ought to have presented a considerable extent of plain surface, which would have seemed a proper basement to the superior part, and contrasted with the shadows of the portico, and with the multiplication of surface resulting from the colonnade in the centre; instead of which, in the present arrangement, the eye confounds it with the portico, and disconnects it with the towers. At the extremity of the church, behind the choir, is a little recess, with a statue of the virgin, illuminated by means of a concealed window, which is admirably managed. I walked through the church without being aware of what I had to expect, and thus coming upon it by surprise, the effect was enchanting. There is something of a purplish hue, either in the light or the material, which is a defect. The Ladies chapel, in which it is placed, is darkly rich in painting and gilding, and has but little light, most of which is by concealed openings just above the cornice, and directed towards the body of the church; and its general gloom very much enhances the effect of the illuminated figure. On looking externally at the recess or niche which contains the statue, it appears to have two small, oval windows, perhaps 12 inches by 9, precisely in the angle where the circular part unites with the body of the building. Internally, the light appears to proceed from one side, and from the top; perhaps the two windows were found too much, and one of them has been consequently stopt up.
St. Philippe en Roule is a handsome church, viewed on the outside, but I think looks better in an engraving than in the reality. The details are bad, and indicate great want of taste in the architect. In the interior likewise, the general design is good, and the details and ornaments defective; but the great fault of this church is, that it produces no sort of impression. I have not been able to satisfy myself to what this extreme tameness is owing; perhaps a very poor wooden ceiling may have some influence.
The extent of the Champs Elysées, and the Jardin des Tuilleries, the number of statues with which they are ornamented, and the gay crowd which peoples them, form a very striking scene, and prepare one for the lengthened front of the palace, to which they seem to belong; excepting its extent, however, this palace has no merit. Whether we consider the whole mass, or the parts of which it is composed; their proportions taken separately, or their proportions as component parts of one edifice; there is nothing to excite admiration; and even were the lower parts better, as long as the abominable high separate roofs remain, it is impossible that the whole should please. The central part, i. e. the middle pavilion, the ‘Corps de Logis,’ on each hand, and the two adjoining pavilions, were built by Catherine of Medici, from designs of Philippe de Lorme and Jean Bullant. Happy if it had never been extended any farther; for this part, though not in a pure taste, possesses some beauty, and the advancing terrace, supported on arches, has a pleasing appearance. Then came Ducerceau, who without any feeling for the general effect, added the two extreme divisions on each side, equally discordant between themselves and with what had been done before. Attempts were made under Louis XIV. to harmonize the whole, but the parts were too heterogeneous; and with its insignificant centre, the smallest division of the whole, and its overwhelming roof, this may probably boast of being the most conspicuously ugly piece of architecture in Europe. Passing through the archway, into the Place de Carousel, the size of the square, considered as the court of a single building, excites astonishment. The opening at present displayed must be equal to Lincoln’s Inn Fields; and when all the old buildings, which are now in the way, shall have been cleared off, there will be more than double that space. Still, however, the architecture is very bad, and the new part is made to correspond with all the breaks and caprices of the opposite side. This appears to me injudicious, as a few easy alterations in the old work would simplify and beautify it amazingly, and the internal arrangement would also have been benefitted. This old side forming a gallery of communication between the two palaces, was begun by Henry IV., under the direction of Étienne Duperon, continued by Louis XIII. and finished by Louis XIV. The new side was erected by Napoleon. After all this, the eye is hardly prepared for the vast length of the building displayed upon the quay. Indeed, whether from the gardens, the Place de Carousel, or the quay, the prevailing impression given by the palace of the Tuilleries is, that it is very large, and very ugly; but the immense extent always gives an idea of magnificence, and we must acknowledge it worthy of royalty. As compared with the public buildings in England, those of France have generally this advantage, that there seems to have been no want of power; and this alone gives a degree of pleasure. Their taste may not be good, but they seem to do all that it requires; whereas, in the buildings of London, it seems as if more would have been done, and more space occupied, if the means had been accessible. In France, on the contrary, inside and outside, the idea of ample space is always communicated. The inside of the Tuilleries I have postponed, in hopes that the king will go to Fontainebleau, which it is said he will do shortly.
We now come to the Louvre, which was begun by Francis I.; and one portion of it was completed under Henry II. Francis ordered designs from Serlio; who had, it is said, the modesty and good sense to prefer those of Pierre Lescot, abbot of Clugny, to his own, and magnanimity to say so. Every body knows the story of Bernini, who, on seeing the designs of Claude Perrault for the eastern front, told Louis XIV., that with such an architect in Paris, it was quite useless to send for one from Italy. Le Grand treats this as a fable, probably originating in what really took place between Serlio and Pierre Lescot. I do not like these transfers of generous deeds; they always lessen the faith with which one reposes upon their truth. Mercier, under Louis XIII., continued the designs of Lescot; enlarging however the plan, and erecting the central pavilion in the east side with the caryatides; the space between that and the angle having been originally intended to form the entire court. After building the celebrated gallery, Perrault erected a third order round part of the court, which was not completed till under Napoleon. The architecture of this building is very much superior to that of the Tuilleries, and I willingly add my suffrage to that of every body else, as to the beauty of its eastern front. In what does this beauty consist, what are its defects, and how might they on another occasion be avoided? These are questions very important to an architect, and such as he ought to apply to every fine building which he sees.
I think its beauty may be attributed to three sources. The simplicity of the outline, and general distribution; the excellence of the proportions; and the depth of the gallery, which gives a fine and impressive mass of shade. The chief defects are the great arched windows in the side pavilions, and the arch over the central doorway, cutting the basement entirely in two. The basement windows are rather too high, and they would probably be better if square-headed. The side doorways of the central pavilion are on the contrary rather too low. There is a certain want of simplicity, arising chiefly from the above-mentioned defects, but partly also from the division of the edifice into five parts, of which the centre wants consequence; and from the unequal spacing of the doubled columns. Compared with other edifices of that period, and even with those of the present day, the design is beautifully simple; but if brought to the standard of the beau ideal, we find something to desire in that respect. After all the admiration so constantly given to the simple architecture of the Greeks, and the praise so uniformly bestowed on those modern buildings which offer the same character of simplicity, it seems astonishing at first view, that it should be so difficult to persuade architects to be simple. The proportions, and even the ornaments of the basement, the columns, the entablature, and the balustrade, are just what one would wish. They are all beautiful, all suited to one another, to the general disposition, and to one essential peculiarity, which consists in the coupled columns of the galleries. I have heard it sometimes disputed whether single columns would not have been preferable. If the question be, whether a more beautiful building might not be formed by columns placed singly, than by columns placed in pairs, the discussion is reasonable, and perhaps the general and true answer would be in the affirmative; but it would no longer have been the same design. No one could propose to put a single column in the place of each pair: the straggling weakness of such an arrangement would be insufferable. They must be placed nearer together, and this would bring the windows nearer together. The lower windows would then appear crowded: other arrangements must be made to obviate this defect, one thing depending on another, till step by step the whole composition is changed. Perhaps it would have been better if the architect had omitted altogether the central pavilion, and continued the gallery in an unbroken line; all the piers and pairs of columns being equally spaced, and the three lower middle openings made a little larger than the rest, and brought down to the ground as doors. The side pavilions would have remained unaltered, except that the middle window of each on the principal floor would be of the same size and form as the others. This arrangement would not admit any carriage way, but the design is not calculated for a carriage way, and it would look better without one. In praising the ornaments, I ought to have excepted the oval tablets over the windows, which are not pleasing.
The front of the Louvre towards the Seine, is also a noble piece of architecture, very much in the style of the eastern façade, but it not only wants the relief produced by the deep gallery, but the single arrangement of the columns has obliged the architect to bring the windows of the basement too near together, and it consequently wants solidity and repose: here we see something of what modifications would be necessary to adapt single columns to this design, and their effect. Another example of this sort is at the Garde Meuble, in the Place Louis XV., and the building is very beautiful; yet the architect has not altogether succeeded, and this front is decidedly inferior to that of the Louvre. The piers of the basement are too slender, and the gallery wants the fine depth which gives so much effect to the celebrated work of Perrault. Added to this, the sham porticos of the side pavilions, with their unmeaning pediments, seem to be squeezed in between the two bits of wall which bound them. In the inside of the court of the Louvre we have quite another style of architecture, but this also is very fine. Though composed of a great number of little parts, yet with some exceptions the arrangement is clear and obvious, and the effect rich and handsome. Of the inside of this vast collection of buildings, I have seen only the rooms of sculpture, and the great gallery. The staircase to the latter is magnificent, but rather narrow for its object, its accompaniments, and for the scale of the building; and as for the rest, these rooms offer more to be avoided than imitated. In my dreams for buildings, which have been sufficiently numerous, I have sometimes endeavoured to obtain a gallery of enormous length, imagining to produce thereby a magnificent effect; but I am now completely cured of any such attempt; the result is neither grand nor beautiful, and though the multiplied faults of these apartments might be avoided, yet I am convinced that it is an arrangement which no art could render agreeable. These galleries are not at present open to the public, but I obtained an order of admission from M. du Fourny. The lower rooms are vaulted, with abundance of painting and gilding on most of the ceilings,[[14]] but the effect is heavy; they are not high enough for such a disposition of their parts. The hall of the Apollo is a vault of no great elevation, with five smaller arches cutting into the principal one on each side, for as many windows and niches. The Apollo did occupy a niche at the end, with a column of granite on each side of it. The light falls rather too horizontally upon those statues which receive it the best, but those on the same side with the windows receive it from below, it being reflected from the pavement; at least this was very strongly the case when I was there, the sun shining brightly into the room.
The Salle du Laocoon has a somewhat similar arrangement, with three windows; the ceiling is rich with painting and gilding, and this is good; but the windows, instead of being cut up into the vaulting, are kept below a continued cornice, which makes the want of height more sensible, and renders the direction of the light still more unsuitable to the exhibition of the statues.
The Salle des Hommes illustres has seven windows. It is divided into three parts by eight columns of gray granite disposed in pairs, the middle division being the smallest. This disposition is bad. The middle division ought to have been the largest, and even then it would not deserve much praise; the ceiling of the end is coved, that of the middle groined; the walls are painted to imitate the granite columns. This would have been incomparably better done by our best London workmen; and as we may reasonably suppose that in such a situation, the best painters Paris could furnish were employed, it is fair to conclude that we exceed them in this respect. The room which contains the Diana has a waggon-headed ceiling, panelled and painted white, with gilt mouldings.
The handsomest room by far is the Salle des Muses, which has never been finished, but which contains nevertheless some very fine statues. The walls are covered with beautiful marbles, for the most part of a dark colour, which suits the sculpture exceedingly well; and they are finished with a very handsome cornice; but the vault occupies too large a proportion of the height, and is besides, all white, which makes it obtrusive.
The two middle parts of the great gallery of pictures are now occupied by tapestry; the other parts are still crowded with too many pictures, and a large portion are very fine pictures. The defect of height is here still more sensible than below. To look well, it should at least be half as high again, and even that would be scanty. The light is introduced differently in different parts. Sometimes there are skylights on both sides, and sometimes windows on one side or the other, or on both. The light is in most parts introduced rather too low, but if they were all lighted from the skylights there would be little cause to complain; and why they are not, it would be difficult to explain, for the external distribution of the openings would, I believe, give two ranges of windows, or windows and skylights, on both sides, all along. The ceiling is waggon-headed, the ornament rather frippery, and the divisions, which seem intended to indicate a suite of apartments, are not good in themselves, and have a very insignificant appearance. They are formed by arches springing from coupled columns; and here again is a paltry little central division: this however is not of much consequence, as the extravagant length does not permit one to catch the disposition at any single point of view.
The Palais de Justice is not a handsome building; the architecture of the wings is disproportionately small; they are not well connected with the centre; and the openings are everywhere too large. There are the materials of good architecture, but not well proportioned, nor well put together. It is very possible to spend a great deal of money to make a building beautiful, and utterly to fail, without any gross fault being committed; a truth of which many edifices both in France and our own country bear witness, and this among the rest. The inside is not better than the out, and the great hall, formed by a double vault supported on piers running down the middle, does no honour to the architect.
The Palace of the Luxembourg has a sort of ambiguous merit which it is difficult to understand. There is certainly something good in it, but I cannot undertake to define what that something is. Without dwelling on the rusticated columns and pilasters, repeated on each story, and the awkward manner in which the windows are inserted in the lower arches, we may observe, that the sort of half correspondence between the open arches of the gallery in the Rue Tournon, and the windowed arches of the elevated pavilions, is disagreeable; and that the central building is too trifling for the extent of the edifice. It would form a pleasing centre to the gallery only, supposing the pavilions taken entirely away. Or if the pavilions remain (with the loss, however, of the roof), an unbroken line of gallery would be better than one divided by this central elevation. On entering, the galleries to the right and left have a fine effect, which, however, is rather lost when we mount the little staircase to the galleries of painting: the rooms in which the paintings are exposed are not handsome. One of the finest of the internal parts of this building is probably the great staircase to the Chambre des Pairs. The paintings of Rubens you have heard enough of; they are rich and splendid, and that is all; the subjects are foolish, and the figures, for the most part, disgusting. Those of Vernet are good views, but one goes away and forgets them. There are some other works of the French school, of which those of Le Sueur and of Philippe de Champagne are the best.[[15]]
The French admire the garden; I think it paltry, and the more so from its unmeaning length, extended to the observatory. Time, however, will improve it, by changing into trees the little sticks which now border the walks.
The court of the Palais Bourbon, or of the Corps Legislatif, does not at all satisfy my eye. The portico, and indeed, all the ornamental architecture, is too small in proportion to the mass which backs it. The pilasters are straggling, and this gives an appearance of littleness to the whole. On the opposite front, the grand portico wants depth; it seems a mere screen; and the middle door at least, ought to have had twice its present dimensions. The details of the mouldings and ornaments are but indifferent. I have heard it observed that the flight of steps is too high, and diminishes the apparent size of the columns; this may be true, but on the other hand, when a portico is extended to twelve columns, the composition will want height, and a lofty basement becomes necessary. Perhaps the architect would have done better to have used only ten columns in the same extent, and making them larger, brought them down to the first flight of steps. When an artist, instead of inventing new combinations, merely adopts the form of an ancient Corinthian temple, one has a right to expect that his attention should be peculiarly directed to just proportion, and beautiful ornament; but at the same time, this simple arrangement is so elegant in itself, and so rarely exhibited, that we must feel obliged to the artist who designed it, for having sacrificed the praise of ingenious novelty, to give so noble an example of the ancient form. If the opposite Temple of Glory, or Church of the Madelaine, should ever be completed, the assemblage of fine architecture presented to the eye from the Place Louis XV. could hardly be matched in the world.
One of the most boasted modern buildings in Paris is the École de Médecine. I do not much admire it; the front screen is overloaded by the high story resting on the columns; and within the court the range of smaller columns, running behind those of the portico, has a disagreeable effect. There is a complete entablature to the smaller order, but only the cornice of the portico is continued round the building, without architrave or frieze: as the entablature is always supposed to indicate the principal construction of the roof, this arrangement is preposterous. Sometimes, where the upper story is a mere attic, it may be supposed to be in fact in the roof, and the entablature will of course be below it. Palladio, and many Italian architects, consider the entablature as indicating floors, as well as the roof, but no theory will admit its introduction in the former case and its omission in the latter.
The Fountain in front is one of the erections of Napoleon, and certainly does no honour to his taste, or that of his architect: a semicircular recess for a shower of rain, with some columns in front, is its best appearance; but usually we see no indication of water, except the green vegetation it produces; and the adjuncts are as poor as the principal object.
The Palais Royal I have already mentioned. The Hotel de Ville has a certain richness of appearance, although it is not in a style of architecture capable of great merit, and even not one of the best examples of the sort. It is, however, as good as our Guildhall.
The Halle aux Blés is justly cited as one of the finest productions of modern art; not for its beauty, to which it has no claim, but for the simple and scientific construction of its noble iron roof; each rib is composed of two bars to form its depth, and a third is added towards the springing. These bars are united by cross bars, radiating from the centre of the circle, and this constitutes the whole of the supporting work; a net of square iron framing rests upon these ribs, and supports the plates of the roof; the diameter of this dome is 142 feet.
Napoleon ordered the erection of several Abattoirs, (i. e. places for slaughtering cattle, and for the wholesale meat market,) in the outskirts of the city, but within the barrières; these are not yet finished; they are very spacious and well disposed, but the one which I visited seemed to be placed too high to admit of a plentiful supply of water. I did not perceive any thing particularly good in the construction, but in the covering there were some experiments which deserve notice. They have used in some parts the Italian semicylindrical tiles, and seem very well satisfied with them, as forming a very light and perfectly water-tight roofing. It is not, however, quite correct to call them semicylindrical, as they are, in fact, the halves of frustra of hollow cones, the lower series being laid with the concave side upwards, and the upper with the concave side downwards, and covering the joints of the lower series. We seem in our pantiles to have aimed at uniting two of these tiles into a serpentine shape, and employing only one series. The chief object of this change arises from the want of a convenient method of fixing the upper tiles. In the Abattoirs these are not fixed, except by the cement, and no inconvenience has resulted in the two years which have elapsed since they were completed. In some cases the rafters are cut into triangular prisms, with the flat side downwards, and the lower tile lies very snugly in the intervals; but for this arrangement, either the tiles must be very large, or the rafters placed very close together. In others the lower tiles were made in the shape of trays, but it was found that the water did not run off as well from the flat surface as from the hollow, and consequently, that a sharper pitch was needful.
Paris is adorned with a number of fountains, many of which, it is true, are poor and paltry, but others are very handsome, and contribute much to the ornament of the city. Among these the ‘Fontaine des Innocens’ is the most admired, and is certainly one of the most beautiful little things in Paris. It was originally placed at the angle of a street; now it is quite insulated, and I conceive, looks better in its new situation than it could have done in the old one. A square building, perforated each way by an arch standing on a basement, and crowned with a dome, forms the whole composition, and though not without faults, it is truly a valuable production; the architect was Lescot, the author of part of the Louvre.
The Fontaine de Grenelle is also a handsome structure, although, if considered as a fountain, the supply of water bears no sort of proportion to the size of the edifice, and the centre is as usual, too small: both these fountains are ornamented with sculpture, which is both well disposed, and well executed for architectural effect.
The Chateau d’Eau, on the Boulevards, does more honour to the reign of Napoleon than the Fountain of the Ecole de Médecine. If spouting lions are not very natural, they have, at least, the plea of long use, and have been introduced into some very fine productions. They perhaps give a pleasing variety of outline, which otherwise, for a small edifice intended to be ornamental, would be too plain and unbroken. Admitting this liberty, the chateau has no affectation, but appears to be simply what it is. It may be said that this is rather the absence of a fault than a beauty; yet the absence of a fault so extremely common, and so difficult to avoid in buildings of this sort, may at least be esteemed a merit, if not a beauty; and the public voice acknowledges this maxim, for with this claim, and a good general outline, the building is sure to be admired.
There are two Roman antiquities at Paris. One called the Palais des Thermes, consists of one large room, now occupied by a cooper, somewhat in the form of a T, 62 feet long, 60 wide, and about 42 high. It is built of small stones and bricks, and vaulted with a groined arch; underneath, there are, according to Le Grand, three small vaults of unknown length; above is a garden, the earth of which lies immediately on the vault.[[16]] The other is the aqueduct of Arcueil. We descend into a vaulted passage which leads to Arcueil, with a square channel for the water at the bottom; this is conducted into a stone trough considerably inclined and rounded at the end, the water running over the edges. I do not imagine this trough to be Roman, but the disposition shows off the brilliancy of the water beautifully. Clear as it is however, we are shown a crust of enormous thickness which had collected in the pipes, and which proves it to hold in solution a considerable quantity of calcareous matter.
LETTER VII.
PARIS.
June, 1816.
I called one day on M. Visconti by appointment, in order to be conducted to see some drawings of the Temple of Fortune at Palestrina, by M. Huyot, who has gained great credit by this exertion of his talents. A French student in architecture usually fixes himself in the office, or as they call it atelier, (workshop) of some architect of reputation. Here he pays a louis per month for his seat, for the use of drawings to copy, and for the occasional advice of his master; and as soon as he has gained some elementary knowledge, he goes to the academy with a ticket, stating his name, age, country, his master’s name, &c. At the academy, one day in every month is dedicated to a trial of skill and talent (concours). I find myself sadly deficient in English terms for the practices, and you must therefore excuse me if I introduce French ones. Precisely at eight o’clock in the morning, the professor enters and gives a programme, i. e. a statement of the nature of the building for which a design is demanded, and of the accommodation it requires; and each pupil makes a plan, elevation, and section, according to his idea of the subject. This of course is a mere sketch, but it is done to a scale. No external communication is allowed, but refreshments are sold by the porter. The sketches thus made are shewn to the professor, and then taken away to be restudied and drawn out fair against the next day of contest. In this second attempt, the leading idea of the sketch is to be strictly maintained, but such farther developments and improvements, as a more leisurely study may suggest, are not only allowed but expected. No pupil is required to make these sketches, but as his being permitted to be a candidate for the grand prix, and for the pension for travelling in Italy, depends on the number of monthly prizes he may obtain, there is sufficient stimulus for the effort.
The students are permitted to avail themselves of the advice of their master, and of their companions, and even of their assistance in the drawings. The original sketches, with the improved drawings, are then taken back to the academy, and the professor assigns the premium, which is merely a ticket, without any intrinsic value.
The contest for the grand prix occurs once a year, but no student is admitted as a candidate, unless he have gained a certain number of the monthly prizes. The method is nearly the same as in the monthly contests, but of course, the talents called into action are much greater than in the more frequent trials, and the effort necessary is likewise much greater. So also is the reward; for besides the prize, and the honour accompanying it, the successful candidate is sent to Rome to enter into a new career of knowledge and reputation. When in Italy, each student is expected to send home every year four drawings of some monument, chosen by himself. In the latter years of their residence they usually do much more; and some late very successful efforts have raised the standard so high, that the task which a man, who wishes to distinguish himself, has to execute in Italy, is now a very serious one. The best productions thus obtained are the Pantheon, by Achille le Clerc, and the Temple of Fortune, at Palestrina, by M. Huyot. The first, having probably observed several circumstances not previously noticed, was encouraged to undertake a building so well known, but in order to justify himself in this selection, he thought it necessary to enter into a minuteness and accuracy of detail, of which there had been no previous example. The result has amply justified his choice; and his researches, and the clear and perfect manner in which he has explained his views, have gained him a great deal of credit. He seems to have proved completely, that the portico was not added at a later time to a building which had been complete without it; but I will not enter into a particular account of this subject till I have seen the edifice itself. M. Huyot[[17]] has made a very elaborate performance on the Temple of Fortune, and if we may sometimes be inclined to doubt whether his authorities are sufficient for the magnificent restoration which he has made, and to reject the high antiquity which he assigns to some parts of it, yet we cannot deny him the praise of a diligent and accurate investigation of the existing remains, and of great sagacity and ingenuity in combining them into one regular and symmetrical design. In fact, in many of the recent productions of the French students, there is a patient accuracy of examination, and a perfection of drawing, which I have never met with in the architectural students of our own country, and which I was not prepared for here.
I use, you see, the term student, as applied to the authors of these works, and correctly, for such they are; but candidates for the grand prix are admitted till thirty years of age, and the privilege is sometimes claimed even till the last moment. They are not therefore boys, but men of formed habits of research, and improved judgment. Yet these drawings, executed with so much care and skill, are put out of the way in the academy as if they were so much lumber: you will hear them spoken of indeed as ‘choses extrémement precieuses,’ and with all other expressions of praise you can imagine; but meanwhile, they are neglected or ill-treated, and the poor artist himself is sometimes not much better off.
M. Gallois took me one morning to breakfast with M. Brogniart, who superintends the royal manufactory of porcelain at Sèvres, and to see the products. In point of execution, the finest piece I saw was a plate made at Vienna, ornamented with flowers, performed in the most beautiful manner; it might almost be taken for a painting by Van Huysum; but we only saw it in a glass case, and it may have faults which I did not notice. Some of the vases made at Sèvres are well shaped, but this is not always the case; they are often very large; some are made to imitate tortoiseshell, some lapis lazuli, some malachite; I should prefer them as porcelain. After all, the most pleasing combination of colours on the surface of a plate, is not exactly that of a beautiful drawing, and perhaps the Chinese have shown more taste and judgment, in contenting themselves with the former, than the Europeans, who have been ambitious of the latter. In the general disposition of the rooms, there is more glitter than I like, but this seems almost unavoidable from the nature of the material, and of the objects of the art; and it must be acknowledged, that many of the individual productions are very chaste and beautiful. They use a green ground made from chrome, which is an excellent colour, and sets off the gilding exceedingly well; some of the cups and vases, which are merely gilt on this colour, are among the finest things in the manufactory. They possess also an admirable dead red, which harmonizes perfectly with the gold; but apparently, this has not brilliancy enough to please the general eye, for they use but little of it. I must not forget the cameos, which are some of the happiest efforts, and in which the beautiful semi-transparency of the agate is well imitated. A table ornamented with portraits of illustrious men, and with some event in the life of each, is perhaps, the greatest work they have executed; but although the parts are beautiful, the whole is not so; and with great perversity of judgment, or of taste, the stand is made of porcelain as well as the top, thus exposing ten-fold to accident, what was already too fragile.
On another morning I breakfasted with M. Prudhom’, and he took me to M. Sommariva’s gallery, which contains modern as well as ancient paintings. Several are by M. Prudhom’, one of which, Zephyr crossing a brook, is a most charming painting, and is the happiest specimen I have seen of this accomplished artist. It seems exactly the subject for him. Zephyr is represented as a beautiful boy; his wings are visible, but not obtrusive; he has just put one foot upon the wet sand, and with a half laugh, is shrinking back from the cold. Besides the paintings, M. Sommariva possesses two works by Canova. A Terpsichore, and a most exquisite Magdalen, who occupies a room to herself, and has every possible advantage of light, and of the colour of the ground; and deserves every advantage which can be given.
After so many disquisitions on architecture, you may forgive now and then a desultory letter; I shall therefore transport you for a few minutes to the theatres, of which, hitherto I have said nothing.
I went one night to the Theatre des Vaudevilles. The style of decoration is paltry, being for the most part conspicuously paper; and as paper, not well executed, nor at all in good taste, though it must be acknowledged, it is difficult to say what is good taste in the decoration of a theatre. The place corresponding to the English pit is divided into two parts, of which the one nearest the stage is called the orchestra, and the remainder the parterre; the price of admission to the former being the same as to the boxes. This arrangement seems to me reasonable, as some of the seats in the orchestra are certainly the best in the house for seeing and hearing the actors. The orchestra is again divided, but I know not why, by a rail across the middle. There are four complete ranges of boxes, and no gallery.
The drop scene was a view of the Tuilleries from the Seine, as it appeared about a century ago; a bad painting of a bad subject. Among other pieces, for we had three in the same evening, there was a burlesque of Hamlet, in which an English actor was represented, who came to Paris to teach the French the veritable Hamlet Anglois, while his servant more successfully attempts to introduce the true English blacking. At the first appearance of the former to offer his services, the gestures, manners, and bad pronunciation have something of what one might conceive of an English coxcomb actor; in the rest of the piece he is a good automaton, but I could trace no resemblance to any thing English.
The Theatre Français is you know the famous theatre, which every body sees, admires, and criticises; but I shall tell you nothing about the acting, my business, at present, is with the architecture, and that is of too solid, and too real a style, to suit well in a theatre: the stories of boxes are fitted in between columns of Greek architecture, and the disposition is, and looks to be, inconvenient.
On returning from Rheims I observed, at the entrance to Paris, two inns, one of which has for its sign Providence, indicated by the figure of an old man, intended to represent the Almighty. The other is the Grace of God, with a painting of a man upon his knees. A Frenchman does not see any thing profane in this. On the contrary, I believe, they are intended as inducements to religious people to enter, since it is again the fashion to be religious. However, though such a fashion certainly exists, I do not think it extends very far, even taking religion in the sense of ceremonial observances, the ancient use of the word. They have other signs here you would not expect; just by me is an auberge ‘Au Duc de Wellington,’ and a ‘Grand Hotel Nelson.’ What would you think of the ‘Napoleon’s Head,’ or the ‘Marshal Soult,’ in London?
While they are fresh in my mind, I will give you some idea of the crowds and processions I have been looking at yesterday and to-day. The first were those of what is called the Fête Dieu, and according to Catholic notions, or at least according to Parisian language, the Almighty himself is carried in procession. The houses were adorned with tapestry; that is, with curtains, carpets, and all sorts of old things the inhabitants happen to have by them, hung out of the windows. In some parts, however, sheets were the usual hangings, ornamented very prettily with sprigs and festoons of flowers. The windows were filled with spectators, who scattered handfuls of rose leaves on the crowd below.
The leader of the procession was a child about four years old, drest in sheepskins, and carrying a cross, intended to represent St. John the Baptist. He was accompanied by another, of about the same age, typical of our Saviour; a lamb followed the latter, and consequently both the children and the lamb required attendants; the rest of the procession consisted of priests, one of whom carried the host, included in the ciborium; and of boys attached to the church, in white surplices. In one procession, for there were several, I believe one in each parish, this was followed by a number of females dressed in white, covered with white veils, and holding in the right hand bunches of white roses; a mixed crowd followed without order, and apparently, for the most part, without much reverence for what was going forward, attracted by curiosity rather than by religion. The procession stopped from time to time, when a considerable number of persons nearest to the host knelt down; the attendants swung the incense pots, and the white robed boys tossed up rose leaves in such quantities, as to perfume the air. The procession which I followed stopped at a reposoir in the ‘Marché des Jacobins.’ This was a canopy, tastefully ornamented with flowers, over an altar; here mass was said, and a pigeon was permitted to flutter about, which after the service was liberated entirely. After this the people, or rather the ladies, crowded about the priest with leaves or bouquets of flowers, which they applied to the cross. Another reposoir, near St. Germain des Prés, was lined with crimson, and sparkled with a profusion of wax candles. I afterwards went into the church of St. Sulpice, which was hung with tapestry; and stayed there about half an hour. Even here, though the architecture is very much inferior to that of a Gothic cathedral in expression, yet united with the music, and with the people assembled for the purpose of worshipping, it assisted to produce a pleasing solemnity. During the time I stayed, the church remained about equally full, although all the doors were crowded with people entering or retiring. The Parisians at present seem to be hung on a pivot, vibrating between atheism and superstition, without knowing themselves to which party they belong. To reason on religious subjects they consider as adopting the former course; their education, whether under the old priesthood, or among the whirlpools of the revolution, alike unfits them for a fair and candid examination of the principles of their belief. They are afraid to be atheists, lest they should ultimately suffer punishment. They are afraid to believe, lest it should expose them to ridicule, but they have no idea of selecting what to believe among the doctrines of the church, and rejecting what is false. They take or reject the gold and the dross altogether, because, having at present no apparatus by which they can separate them, they do not think of the possibility of such an operation; and besides, they would be rejected by both parties; heresy is worse here than total disbelief.
At St. Sulpice, I finished my course; a heavy rain came on which lasted about four hours, but cleared up in time to afford to the king and princess, who is to be duchess of Berri, an opportunity of entering Paris in fine weather. The scene was very gay and lively, but more from the spectators, than from any object about which they were assembled.
The next day was the wedding of the Duke de Berri. I saw part of the procession, but had not patience to confine myself to Nôtre Dame for the time necessary to see it there. There were shouts of vive le roi! but they were very faint and feeble, compared with the acclamations of an English mob. The national guards seemed to be the principal actors, and it was the same the day before. On Sunday, passing through the gardens of the Tuilleries, I mounted on the terrace next the river, and here was the gayest and finest sight. The gardens were full of people, drest in various colours. The ladies sheltering themselves from the rays of the sun, which just then shone fully out, by parasols of all tints. Near the palace the gay crowd was motionless; farther off some persons walking about, were mixed with those sitting and standing; further still were more walkers, and the crowd gradually became thinner, till it was lost in the obscurity of the shady part of the garden, and this shade served as a foil, which enhanced prodigiously the brilliancy of the scene. The beds of flowers were in perfect harmony with the other objects, and the divisions they occasioned among the mass of people, gave opportunity for the colours of the ladies’ dresses to display themselves. Fountains also added both to the variety and brilliancy of the effect, and the whole scene was gay and splendid as the imagination of an eastern poet. Thence I walked into the Elysian fields, and here the picture was very different; all Paris seemed pouring into them. Stands were erected in various parts, whence issued little fountains of wine, and bread and sausages were distributed among the people. Groups of tumblers, actors, grimace-makers, musicians, and rope-dancers, were scattered about; and decently dressed men and women were riding on see-saws and merry-go-rounds. The crowd got possession of one of the former, and endeavoured by severe jerks to displace those who ventured to mount. Some were presently dislodged, others held more firmly; none could keep their places long, but new candidates for the honours of the sitting were never wanting; while their hats flying off, and the wry faces they made as they found themselves unable to sustain the repeated shocks, excited the merriment of the spectators.
I dined at Chaillot, and returned in the evening to view the illuminations. These long continued straight lines are admirably adapted to display crowds and illuminations. From the Barrière de l’Étoile, at the extremity of the Champs Elysées, to the palace of the Tuilleries, all was one continued blaze. The lampions, used on these occasions, give a very strong light; they are pots of tallow, about two inches deep, and six in diameter, with a wick of hemp about one inch thick: they were disposed in festoons along the great avenue of the Elysian fields, and in pyramids in the gardens. On entering the Place Louis XV. the view was superb; on the right were the Chambre des Deputés, the dome of the Invalides, and at some distance, rising alone against the dark sky, the star of the Legion of Honour. Before us was the Tuilleries and its gardens, and the temple which had been erected for the purpose round the basin of water. The terraces presented a single row of illumination along the cornice, exhibiting the crowds which peopled them. On the left were the Garde Meuble and the Admiralty. At first, before daylight was entirely lost, the illumination of the dome of the Invalides being redder than the twilight, gave a silvery look to the building, which had a peculiar and a very beautiful effect. The portico of the Chambre des Deputés had the steps covered with lampions, and green candelabras (either formed by green lamps or by a transparency,) between the columns. The result was, that the columns were seen dark against the illuminated inside of the portico, without any cutting lines or strong contrasts, but with a sort of tenderness of tint, which gave to them the appearance of semi-transparency. Something of the same sort was exhibited in the Garde Meuble, but less beautifully. The perpendicular lines of the architecture were no where illuminated. Taken singly, none of these objects are equal to some of the best illuminations exhibited in London: but taking the whole together, nothing we have had, or can have, can be compared with it. On entering the gardens of the Tuilleries, the first object was the great basin, which was encircled by lampions on the edge of the water, and thickly surrounded by people, who were shewn to great advantage by the disposition of the lights, and all their varied colouring was reflected in the water. As we approached the Tuilleries, the temple erected round the smaller basin increased in consequence, and hid the palace, which was not highly illuminated. The open part of the gardens was terminated by a colonnade of lampions, and from this point the effect produced by the light thrown on the company on the terrace, from the line of lampions disposed on its cornice was very brilliant and beautiful. These exhibitions have been concluded with a review in the Champs de Mars. There is a raised slope round this place, made by the sovereign people themselves for their own convenience, which gives one a fine opportunity of seeing what passes, and also shews off the spectators to great advantage. The king rode twice round the plain in an open carriage, accompanied by the duchesses of Angoulême and Berri, and the troops saluted him with vive le roi!
On Wednesday the playhouses were opened gratis, but I did not go to see what sort of a scene was produced. A Parisian crowd seems in general very tractable; but the efficient cause of good order is in the soldiers, who are seen everywhere. This habitual submission to the military does not appear very favourable to public liberty; and in estimating the chance of a permanently free constitution in France, it is not enough to consider merely the conduct of the rulers, or the sentiments of the leaders of different parties; the manners and habits of the people form an important item. This acquiescence in the interference of the military in every concern may, I suppose, be traced to the ancient government; and we may perhaps attribute to it, in some measure, their ready submission to the despotism of Napoleon. The principle of liberty is not very strong in this country, but I think it exists, and is taking root. The friends of liberty have learned moderation, and that is a valuable lesson. They would be well pleased now with a constitution as free as that of England, with which twenty years ago they were not satisfied. Perhaps they are hardly yet convinced that a constitution can have no strength, and consequently no value, without the habitual attachment of the people. Let us hope that the present will last long enough to create such a habit. It has doubtless many defects in theory, and more in practice; but it may be better suited to the actual state of France than a more perfect system, and it will form a foundation on which they may stand to attain their further objects, without any violent revolution, an event which almost invariably leads to despotism.
I have concerned myself very little with politics, but it does not appear to me that the French are in general at all sulky after their defeat. “What could we do against all Europe?” They have no affection for the Bourbons: it is not in human nature that they should; but they would be very unwilling to do any thing to excite a fresh war. “Ah monsieur, la France était si florissante, tout allait si bien avant l’expedition à Moscou.” “C’etait un grand homme, il a fait beaucoup de belles choses, mais son ambition a gâté tout, il nous a tous perdus.”—These are sentiments you hear everywhere. They ask me what is thought of Bonaparte in England. I tell them that he is considered as a man of great talents, but that his immoderate ambition rendered his existence dangerous to every country in Europe. For the most part they perfectly agree with me; but after all, I am persuaded they regret him. The dazzling splendor which he spread around the throne of France, his personal activity, his firm and vigorous administration, and the employment of his revenues to public purposes, gratified the imagination, and form altogether a striking contrast with the present sovereign. Yet I believe Louis is not disliked, and his personal character has certainly made him friends since his return. All this seems perfectly natural; and if we except in favour of England, a somewhat deeper feeling of national honour, and a higher sense of liberty, it is what might take place in any country of Europe, without injury to the character of the people. They did not dislike the Bourbons, but after twenty-five years of absence, it is not wonderful that they did not feel much attachment to them. Neither did they much like Napoleon, but they were pleased with the military glory which the nation attained under his auspices. At last they were alienated and disgusted with the mad expedition to Moscow, the enormous waste of human life consequent upon it, and the severe conscription to supply that waste; and received the Bourbons with pleasure. After a time, the changes actually introduced excited an apprehension that further and more important changes were in contemplation, affecting the individual interests of almost every class in the community. Alarmed at this, they rejoiced at the return of Napoleon, merely as a means of putting down a government from whose progress they dreaded much personal evil.
Independently of submission to the military, the habitual dependence of the people on the government to accomplish every object of public utility, is unfavourable to their liberty. Whatever is of advantage to more persons than one, is to be done by the sovereign, or not at all; and even when an individual is to profit from it, it is a chance if he will do any thing for himself, if he think the government ought to do it for him. The French themselves tell a story to ridicule this propensity, of which they are very sensible. A soldier had enriched himself with plunder, but his shoes were full of holes, and his feet blistered in consequence. “Why do you not buy yourself a pair of shoes?” said one of his comrades. “Ah non, c’est le roi qui doit faire cela.” Perhaps for “roi” you should read “empereur,” but that is of little consequence.
LETTER VIII.
JOURNEY TO LYON.
Lyon, July 1, 1816.
I have at last left Paris, after having staid longer than I intended, though by no means long enough to learn all that might have been acquired by a continued residence. I took my place for Troyes in the cabriolet of the diligence, but found it so small that I could not sit upright, and therefore changed to the inside, where I had plenty of room, for the carriage was calculated for nine, and we were only four. We left Paris at three o’clock in the afternoon, and the first part of the ride was tolerably pleasant, but in the morning I found myself in one of those wide naked common fields, of which I have so often complained. At Troyes the whole visible horizon is chalk, but there is shade about the town, and a promenade ornamented with large trees all round it, with the Seine running at the bottom.
Champaine is famous for its wine; the country about Chartres for corn. After hearing this, one is rather surprised to see almost the whole of the first province a corn country, and the latter city exclusively surrounded by vineyards; yet such is the fact. Champaine is almost all chalk, a soil very unfavourable to vines. According to Cuvier, one part of it is a complete chalky desert. A similar barrenness of soil has given to another district the name of Lousy Champaine. The wine seems to be grown on the hills which form the edge of the Paris basin.
We observed in passing along, numerous traces of the campaign of 1814. Houses and villages destroyed, and the inhabitants restoring a bit of roof or a floor, as the one or the other was most necessary for their immediate accommodation, and leaving the rest to be gradually renewed, as they should find themselves able to effect it.
One of my companions had been an officer under Napoleon, and another, perhaps a serjeant, or corporal, but he seemed an observing man. Neither of them appeared to have any affection for their general, but the officer in particular was very bitter against him. He had been torn by him from all his domestic comforts, and had not been long enough in the army to cease to think about the privations it required. Both had been wounded, but not very severely, and both wished for peace. This the French think they shall have, if the English will let them be quiet; but it is difficult to persuade them that there is any correspondent wish on our part; and quite impossible to convince them that Napoleon’s return from Elba was not favoured by the English government. This is very extravagant no doubt, but not more so than the belief in England that the French wish for war. One universal cry rises from every part of France, peace! peace! This may perhaps be in some degree the consequence of having suffered by unsuccessful war; but the wish is not for the moment the less earnest or sincere. Returning strength may recall their ambition. In all nations the consciousness of power seems to produce the desire to exert it, so far at least as to make their neighbours feel it; and it would be unreasonable to expect that France should prove an exception.
Our journey to Troyes occupied twenty-four hours. I did little that evening. The next morning I walked round the ramparts and made a few memoranda. Monday was unfortunately a jour de fête, which I had not anticipated, and I was sadly disturbed in my sketches and observations by the services and by the crowds of people. The first view of the buildings at Troyes rather discontented me, but since I have left it I begin to think more highly of its architecture, and to regret that I did not spend more time there. The cathedral of course was my first object, and I endeavoured to ascertain the precise date of its architecture, but without success. I was told indeed that the chapels of the choir are older than the rest of the building, that the choir is eight hundred years old, that the nave was built twenty-five years later, and the front last of all. I was pleased with this traditionary account, because the architecture announces the same order in the erections, though not precisely at these epochs. The windows of the chapels, narrow, pointed, and without any sort of internal ornament, may perhaps indicate a building of the middle or latter end of the twelfth century. I insert these guesses at dates, because they tell in themselves several things of the style of building, and are of importance in judging of the historical evidence which I may hereafter be able to obtain; but if I were now to give to the early architecture of France all the attention it deserves, it would be some years before I went to Italy. The choir has roses in the windows, but the piers are slender to excess, and they are consequently much crippled. It must be decidedly posterior to the cathedral of Rheims and Amiens, and perhaps to the choir at Beauvais. The earliest date would be therefore the latter part of the thirteenth century, and it may class very well with the nave of St. Denis, built by Matthieu de Vendôme in 1281. In the improved architecture of that period there is usually a capital all round the pier, at the springing of the arches, which open from the body of the building into the side aisles. The capitals of the small shafts are sometimes smaller (in height) than the general capital, (perhaps this indicates a difference of date) but at Troyes they have disappeared altogether. Every column and every shaft, still has its capital; but the longer ones are not divided into two heights with a capital to each. The capitals which remain are smaller in proportion, and the pillars more slender than in the earlier Gothic. If the nave was built only twenty-five years later, a great change had taken place in a very short interval. The roses of the windows are entirely gone, and the heads filled up with rather a complicated tracery; the mullions both of the windows, and of the divisions of the arches of the gallery, have lost their capitals; the ribs of the vaulting continue quite simple, and the intermediate spaces are much arched upon them. This must be considered as an example of the third style of French Gothic, and is the most important instance I have seen. The rose windows at the ends of the transepts have a perpendicular pillar of masonry running up the middle, to support them; a precaution dictated by the same necessity as the upright mullions of our perpendicular style, when the parts became very light and the windows very extensive. The effect is by no means pleasing. That of the north transept is inserted in a square externally. I cannot venture to assign a date for these novelties, but both of them are characteristic in the history of the art. The earliest rose windows were complete detached circles; those which succeeded are more or less united with accessories, forming a pointed window. The peculiarities at Troyes are posterior to both these.
The western front is of the last style of Gothic, and is a rich and beautiful specimen. Two towers were designed, but one only is built, and this is so singular, that I am induced to think it an old tower, of which the lower part has been entirely covered with work of the latter part of the fifteenth century, and the upper touched up and altered towards the latter part of the sixteenth, or beginning of the seventeenth. This last is abundantly denoted by the ornaments, and by little but the ornaments. In the earlier parts the little arches of the decorations terminate in a trefoil, and some of the mouldings pass over the others in the manner I have already described, as belonging to the fourth style of Gothic. In the second French Gothic, the crenated ornament occurs abundantly in the circular parts of the windows. In the third it is found at the heads of the divisions of the windows, and among the leaves of the tracery. In both these it is always on the edge of the opening, and close to the glass; in the fourth it occurs among the mouldings, and lies over some of the interior ones; it is even repeated two or three times in the same opening, and becomes singularly varied in its forms. One opening at Troyes has it as in fig. 1, another exhibits it as in fig. 2, or as in fig. 3,
Fig. 1.
Fig. 2.
Fig. 3
becoming a sort of scroll, enriched with foliage; lastly, and this also may be seen in a church at Troyes, it inclines forwards from the face of the work, instead of lying parallel to it.
Two other churches at Troyes attracted my attention, that of the Madelaine and St. Urban. The former has the shape of a Greek cross in a square, the angles being filled up with double aisles. The windows are narrow and unornamented; one, two, or three together; in the last case the middle is the largest. Externally, they exhibit the triangular ornament, but this has been cut away from a great many of them. There are neither galleries nor two stories of aisles, and the ‘rond point’ is of a late Gothic, neither curious nor beautiful; so that we lose the character usually offered by that part in ascertaining the date. The groining of the vault is oblique. Across the opening of the choir is a beautiful arched screen, somewhat less complicated than at Chartres, and of less delicate workmanship, but still very rich, and well executed. One of the statues contained in it, and apparently of the same date, is very fine; but most of these have been destroyed, and one or two are supplied in painted wood. We may still distinguish that the old work has been painted. The church of St. Urban is perhaps of the end of the thirteenth century, or beginning of the fourteenth; it is small, but very beautiful inside and out. The tracery of the windows is in roses, not in leaves. The aisles are not continued to the ‘rond point,’ but there is a sort of gallery which is opened into windows, forming a continuation of the upper windows. The south and north portals offer the peculiarity of arches supported on detached columns, but these columns have a rib down each side, and are without capitals. I consider them as posterior to the body of the building, with which they do not well unite, or rather the outer half of the portico does not correspond well with the part which joins the church, and here perhaps the addition took place, in the fifteenth century.
I left Troyes in the evening, but I fancied I could distinguish that we did not leave the chalk till about Bar sur Seine. In the morning I found myself in a deep valley, broken by limestone rocks, and bright little streams bursting out by the road side, and hurrying down into the Seine, which seemed here about as large as the river Lee at Ware. Woods are scattered about, but in small proportion, and not enough to prevent an appearance of nakedness. After some time we left the valley, and again entered a wide common field, but much more hilly than those to which I have lately been accustomed, and here and there with a spot of wood. At last we descended through a forest, to the little village of Val Suzon. It is situated in a very deep valley, to which I can think of no nearer resemblance than Dovedale, but the rocks are less bold, and the hills less steep and high; still however, it is a fine romantic hollow, too uniformly covered with brush-wood, which, as is the case in most of the French forests, is preserved merely for fuel; and deficient in trees. Deep and narrow ravines opening into this valley, seemed a suitable resort for wolves, but it was not a time of year, or of day, to see any of these animals. The botany for the first time differed essentially from that of England. Crossing again a range of hills, we soon arrived at Dijon, which is situated at a little distance from their base.
The cathedral of St. Benigne, at Dijon, has been called a very fine building, and Millin speaks of it as a very ancient one. I therefore was in great haste to visit it, but was very much disappointed. It is indeed, of the thirteenth century, and perhaps later in style than in date, but small, poor, and deficient in expression. An older church was crushed by the fall of a lofty central tower in 1271, and the present edifice was completed in 1291. Its want of effect is perhaps partly owing to the unstained glass, and to the whitewash. Till the period of the French revolution, an ancient domical temple existed behind the choir of this church. It was composed of two circular peristyles, one above the other, and is said to have been erected A. D. 173, under Marcus Aurelius, in honour of Jupiter, Mars, and Saturn. In later times it was consecrated to the Virgin. Near the cathedral are two other churches, one of which is now a stable, and the other the office of weights and measures. The porch of the first is pretty good. In another part of the town there is also a group of three churches.
J. Hawksworth. Sculp.
Capital of Columns in the Porch of Notre Dame at Dijon
London. Published by J & A Arch. Cornhill. March 1st. 1828.
The principal is that of St. Michel, which is said to have been built, or rebuilt in 1030, and restored in 1338. But in 1497 it threatened ruin, and the parish repaired it, and added the present choir. Here the windows are very long and narrow. Some are united in pairs, with a rose over them, but not included in any common arch. At the ends of the transept the rose windows and the openings below them are filled with tracery. The aisles are high and well lighted, but the general effect is heavy and displeasing. The western portal is the most singular part of the edifice. The architect was Hugues Sambin, a native of Dijon, who is said to have been the friend and pupil of M. Angelo Buonarotti. The porch is a return to the first Gothic style of shafts and statues; the latter indeed have been destroyed in the storms of the revolution, except those in the soffites of the arches, where angels are represented with wings and fiddles, and these are very little damaged. Many parts are ornamented with Arabesques, and some of the capitals have the Gothic trefoil topsy-turvy. The arches are semicircular, and are surmounted by an entablature in a continued line. It seems, that on the first introduction of Italian Architecture, the first period of the renaissance, as everybody here calls it, the great lines of the construction were better preserved than they were afterwards. I met a gentleman who contended that this porch was copied from a Roman arch of triumph, and presented all the characters of one, though there is in fact no resemblance. The ease with which a Frenchman seems to utter all that comes into his head, without any fear of ridicule, ought, one would think, to give him an opportunity of speedily correcting his errors, but for some reason or other this does not take place. The middle of the porch has a little cupola. Over the porch, the five orders of architecture, disposed in all ways, are heaped over one another, “as if,” said a blacksmith, in whose shop I sheltered myself from a shower of rain, “they had got hold of Vignola, and determined to execute all he had described.” This remark was the more just, as the orders really resemble those of Vignola. It would do well for a front to St. Eustache, at Paris. The two other churches of this group are no longer used as places of worship, and the outsides did not incite me to be at the trouble of examining them within.
But the church at Dijon most worthy of attention is that of Nôtre Dame. It was built, according to Agencourt, by St. Louis; and probably therefore, in the first half of the thirteenth century; and there are many circumstances which put one in mind of the church at Mantes, attributed likewise to that monarch; but we have no account of its consecration before 1334.
The western front has some resemblance in its lower part, to the southern portal of Chartres. It has an open portico, of three arches in front, and two arches deep, with a little square additional piece. The central part is vaulted in oblique groins. The doorways are ornamented with columns singularly crowded together, and statues have been placed on some of those of the front row, but these, as usual, have been destroyed. I could not determine whether there had been any projection at the feet of these statues to give them an apparent support. The canopies above them are rather appended to the capitals, than forming part of them, and they consist of models of architecture; nearly the same subject being repeated in all of them. The space over these arches has been ornamented with figures, and we find also a sort of Roman or Arabesque ornament; but I consider this, not as indicating a difference of date, but as an approximation to a style I may expect to find in the South of France and in Italy, retaining much more of the ancient architecture, than that of our northern parts. Even in the north of France, we meet frequently with approximations to the Roman orders and ornaments in the early Gothic. Above the door of the southern portal a row of disks still remains, placed, I suppose, behind the heads of statues of saints, which have been destroyed. These are observed also at the porch of St. Germain des Prés, and in some other buildings, where they are considered as proofs of high antiquity.
Over this porch or portico are two ranges, each of nineteen columns, supporting little arches, and above and below, and between these ranges are richly ornamented bands. On these bands, in several places, are indications, as if there had been figures of animals projecting directly forwards, as you may frequently see in cases where they are introduced as water-spouts, and such figures are still seen at the back of this façade. The annexed sketch may give you an idea of what I suppose to have been the original design of the composition.
The plan of this building is a Latin cross, with aisles to the nave, two little chapels on each side of the straight part of the choir, and a very narrow aisle behind the choir. A gallery or triforium runs round the building at the usual height, and a second within the windows of the clerestory. In Gothic churches, the glass of the upper windows is usually over the range of little shafts forming the triforium, here it is over the wall, forming the back of the gallery. At the rond point this gallery occupies the whole width of the aisle below; a very wide gallery, though a very narrow aisle; and it is there lighted by circular windows, but whether these belong to the original design I cannot tell. One end of the transept presents an arrangement somewhat similar to that of St. Leger, at Soissons, with five equal lancet windows below, and a rose window above. The work of the rose window fell out some time ago, and it is now quite naked. The five windows below are long and narrow, and without any tracery: indeed there is no tracery in the church. They have externally six shafts, at some distance from the wall, supporting little pointed arches; internally, there are only three shafts, which of course do not correspond with the windows; and they support flat scheme arches on little blocks. Over the intersection of the cross is a square tower, with a circular turret at each angle. The inside of this tower is ornamented with very slender shafts, and arches upon them, and was certainly intended to be exposed from below to the interior of the church; the present vaulting of that part being an awkward posterior addition. The old vaulting, above these shafts, was begun, but never completed.
While I was making sketches in this church, a girl took a chair just behind me, in order at the same time to perform her devotions, and to see what I was about; but religion and curiosity combined were insufficient to keep her awake. Soon after, the same blacksmith who had so well criticised the porch at St. Michel, came up and offered to conduct me all over the church, of which he had the keys. I assented to his proposal, and was not a little struck with the extreme thinness of the walls: those of the turrets, though rising 100 feet from the roof, are not 6 inches thick, and other walls are about in the same proportion. Indeed, the architect seems to have loved lightness ‘à la folie;’ for, in ornamenting the inside of his tower, he has used shafts 20 feet long, and only 7 inches in diameter, and one of these is of a single stone: several other shafts are about 15 feet long, and 5½ inches in diameter, each of a single piece, and all perfectly detached from the wall for their whole length. They are of a very hard stone, and so are also some of the thinnest parts of the masonry: the rest of the walls and piers are of a material less hard and heavy, and the vaulting, which is in oblique groins, is of a stone extremely light and porous. They are all found within a few leagues of the place.
The rain disappointed me in a walk I had projected, in order to see a little of the country about Dijon. Just out of the town is a noble spring, clear and abundant, and the use the people of the city make of it is to wash their foul linen. A shed built over it, and rows of stones in the water, make it very convenient for that purpose. It seems almost a profanation to contaminate the crystal fluid so immediately, with dirt and soapsuds. The soil is very rocky in the immediate neighbourhood, and full of quarries, which form excellent vineyards; but till we reach this place, Burgundy has as few vineyards as Champaine. The finest wine is made a little beyond Dijon, on the road to Lyon.
In England, we see sometimes written up working jeweller, working watch-maker, indicating, I suppose, the double advantage, that their employers will have to give their directions to the very individual who will execute them, and that it will be cheaper, as no intermediate profit is necessary. In France, on the contrary, we find marchands serruriers, marchands horlogers, &c.; the possessor of the shop apparently vindicating himself from the charge of being a mere workman.
I left Dijon on the morning of the 28th. One meets in French diligences, as well as in English stages, great variety of company, sometimes very agreeable, and sometimes rather the reverse. My companions from Troyes belonged to the latter class, but to make amends, I was this morning very fortunate, and met with a civil and very pleasant company. Both parties were I believe traders, going to the fair of Beaucaire. On leaving the town we observed a man sleeping under the walls of a church. He had made himself a sort of roof, and suspended to it a napkin, to keep out the rain, which descended heavily, and his goods were spread about, covered with old tapestry. It was a testimony to the honesty, or to the good police of Dijon; and perhaps if my companions had not thought it very ridiculous, I should have set it down as one of the customs of the country. On this road there was no longer any deficiency of vineyards. They lie at the foot of a range of hills almost all the way to Chalons sur Saone; these hills are of considerable height, (but not mountains) intersected frequently by deep, narrow ravines, sometimes rocky, and giving me something of the idea of the Mendip hills, between Wells and Chedder, but less bold, less lofty, and to the eye, less rich; for though the upper part is covered with wood, yet it is merely bushes and underwood. This is the famous Côte d’Or. All the lower parts are covered with the vineyards which produce the Burgundy wine, but some are much better than others, though the physical situation of all seems precisely alike. These hills were on the right; on the left was a fertile and well cultivated plain, not entirely flat, shaded with fruit trees, and here and there a little bit of wood: the vines sometimes extending also on this side. The rain did not permit me to see the extent of this lower country, or how it was bounded.
There is a cathedral at Chalons, of which the earliest part may perhaps be of the pointed architecture of the eleventh century. The choir is of the twelfth and thirteenth, and some parts of the edifice must be of the fifteenth, but I had little time to examine it. We found the floods so high, that the barge (Coche d’eau) which passes between Chalons and Lyon could not go, the tracking paths being covered with water. Three of my companions and myself engaged a voiture to take us to Macon. We breakfasted, or dined, as it is here usually called, at Tournu. In the north of France the meals are disposed pretty much as in England, but the breakfast is more solid. Here we dine at eleven or twelve, sometimes earlier, and it is the first meal. Supper is usually about eight.
At Tournu is a curious church. The body is of a rude sort of Norman architecture, apparently of high antiquity, with additions decidedly posterior, but still Norman, and some trifling alterations of the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries. The choir has something like pilasters, and the intersection of the nave and transept is surmounted by a dome, which I cannot doubt to be part of the original structure.
The banks of the Saone at first are flat, but the scenery begins to improve about Tournu. The road from this place occasionally passes over moderate hills, and exposes views of distant mountains covered with wood, cultivated hills, and rich and populous valleys. The weather was beautiful, and while our carriage remained waiting at Tournu, I walked on and had truly a time of enjoyment. At Macon, my companions conducted me to the Hotel de l’Europe, and I felt myself so comfortable, and was so well pleased with the place and the people, that I was quite sorry not to be able to find a good Gothic cathedral, as a reason for spending a day or two there. On the 30th we found a passage boat, and descended to Lyon. The hills which bound the valley approach as we descend, and the entrance of Lyon is like the approach to Bristol from the sea, under the Slopes of Durdham and King’s Downs, and the rocks of the hot wells, but the river is larger and the cliffs not so high. There are a few curious looking chateaus in descending the Saone, and one or two churches one might look at, if employment were wanted, but nothing is very striking, and you may easily conceive that thus going down in a boat, I can hope to catch nothing but the most obvious features.
LETTER IX.
LYON.
Lyon, 11th July, 1816.
The first object of my curiosity in every town is the cathedral. This city possesses a magnificent one. A little description of Lyon, which I have purchased, says, that the nave appears to be of the age of St. Louis, (1226 to 1271), I wanted history, and not conjecture, but this is probably about the truth. There is less ornament, and less ingenuity in the management of the different parts than at Amiens, but the piers are more slender, and more complicated; the bases have more projection, and the capitals are smaller than in that edifice, and I can easily believe it to be a little, though but little later. The choir is more ancient, but I must give you a little description.
The original building consists of a nave with side aisles, a transept without them, a chapel of two arches on each side of the choir, but neither aisle nor chapel in the chevet. The choir is lower than the nave, and there is a rose, or rather a wheel window above it. The chevet is polygonal, and its windows are divided into two parts by a little column, and have a sort of trefoil in the upper part.
The straight part of the choir and the transept have the windows placed by threes, or perhaps it would be better to say, divided into three by small columns, but the parts are not united either externally or internally by a common arch.
At each end of the transept is a fine wheel window, understanding by this term a circular window, in which little columns placed as spokes in a wheel, form the principal part of the composition. I do not know if, when this arrangement was first introduced, the centre was ever left solid, but we have very early specimens, in which it was perforated. Each division between the columns was usually terminated towards the circumference by a trefoil, but sometimes there is a simple or a double arch. By degrees other perforations were made beyond these primary divisions, but still included in a common circle. After a time the spokes ceased to be little columns, and the direct radiating lines became a very small portion of the composition. Other arches and ornaments were introduced, and the former were frequently based upon the circumference instead of appearing to spring from the centre; and lastly, the divisions variously branched seemed to lose all relation to the original idea, except in the general circular form. I have three names to apply to these different distributions, which might form botanically, five species.
1st. Columnar spokes and no exterior openings, as at St. Stephen’s at Beauvais, and the window over the choir at Lyon.
2nd. Columnar spokes and exterior openings. In France we find such at Chartres, and in the end windows of the transept of which I am now treating: to both these I should give the name of wheel windows.
3rd. No columns; the divisions are variously branched, but still exhibiting an appearance of radiation. Such as this we have at Amiens, Beauvais, Lyons, and many other places, and I should appropriate to them the name of rose windows.
4th. Arches and ornaments arising from the circumference as well as from the centre. This disposition gives a squareness to the ends of the divisions which may well merit the name of marigold windows, the cathedrals at Mantes and at Chalons sur Marne, will offer examples.
5th. No radiation preserved in the principal divisions. I do not know that I can cite for this any other example than that at the cathedral at Troyes, and it may, without inconvenience, be left without a name.
I believe these different arrangements succeeded each other nearly in the order I have mentioned, but not uniformly so. In small windows of the same epoch, the disposition is generally more simple than in the large ones, but after the columnar spokes had once been abandoned, it does not appear that they were ever resumed.
The gallery or triforium, of the transept and choir, has semi-circular arches resting on columns almost Corinthian, and on pilasters which might be deemed of the renaissance, if some of the latter were not zig-zag. On the whole, if I had met in the north of France with a building corresponding in character with the choir and transept of the cathedral at Lyon, I should say that it had been erected about the year 1200, or rather earlier, when the first style of pointed architecture was beginning to give way to the second. In the nave, the larger shafts are connected with the masonry of the piers and walls, the smaller are constructed separately. At Nôtre Dame at Dijon, exactly the reverse takes place; there, the large shafts have an independent construction, and the smaller are united with the mass of the work. Some of the pillars next the choir, as well as those of the choir itself, have nearly the ancient Attic base; in others, the Gothic forms are fully developed. The groining of the vaults is oblique, and the last pair of pillars seems to be an addition of the fourteenth century. In the fifteenth century, several chapels were added to the nave; the last and most beautiful of which is that which was built for Charles, Cardinal de Bourbon, who was king of France for four hours. This Charles, Duke de Vendôme, Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen, and legate of Avignon, was born in 1523, put upon the throne in 1589 by the Duke de Mayenne, and died in 1590; is it possible we can have Gothic architecture in this city of so late a date? My guide-book tells me that his brother, Pierre de Bourbon, who finished this chapel, married the daughter of Louis XI. and multiplied the thistle among his ornaments, to signify that the king had made him a ‘cher don.’ Louis XI. died in 1483, and I suspect that my history is not correct. This chapel is entirely in the pointed style, and part of the vaulting exhibits some indication of the manner of our Henry the Seventh’s chapel at Westminster. We find also the bases of adjoining parts on different levels, and mouldings lost and re-appearing, or seeming to pass one behind the other; but I cannot find the complicated arch, so common in the late French Gothic, in any of the ornaments.
The towers of this cathedral are placed, one at each end of the transept. The lower part, and perhaps the whole of what has been executed of the northern, seems to be of the same date with the nave. The southern tower is of the fifteenth century. They are both unfinished, except by a sort of balustrade, on which is laid a modern Italian tiled roof, a termination not at all in harmony with the character of the building.
The portal, including in that term the whole western front, is said to be of the time of Louis XI., who reigned from 1462 to 1483. It hardly seems to me all of one date, I should have assigned to some parts an earlier epoch, but there is a considerable quantity of ornamental work above the doorway, which may well belong to the date assigned. The filling in of the rose window belongs to the third style of Gothic. The idea of the composition seems to have been a square, with a turreted buttress at each angle, crowned with a gable in the middle, and a tower at each extremity, but without any thing below to carry the division of these parts down to the ground. The towers, however, have never been finished, and at present do not rise so high as the gable. On the sides of the nave, the windows of the clerestory are divided into three parts, with three roses above them pyramidally disposed, but not united externally in a common arch.
Besides the cathedral, there is a church dedicated to St. Paul, of Saxon architecture, said to have been built by Saint Sacerdos, in the sixth century, and repaired, first by Ledrade in 802, and afterwards by Hugh the First, in 1103. The ancient work remaining is probably of the last date, but the inside is a poor modern restoration. The intersection is crowned with an octangular tower, ornamented with Norman arches, and a fine cornice with modillions, many of which are sculptured with the heads of men and animals.
A.B. Clayton del. from Sketches by J. Woods.
Church at Aynai.
The church of St. Nizier is more deserving of attention; it was built by a citizen of the name of Renouard, who begun it in 1300, and finished it before 1315, and we find here most of the characters of the fourth style of Gothic. There are small capitals at the springing of the arches of the nave, but the ribs are carried up and spread upon the vaulting without any thing to mark the termination of the upright part. The Attic base is entirely abandoned, and we have a simple ogee in its place, and the bases of the different parts occur at different levels, though not with all the intricacy which is found in some buildings of a later period.
The vaulting in France seems to have proceeded gradually from the circular to the obtusely pointed arch, and afterwards to the more acute; it then flattened again in elliptic curves. I did not think that the latter change had taken place so early as the beginning of the fourteenth century, but as we find some examples at St. Nizier, we may probably assign to it this date. This church may be considered as an important evidence to fix the earliest introduction of these three peculiarities of the later Gothic; to all of which I should otherwise attribute a much more recent period. The windows of the clerestory are leafy, and the ribs of the roof are disposed so as to have something of the same effect.
As we proceed south we observe more evident traces of the imitation of Roman mouldings and ornaments, but this is most conspicuous in the earlier edifices. In proportion as the pointed architecture obtained a distinct style and character, these smaller parts were made to correspond with the general design, and forms quite peculiar to it were introduced. Thus we find considerable evidence of the imitation of Roman art in the cathedral, but none in St. Nizier.
One of the most curious antiquities of Lyon is the church of Aynai, a name, according to the Tableau de Lyon, derived from Athenas; it is situated a little out of the town on the long point of land which divides the Saone from the Rhone. The building was originally founded by St. Badoul in the fourth century, but destroyed by the Saracens in the eighth, and the present edifice was begun in the tenth, and perhaps not finished till 1070. The outside is ornamented with a sort of mosaic of red brick, or tiles inserted into a whitish stone. The western tower has a pyramidal roof, and a smaller quarter pyramid at each angle. All these seem to me to belong to the original construction. The inside forms a cross, with a dome at the intersection supported on four granite columns formed from two ancient ones, each of which has been sawn in two; each piece is about thirteen feet six inches high. They are said to have decorated the altar of a temple of Augustus. Over the dome is a central tower. The choir is little more than a semi-circular recess, with a semidome: this arrangement alone is a proof of very high antiquity. The ancient apsis was nothing more than a large niche, and the complete development of the cross, in the plans of our churches, is not prior to the eleventh century.
There is a building close to the cathedral called the Hotel de Chevrière, supposed to be of the same date as the church at Aynai. It is ornamented like that edifice, with red tiles inserted in the masonry, and resembles it in some other peculiarities of its architecture. It has been much cut up by modern alterations, but the original disposition was not perfectly regular. The principal decoration arises from a row of little semi-circular arches, some of which rest on Corinthian-like columns, and others on small and unornamented corbels, under each of which was a square recess containing a statue. There is a large arched doorway, but all the present windows are modern, and I doubt if there were originally any windows towards the street. Tradition asserts that this building was once inhabited by St. Thomas à Becket.
Besides these antiquities, Lyon boasts some remains of Roman magnificence, which however, in their present condition, are more interesting to the antiquary than to the architect. The principal is an aqueduct, a considerable fragment of which I visited, but it is so surrounded by high stone walls, that it was impossible to obtain a good view. This aqueduct is the more curious, as according to M. Millin, it is conducted across three of the deeper valleys, in leaden pipes, like syphons reversed, descending the hill on one side, and ascending on the other. I believe we have no other example of such a disposition in the Roman aqueducts, and it has even been asserted that the ancients did not know that water would always rise to its level.
There is an ancient crypt under the church of St. Irene, which is attributed, perhaps on no solid foundation, to the Romans. It is a continued vault supported on columns and arches. There is not sufficient character in its architecture to enable me to pronounce on the time of its erection, but I should doubt its being prior to the eleventh century.
Let me now conduct you to modern objects; a fine old convent has been converted into a museum; the suite of rooms being disposed round a quadrangle. These large convents have been very convenient for public purposes. I wish we had preserved some of them for that use in England. This at Lyon has twenty-one windows in a range towards the Place des Terreaux. Fragments of architecture and sculpture, altars and inscriptions, principally found in the neighbourhood, form a very respectable collection of antiquities. The building includes also a gallery of paintings, which, if it cannot boast any of the masterpieces of art, yet contains many paintings worth attention. The catalogue enumerates Rubens and Guido among the artists, but I saw no production of either. M. Frère Jean, a merchant of this city, conducted me there, in company with an artist of the name of Epinat, and introduced me to M. Hurtault, the director, who is a very able antiquary. I afterwards dined with M. Frère Jean, who is a very pleasant, friendly man, at his country house, if one may apply the expression to a habitation within the city. It has a nice garden, and commands a noble view, extending to the distant Alps. I endeavoured to persuade him and M. Epinat, that Napoleon was really at St. Helena, but I believe I left them incredulous. They did not seem, however, very confident, that it was the English who helped him back from Elba. This is the first time I have met any Frenchman willing to entertain a doubt on that subject.
An Englishman travelling in France, is frequently struck with the total deficiency, even among respectable merchants and artists, of that sort of general knowledge, which might enable them decidedly to reject any fable that the government or a party leader may endeavour to impose upon their credulity. I have heard here, as a most certain and authentic piece of intelligence, from one who boasted that he had been in London, that Napoleon had escaped from St. Helena, and was about to return to France at the head of an immense army of Americans; that the latter had already declared war against England, and taken Gibraltar.
There are many beautiful spots in the neighbourhood of Lyon, and indeed the situation of the city is one which affords great variety of scene. It is placed at the junction of two rivers, one of which passes through a romantic valley, between two lofty rocks, the other coasts the hills under steep banks, leaving a rich and fertile plain on the opposite side. These hills are adorned in many parts with country houses of great variety of form, which are often very picturesque, though perhaps none of them are individually beautiful. At some distance are higher hills, or rather mountains, which by the contrast of form, and rich aerial tints, set off the cultivated plain and slopes of the immediate neighbourhood; here and there a point of the Alps appears above them, marked only by the brilliant whiteness of the snow with which it is covered, and belonging, in appearance, rather to the heaven than to the earth.
My pleasantest walk was on the bank of the Rhone. For the whole length of the town, there is a fine broad quay along the shore, and the road to Geneva continues for some miles by the side of the stream, offering fine views of the river, and of the white summits of the distant Alps. A steep gravelly hill, presenting occasionally perpendicular cliffs, bounds the road on the left, but receding from the town, the slope becomes more gradual, and coffee-houses and gardens in ascending terraces, present themselves soon after leaving the city. The most celebrated of these is the Café de Gaillet, where the Lyonnese drink beer, eat bread and cheese, or sweet cakes, and take ices. Some amuse themselves under the shade of the orange trees; others seek the shelter of a noble saloon, I suppose 150 feet long, and 40 feet broad, and ornamented with looking-glasses. If the style of decoration be French, it is certainly good of its kind; and besides, the taste for gaiety and glitter is extremely well exercised in a coffee-house. On a fine Sunday afternoon all the population of Lyon, in their gayest attire, seem to come out on this road. In London the people scatter themselves on such an occasion in all directions; in these French towns all seem to direct their steps to one point, and pains are taken by the government or the community, to make that point agreeable. This coffee-house has however at present, one disadvantage; the garden is on a terrace level with the saloon, and a row of young plane trees by the side of the road below, is just of a height to shut out the prospect from the whole range. Another coffee-house, which has its little summer houses and Chinese pavilions scattered about at different elevations, is better in this respect, but inferior in every other.
At my inn, the Quatre Nations, there is a table d’hôte rather too early for my convenience. When there, I generally find some one whom I recognize as the companion of some former portion of my journey, but unfortunately none of those who pleased me the most. Comparing the peasantry of France with that of England, I should say there is less of prompt and servile obedience, where you think you have a right to command, but greatly more attention and real politeness, where you have no such claim. In those of a class a little superior, or at least who think themselves so, the French have not the same advantage. In all classes there seems to be much more freedom of remark than in England, and sometimes such remarks as would put an Englishman out of humour. In the little intercourses of life the Frenchman has the appearance of being the most good humoured, if not the most polite. I get laughed at for my pronunciation, and frequently perhaps by those who would themselves be ridiculed at Paris. One of the guests amused himself with talking to me in bad French, just as you sometimes talk bad English to children. Another of the party found fault with this, telling him that he would be better understood by speaking correctly, but slowly, and distinctly, without saying parlier, entendier, and without using verbs instead of substantives. “But,” replied the former, “I do not say parlier, entendier, nor do I use verbs for substantives, I only make use of the participle instead of the infinitive, and I confound the genders, as this gentleman does.” I observed that these people in their conversation almost always sounded the r of the infinitive mood.
I went to the theatre at Lyon; here I first saw what I am told is common in the south of France, a pit without seats. The theatre is simple and good, because without affectation, and where the artist goes straight forward to his object, the result may not be admirable, but can never be ridiculous. The acting was respectable, but my bile was excited by some officers in the boxes, who insisted that every thing should be conducted at their good pleasure; and somewhat also by the people for submitting to their impertinence. They were furiously loyal, but it is impossible such men can be friends of a constitutional government. Liberty is out of the question, they are fit for nothing but to be the tools of a military despotism.
I have already mentioned a crypt under the church dedicated to St. Irene, which is said to be of Roman construction. At the same place I was shown an opening, now boarded up, which leads to a space containing, if you believe the tradition of the place, the bones of 19,000 martyrs, without reckoning women and children, who, as my conductress observed, must have been at least as many more. There is also a well full of relics, but I did not understand whether these were included in the previous number, or an addition to it.
South of Lyon we may begin to observe the constructions in Pisé, which I suspect would not suit a climate so wet as ours; the material seems to be gravel and clay, formed into blocks in a sort of mould on the work itself, and separated by pretty thick beds of mortar. In some districts these blocks are pretty regular parallelopipeda, about six feet long and three thick; in others, they are very irregularly shaped, like Cyclopæan masonry.
LETTER X.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Nismes, 27th July, 1816.
I met at Paris with a brother architect of the name of Sharp, who was going to Rome by the South of France; he left Paris a little after me, and joined me at Lyon. On the 12th we got into the packet-boat, to descend the Rhone; it was loaded with goods and passengers going to the fair at Beaucaire; and such a steam rose from the only room below deck, that I did not choose to venture into it; although a thick drizzling rain which obscured the prospect, and permitted us to see only the ghosts of beautiful scenery, would have made the shelter very acceptable. The packet-boat, or barge, is suffered nearly to drift down the stream, but the boatmen are provided with oars, to direct, rather than to accelerate the motion, as the rudder, though made very large, has of course little power. Our voyage begins upon the Saone, but we entered the Rhone a little below Lyon, and reached Vienne, a distance of nearly eighteen miles, in two hours and a half. Here we left the boat, and although the weather incommoded us all day, yet it was sufficiently fine at intervals to shew us that we were in a beautiful country, and to permit us to see some of the antiquities of the place. A magnificent quay extends along the bank of the river, but the current of the Rhone is so strong, that every thing connected with it must be of the most solid construction. One pier of a bridge is still standing; and a tower, which probably defended the end of it, remains on the opposite shore: a rocky hill rises behind the town, crowned by what appears the fragment of an old castle, but this we did not visit. Vienne is the first town I have seen, where the Roman antiquities remain in sufficient perfection to claim the study of an architect. I ran into the first church which occurred in our ramble through the city, (that of St. André le Bas) and found it a very curious old building, with many fragments of Roman antiquity, particularly two shafts of columns, and capitals upon them, but as the capitals had originally belonged to columns half as large again, the composition was not very happy. It is an edifice of great antiquity, being simply a parallelogram, with a semicircular niche at the end, which forms the choir; the vaulting is pointed, but the openings are round-headed, except three little windows in the choir. It was founded by Ancemond, Duke of Burgundy, and restored by Conrad, King of Burgundy. The latter reigned from 1033 to 1037. A little further we stumbled on an ancient temple, a good deal ruined. The spaces between the columns have been walled up, and the walls of the cell removed, in order to convert the building, first into a christian church, and afterwards into a court of justice. The edifice is not in very good taste, nor very well executed; yet the union of simplicity of form with richness of decoration, produces a pleasing effect under so many disadvantages: and the coming thus by chance upon an object with which one has so many associations, excited an emotion more easily imagined than described. Just out of the town is a slender pyramid on a square basement, perforated in each direction by an arched opening, and with a column at each angle. It is called by the vulgar the tomb of Pontius Pilate, who, according to them, put an end to his own life at this place. Its real date and destination are very uncertain. It is undoubtedly Roman, and probably a sepulchral monument, but there is no inscription. It stands in the middle of a corn-field, and cannot boast much beauty either in itself or in its situation. The finest relic, in point of taste and execution, is what is called the Arch of Triumph. Enough remains to shew with certainty, that it does not merit this appellation, but not sufficient to enable me to determine what it has been: some heads of satyrs have given rise to a conjecture that it formed part of a theatre.
Numerous fragments of Roman ornaments and inscriptions are scattered about Vienne. Some of the most interesting antiquities, discovered in and about the city, have been collected, and placed in an old church, where they form a museum; there are amongst them a few beautiful fragments of sculpture; and many mosaics, some of which may be considered as very fine ones, but a considerable portion of the objects appears to belong to the decadence. Besides these monuments of Roman times, Vienne boasts a very fine cathedral. The front rises from an elevated platform, or parvis, about twelve feet above the street, the ascent to which is by a magnificent flight of steps. This platform terminates at each end against private houses; the front is defended by a Gothic balustrade, which returns down the steps. The façade has never been completed, and perhaps in its present state the form is too square, yet it is truly a magnificent object, and has proved to me not only the possibility, but the great advantage of thus elevating a Gothic church. It is generally very difficult, when one contemplates a noble building, to determine precisely from what particulars our pleasure is derived, and to judge what might be omitted without injury, or what added with advantage. On considering the religious edifices of our own country, we observe that they are almost all, either on a level with the ground, or somewhat below it; and I had consequently began to doubt whether part of their beauty might not be owing to this circumstance. In France such a peculiarity is not observable, for we find here that the cathedrals are, with hardly any exception, placed on a platform more or less elevated. This at Vienne is the highest I have seen, and from that very circumstance, it is the finest, and the one which most contributes to the dignity of the building. The whole of this part, and the western front itself, together with the four first arches of the nave, were added by Pierre Palmier in 1527, and present nothing very remarkable in the style of architecture, unless perhaps, that in some cases there is an appearance of the artist having endeavoured to imitate the character of the ancient work.
On entering, the building seems at first glance to present a considerable uniformity of style; but a closer examination betrays very important differences. As to its whole effect, the want of coloured glass is a deficiency hardly to be forgiven; and it seemed to me, who have been lately so much accustomed to the very lofty churches of the north of France, rather too low in proportion to its extent, but in this my companion did not agree with me. We estimated its height at between eighty and ninety feet; and certainly if it had but painted glass, it would not be disgraced in a comparison with the proudest Gothic churches in Europe, but in its present state, it is less impressive than that at Lyon. The first four arches are of the same date and style as the front, but beyond these are seven other arches on each side, which form the most curious part of the building. From the pavement to the under side of the gallery, the architecture is of a manner which I have not seen before, and one might imagine it for a moment to be formed at the restoration of the Italian architecture, but it is only for a moment: the mouldings, the ornaments, and above all, the capitals, clearly attest the antiquity of the work. Driven from that supposition, the observer is almost led to attribute it to the decline of Roman architecture, (I wish we had good words corresponding with the French decadence and renaissance,) for it approaches even more nearly than the Saxon style, to the productions of the ancients; nevertheless the arches are pointed, and if we imagine this to have been in consequence of some restorations, or repairs, which may possibly have been the case, since the points are very obtuse, and there is a central key-stone; yet the general disposition is too much like that of a Gothic church, to allow us to push so far back the era of its construction. The arches of the side aisles in this part have no mouldings on the groins, the lower windows are rose-headed, and probably of the thirteenth century; those of the clerestory are by threes, and without tracery, they may therefore be attributed to the twelfth; but in both parts some of a later style have been introduced. There is no transept, but there are four steps at the eighth pier from the entrance, and three more at the eleventh. The latter mark the present choir, the straight part of which, consisting of two arches only, is of the earliest French pointed style, while the chevet is polygonal, and has a quatrefoil in the window heads. Externally the flanks of the side aisles are finished with a gallery of small arches, upon little columns, some of which are semicircular, and others pointed, and above these rise Gothic pinnacles. Some fragments of more ancient work have been built up in the walls, and in the oldest part there are also monumental tablets as early as 1200, which seem to be posterior to the erection of the wall. Reasoning from appearance, I should consider it as a building begun in the eleventh, and continued through the whole of the twelfth century, but the history of the cathedral mentions no considerable works in that period. It is said to have been begun by St. Esalde, archbishop in 718. The works were afterwards suspended till the time of another archbishop, St. Theobald, who completed the choir in 952. It seems certain that something was erected by him at that time, and equally certain that it was not the present choir. Yet the foundation may have been of that date, and semicircular, though the work above is slightly polygonal, and the want of a transept to so considerable a building creates a suspicion that the plan is of great antiquity. After this period I have found no accounts of any important works till those already mentioned, in 1527.
Besides the cathedral, there is at Vienne a very curious Saxon church, dedicated to St. Michel;[[18]] it has a stone ornament, running along the ridge of the roof, which seems not to be uncommon in these parts; the ornamental arches of the tower include nearly two-thirds of a circle; a circumstance which unites it with the Moresque architecture. The interior of the church is not beautiful, but a little cloister is very pretty, composed of arches, resting on little coupled columns.[[19]]
The churches of the villages down the Rhone are almost all of that style which we call in England, Saxon or Norman, very ancient and very rude. One at Bourg St. Andiole has an octagonal central tower, with semicircular arches, and is crowned with a spire of rather low proportions, rising immediately from the sides of the octagon, without cornice, or balustrade, or any thing to mark the line of separation.[[20]]
I have been so used in France to hear the pieces of twenty francs called louis, that I thought of nothing else when I made the agreement with a boatman at Vienne, to take us to Pont St. Esprit, full one hundred miles, for three louis; he used his oars very little, just enough to preserve a direction to the boat. When we were about to pay our waterman, he demanded seventy-two francs, instead of sixty; as we could not settle the matter, we all went to a magistrate, who acknowledged the ambiguity of the term, and decided that we should pay sixty-six francs, as a mean between the two methods of understanding the bargain. I do not know whether the man had any intention of cheating us. He had assured us on setting out that he must sell his boat at Pont St. Esprit to great disadvantage, since from the rapidity of the stream, it was impossible to bring it up the Rhone, and yet we found the boat on entering quite an old one. This had excited some suspicion of his honesty, because, if they could not be moved against the stream, we did not understand how they were to wear out at Vienne: but perhaps in this we were unjust. These boats cannot last long, as they are very slightly and poorly made, and the man only estimated the value at thirty-six francs.
The voyage down the Rhone is delightful; and I doubt if all the boasted beauties of the Rhine deserve to be compared with it. The scene is continually varying, but always beautiful; the river sometimes runs between lofty banks, always steep, generally rocky, sometimes precipitous. The hills are ornamented with villages, and with ruined castles without number, occupying the most picturesque situations; some are covered with sloping vineyards; in others little terraces are made for the vines among the rocks; some are crowned with forests, and everywhere the mixture of scattered trees and bushes gives richness to the landscape. In some places the bank of hill recedes from the river, or diminishes in height; at others it is entirely lost, and the eye wanders to more distant hills, to rugged mountains, or to the snow-covered summits of the Alps. Sometimes one of these styles of landscape is presented on one side, and another on the opposite shore; at others all appear to be united; add to which, the Rhone itself is a noble river, from a quarter to half a mile wide, rushing impetuously along, and giving life and spirit to the scene.
The rapidity of the current has given rise to a method of crossing which we do not see in England: a rope is stretched across the river, generally at the narrowest parts, and the ferry-boat is attached to this rope by a pulley, which passes along with it; and thus, when merely committed to the stream, with a little help from the rudder, which is made very large, the boat is impelled to the opposite shore. The rope is elevated sufficiently for boats descending the river to pass underneath it, either by attaching it to a rock, or to a piece of rough masonry erected for that purpose. The rapid current of the Rhone is continually shifting the gravelly bottom on which it runs, and this produces a continual noise, like the frying of fish, but louder.
We slept at Ancone, a little village on the banks of the river. I counted twenty beds at the inn, and every thing about them seemed very clean; indeed the sheets in France are always clean, and I never had occasion to doubt whether they had not been already used, which has sometimes been the case in England.
Although the exertion of the rower is trifling, the progress made by the help of the current is very considerable. We were little more than ten hours from Vienne to Ancone, a distance of seventy-six miles; from Ancone to Pont St. Esprit, six leagues of the country, or about twenty-four miles, very little more than three; so that we travelled nearly seven miles and a half per hour. Allowing two for the effect of the oars, we shall have five and a half for the rapidity of the stream, which is about the same as from Lyon to Vienne. The course of the Rhone from the Lake of Geneva to the sea, measured along all its windings, is nearly three hundred miles, according to the best maps, and the elevation of that lake is 1,200 feet above the Mediterranean Sea. This would give an average descent of four feet per mile. The descent from Geneva to Lyon is probably much greater than this, especially as it includes the loss of the Rhone, and a considerable space, where the river runs with great velocity in a deep bed, and the channel is but a few yards wide; and although, on the other hand, it is probable, that the descent from Beaucaire to the sea is trifling, since there the valley opens, and a wide spread of alluvial soil begins, yet perhaps we cannot calculate the descent of the Rhone from Lyon to Avignon at more than three feet per English mile, or one foot in 1,760.
At Pont St. Esprit we find the first bridge over the Rhone, in descending from Lyon. It was begun on the 4th of September, 1265, and finished in February, 1309: the water-way is contracted to about 1,800 feet, passing through nineteen large arches, and seven small ones, with great rapidity. As well as I could judge by the eye, the water is about fifteen inches higher, above, than below the bridge. The edifice is very well built, with semicircular arches, but it is very narrow, and in order to oppose more resistance to the action of floods, is not built in a straight line. In walking upon it we perceived how much we lost in this part of the Rhone, where the banks are comparatively low, by the depressed position of the eye in a boat; a rich and fertile plain shaded by mulberry trees, appeared between us and the hills, of which we had seen nothing from the water.
There are some whimsical particularities in the churches at Pont St. Esprit; but perhaps depending rather on the fancy of the architect than on the style of the time, and therefore not very interesting. The date is probably the fifteenth century. In one of these is a vault, said to have the property of preserving the human body, but like so many other things, most of the objects thus preserved were destroyed in the fury of the revolution, when the French populace gave full play to the desire to injure and destroy, which seems so natural in an ignorant multitude. One, the body of a female, was, as I was informed, still entire, and I went to see it; arms, legs, and mutilated trunks, were pulled out from a hole, one after another, to gratify my curiosity, and at last the desired object. It was exceedingly light, of a dingy buff colour, somewhat shrivelled, but in other respects very perfect.
We engaged a voiture from Pont St. Esprit to Orange, and travelled the whole way in a mizzling rain, which continued all the evening and the next morning. My companion finds the climate of the south of France much like that of Ireland, and I cannot contradict him; but I suppose that such summers are very rare.
Orange is a little city of about 8,000 inhabitants, but it is said to have had 15,000 under the government of its own princes. It was added in 1713, by the treaty of Utrecht, to the crown of France. The situation is at the foot of an insulated hill, round which a fine plain extends to a considerable distance; beyond are hills, mountains, rocks, and valleys, all of which are seen to great advantage from the summit of this eminence. The inns are in the suburbs, the high road passing on the outside of the town; and this is absolutely necessary, as the widest part of the widest street does not exceed twelve or thirteen feet, and few are more than nine or ten. Here we first saw an order which we have since met with in several other places, that no carts are permitted to enter the city. The inhabitants tell us, that the situation of the town is cold, and subject to violent blasts of wind from the Alps; but we observed pomegranates in full bloom in the hedges. The general aspect of the vegetation is very different from that of England and the north of France.
There are few places, even in Italy, which can vie with this part of France, in the number and beauty of Roman antiquities. At Orange, our first object was the celebrated Arch of Triumph, one of the most interesting in existence for the beauty of its proportions, as well as for the singularity of its disposition, which differs widely from those remaining at Rome; but it has never been even tolerably well published. There are holes in the architrave on the north side, by means of which the metal letters have been fixed, but the inscription itself is wanting, and the monument has baffled all attempts of the French antiquaries to determine its date, or the object of its erection. At Orange it is attributed to Marius, or rather to Domitius Ahenobarbus, under whom they suppose Marius to have served a campaign in Gaul: but the chief evidence of this is the name ‘Mario,’ sculptured on one of the shields among the trophies. There are many other names, similarly placed, which seem to be in the nominative case, as Udillus, Sacrovir, and it therefore seems probable, that those, whose case is not determined by the termination, should be in the nominative also, as Beve, Ratui, Varene, and this Mario, which has given rise to the opinion of the occasion of the building. The letters S. R. E. occur in several places. We have no good reason to believe that stone triumphal arches were in use before the time of the emperors, and the profusion of ornament on the mouldings announces a style of art posterior to the Augustan age. Another hypothesis gives it to Marius and Catulus, on their defeat of the Cimbri, somewhere in this neighbourhood; a third to Julius Cæsar, on his conquest of Marseille. The Baron de Bastie contends that it is of the time of Augustus; and Maffei, that it was constructed in the reign of Hadrian. The result is, that we know nothing at all about it.
In the Corinthian capitals, as executed by the Romans, the angles of the abacus are always cut off. Among the Greeks the acute point was, sometimes at least, preserved. The capitals of this arch are too much damaged to admit of absolute certainty, but I am pretty confident that the Greek manner was adopted. Again, the Attic base, among the Romans, has a deep scotia, and the fillet above it is nearly under the fillet of the apophysis; the Greeks used a wide and shallow scotia, and made the projection of the fillet nearly as great as that of the torus above.
The bases here are decidedly Greek, and the foliage of the capitals is also somewhat Greek in character. These circumstances have not before been noticed, and indeed it is only lately that we have become sufficiently acquainted with the remains of architecture in Greece, to be aware of the differences which distinguished the two styles; the finding them here is curious, and seems to point out some connexion between the building and the Greek colony of Marseille. The composition of this edifice is very good, and the architect has contrived to give it something of a pyramidal form, which suits admirably with its character, as a monumental building. The French architects complain of it as top-heavy, and compared with the Roman triumphal arches, the opening is small in proportion to the whole edifice; but the character is different. In the Roman, the arch itself is the principal object, and the architecture and sculpture merely adorn a chosen point in the course of a triumphal procession. Here it is a fine pyramidal mass, erected to commemorate some important event, in which the openings must be such as not to destroy the apparent firmness and solidity. Nothing could be taken away without injuring the effect, and if any thing could be added, it could only be some additional sculpture at the top, which probably once existed. The mouldings are overloaded with ornaments, and the corona is small and channelled, as if to indicate dentils; an abuse which I should not have supposed to exist prior to the time of Hadrian. The best external evidence we have, would perhaps, assign this arch, and two others at Carpentras and Cavaillon, to Domitius Ahenobarbus; but the proofs are very slight, and the internal evidence is strongly against so early a period.
This building was converted into a fortress in the thirteenth century, by Raymond de Baux, Prince of Orange, and he appears to have damaged it considerably, but he probably preserved it from total destruction. At present it is quite out of the town, and perfectly insulated.
Besides the arch, here is a large theatre, of which the scene wall, now standing, is about 300 feet long, and 100 feet high; or, more exactly, according to M. de Gasparin, ‘Histoire de la ville d’Orange,’ 336 feet in length, and 114 in height; the seats were in the slope of a hill, as in the Greek theatres. Nothing is known as to its date, and the workmanship is rude and gives no help; the lower part is occupied with shops, and part of the ruin is the town prison, but the building well deserves an accurate examination. The outside presents a range of arches, now mostly occupied by little shops, and ornamented with a sort of Doric pilaster and an entablature. Over this is a plain face of wall with holes in it, and some projecting stones, which suggest the idea of an advancing roof and colonnade in front of the present arches. Higher up is another range of arches, low and without pilasters: nevertheless a small capital is shown over each pier, and there is a second continued entablature about the same size as that below. In the wall above these, we have, first a row of blocks to receive the base of the posts of the velum, then a very simple cornice, of considerable projection, in which there are no perforations over the three blocks nearest to the angles of the building; over the six following blocks this cornice is perforated, but in the remainder there are no holes till we arrive at the same distance from the opposite end; higher up is a second range of blocks, all of which are perforated. The upper cornice has no perforations or channels, and it is probable that the posts escaped it by a slight inclination outwards, as it has but a small projection.
J. Hawksworth, Sculp.
OUTSIDE ELEVATION.
INSIDE ELEVATION.
PLAN.
THEATRE AT ORANGE.
London. Published by J & A Arch. Cornhill. March 1st. 1828.
The inside has been ornamented with columns and entablatures of white marble, of which very few vestiges remain. The whole back wall of the stage is clearly shown. It has one large doorway, corresponding with the central opening on the outside, and a very small one on each side of the larger, and no other opening; but there are two very whimsical recesses, of which the drawing will give you a better idea than any description; above, is a large niche in the centre, and on the sides, and on the return are recesses, supposed to have received mosaics, but I think, without sufficient reason. These return walls have no openings at any height. There are, in the back wall, some grooves issuing immediately above the second cornice, and below there are irregular recesses, which one may suppose made to receive beams, either of wood or stone, and it has thence been concluded that there was a roof over the stage. It is however, difficult to imagine a roof extending above 200 feet, and having a projection of 38 feet without any supports in front. The Sedili are very much injured, and greatly incumbered with houses, which were to have been removed had the reign of Napoleon continued.
They pretend at Orange to show the remains of a circus, and to point out the site of an amphitheatre, but the vestiges are somewhat obscure. The inhabitants must have been much devoted to amusements. No remains of any temple are visible, and hardly any fragments are scattered about, which could have belonged to other public buildings. We find, indeed, two or three pieces of mosaic pavement, but much inferior in number, size, and beauty, to those at Vienne.
I shall leave my Gothic till another opportunity, when I hope to be able to give you some idea of a very peculiar style of early architecture which prevailed in this country. After the rainy weather at Orange we had some very fine days. The wet gave me cold, and during the fine weather I made myself ill by exposing myself too much to the sun, while making my notes upon the theatre. By way of relaxation, I determined to go and see the great fair at Beaucaire, but on examining some voitures, which were proceeding in that direction, I found them so small that I could not sit upright. What a misfortune to be tall in a country where every body else is short! My head was too dizzy to write or draw, I therefore walked to Avignon, and found the heat much less oppressive when using moderate exercise, than when standing still. The road is shaded in some parts, but others are quite exposed to the sun. The near landscape consists of gentle hills, with meadows and cornlands, mixed with mulberry trees and vineyards, and, in the latter part of the way, with olive grounds. There is, generally, plenty of water, and one or two beautiful clear streams descend from the mountains, to join a little river which enters the Rhone above Avignon. The mulberry is of the white sort; the fruit small, sweet, and mawkish; something in taste like the yew-berry, but without its viscidity. In the back-ground, on the left, are rugged mountains, and one very high one (Mont Ventou), on the top of which was a little patch of snow. Avignon makes a fine appearance at a distance, exhibiting a great extent of walls and towers, but intending to return thither and survey it more at leisure, I hastened forward to the fair. I was told that the packet-boat would set off for Beaucaire between five and six in the morning. An old fellow came to call me at twenty minutes before five, but though I was on the quay by five, the barge was gone; I hired a little boat and followed. The Rhone is still beautiful, though a wider valley and lower hills render the scenery less striking than it is higher up. The language here is considerably different from the French, and is designated by the word patois, which seems a general term for all provincial dialects differing considerably from the language of the capital. My boatman told me that the canaille (query, who or where is this canaille) had killed his pèro, his mèra, and his frèro, meaning all the while to speak French, and not his own provincial tongue. In the verbs they usually pronounce all the letters, and mostly omit the pronouns; ‘avez du mao?’ said a little girl to me, when I accidentally had a handkerchief round my hand: and Beaucaire is with them a word of three syllables, all the vowels of the latter part of the word being distinctly pronounced. Even at Lyon, the e mute is often heard as a syllable, and they assure me here that the Parisians speak very bad French, and are hardly intelligible any where but in Paris.
Beaucaire is a small town seated at the foot of a rock, which is crowned by the ruins of an old castle. This is a very picturesque object, both in itself and in its situation. A small plain, shaded with avenues of trees, extends from the town and the rock to the Rhone. The streets seem to contain nothing but shops and warehouses, except a few inns and coffee-houses. Cloths were extended over them to keep out the sun, and as they are very narrow, not much wider than those of Orange, this object is easily accomplished. Square pieces of cloth, with the names and occupations of the traders, are hung upon ropes extended across the streets, but so close together, that in some parts, it is difficult to read any of them. The plain, from the foot of the castle rock to the Rhone, was filled with booths of all sorts and sizes. In one of these I found one of my old travelling companions from Dijon to Lyon, and his shop was so much cooler than my room in the town, under the covering of the streets, that I usually made it my resting place. The bad weather has injured the vines, and this has been extremely unfavourable to the fair, as the people of the country have no means of making purchases. Towards evening the amusements commence, and one of the earliest, which was an amusement to me, though a trade to him, was the exhibition of a quack named Charini. He assured us that he did not exercise his profession from any desire of obtaining money, for he had a clear rental of 25,000 livres, which put him quite above any wish of that sort, but for the love he bore to the good people of France, and the hope of future renown. He makes no profit of his medicines, but merely seeks to repay his expenses; a request, not only reasonable, but absolutely necessary; for he had already distributed in the course of this year, sixty thousand bottles at Montpellier, and ninety thousand at Marseille, each of which cost him thirty sous, and it would consume the fortune of a prince to support such an extended scale of beneficence. He rode about in a sort of sociable, drawn by four horses, with his preparations disposed before him, and was attended by eight musicians on horseback, a degree of style which I think you can hardly boast of in England.
This fair is esteemed one of the three greatest on the Mediterranean, and perhaps, the chief of the three, but in the present year it has fallen short. It is said to have been established by Raymond VI., count of Toulouse, but the most ancient act, still existing, is of Louis XI. in 1463. The master of the first bark which arrives, salutes the town of Beaucaire with a musket or pistol, and receives a sheep, offered with much solemnity, as a premium for his expedition.
The castle at Beaucaire was destroyed in 1632, but I cannot tell you when it was built. Raymond V., Count of Thoulouse, held here a splendid court in 1172, rendered remarkable by the whimsical contest of extravagance and profusion maintained there. Raymond himself set the example by giving 100,000 sous to Raymond d’Agoust, who immediately distributed them among ten thousand knights, then present at the court. Bertrand Rambault ploughed the court, and neighbourhood of the castle, with twelve pair of oxen, and sowed 100,000 sous in the furrows. Guillaume Grosmantel had the food for his own table, and for three hundred knights’ followers, dressed by the flame of wax candles. Raymond de Venou, adding brutality to extravagance, burnt thirty of his most beautiful horses. The struggle of ostentation was clumsily maintained, and the parvenus of modern times cannot be reproached with any absurdities which will bear a comparison with these.
A bridge of boats across the Rhone connects the little town of Tarrascon with the opposite one of Beaucaire, and two sous are paid for crossing it; when I reached the other end, it was with the greatest difficulty that I could get permission to go on shore to see the church, as a special pass was necessary on visiting, or returning from the fair. The church at Tarrascon offers some curious parts, but is by no means beautiful: the entrance is by a large, semicircularly headed arch, with abundance of mouldings, a few of which have Norman ornaments; and one is enriched with an inverted ovolo: above the entrance is a range of alternate columns and pilasters supporting an architrave. There are also some remains of a castle, where in 1449 a tournament was held by Louis III. almost as singular as the former court at Beaucaire.
The following English card, stuck up in the salle-à-manger at Orange, had directed us to the ‘hotel of Luxembourg, in the Esplanade,’ at Nismes:
“Mr. David Londes acquaints the gentlemen travels that he has remplaced Mrs. Londes widow, his sister-in-law, in the said hotel. He has the honour to acquaint the gentlemen travelling, that they might find chambers elegantly fitted, and that nothing has been omitted for the comfort of travellers. The hotel being moreover placed in the finest situation in the town. The chambers are newly suited, the stables and the coach-house are vast and commodious.
“Mr. David Londes entertains the hope, that he will fill entirely the desires of the gentlemen travellers, and that he will augment the renown which this hotel has always enjoyed. It is proach bath houses and flying coach office. The travellers will find there a magazine of silk stockings, and all sorts of cloths.” Do you think the French advertisements we sometimes meet with in England appear as ridiculous to a Frenchman? After indulging a laugh at the notice, we went to the inn, and were very well contented. The antiquities of Nismes are the most celebrated of all those in the south of France, and of these, to an architect, the Maison Carrée is the most interesting. It is a temple, with six columns in front, and eleven on the sides, which is according to the rules of Vitruvius, but the side spaces are walled up. Technically speaking then, it is a hexastyle pseudoperipteral temple of the Corinthian order. It is in very good preservation, and the spacing and proportions of the columns are singularly pleasing. The bases are Greek Attic, but with some additional mouldings, which diminish its beauty; they are very incorrectly given in Clerisseau’s Antiquités de France. Nothing else is in the Greek taste, and it is evident that no very minute attention has been given to attain a perfect agreement of form and dimension in the corresponding parts. The cornice is heavier, and more loaded with ornaments than that of the arch at Orange, and I imagine the building to be posterior. The date of the Maison Carrée, is supposed to be determined by an inscription restored by M. Seguier, by means of the remaining holes in the frieze. C. Cæsari Augusti F. Cos. L. Cæsari Augusti F. Cos. designatis principibus juventutis. It is therefore of the time of Augustus, and we must consequently push back the date of the arch to an earlier period, from internal evidence.
Two projecting stones, moulded, and perforated with a square opening, on the sides of the doorway, have been supposed to be intended to support an external temporary door; but one does not understand the object of such a door inclosing the inner one and all its ornaments; and as no similar instance can be produced, we must, I believe, be content to leave their purpose unexplained.
The fragment by the fountain, usually called the temple of Diana, must be of still later erection. The order is composite; the earliest ascertained example of which is, I believe, the arch of Titus, at Rome. A number of fragments are collected in it, which mostly announce the period of the decline of the art; but there is one which is completely Greek, and which probably belonged to some more ancient edifice. The principal part of this ruin is what once was a large vaulted room, perhaps a covered court; but most of the vaulting has disappeared, and its present beauty depends, not so much on its architecture, as on the beautiful colour of the stone, on the morsels of antiquity collected there, and which form a sort of museum, and on the dark green of the fig-trees which hang loosely about the walls, and give an air of freshness and coolness even in a hot summer’s day. There are three recesses at the farther end, and a dark covered passage on each side, of which I do not comprehend the object, but I know no reason to suppose it to have been a temple.
The situation of this ruin is very pleasant, in the midst of a public garden, close by a copious spring of delightful water, which supplies the town. This garden is the finest thing of the sort I have ever seen. The columns and balustrades which adorn the fountain, and the basins made for the reception of its waters, extend all through it, and there are abundance of stone seats, vases, and statues. The character of art is no where lost, but it is a beautiful character of art, and the more so, because all the parts are consistent, and there is no appearance of pretence or affectation. Every thing is part of one design; whereas, in England, where we have such ornaments, they are too detached, and seem to have dropt from the clouds, rather than to belong to the scene. Even at the Tuilleries the distribution is by no means sufficiently apparent, they want more architecture to support them. The trees here are of a good size, and uncut, principally the linden.
Comfort is said to be a winter idea. On leaving the gardens I had a good elucidation of what it means in a warm climate. A boy was seated on the stone bank which confines the water in these basons, under the shade of the thick trees, and smoking a cigar, while the stream was gushing out over his feet: he seemed most perfectly contented with his situation.
The amphitheatre is a great building, completely cleared out, so that it is seen to the utmost perfection, and the degree of ruin is such as to disclose the internal structure, and yet to exhibit all the external forms. The parts, as is generally the case in buildings of this sort, are but rudely finished. It was built, according to Menard (Histoire des Antiquités de la ville de Nismes) by the liberalities of the Emperor Antoninus Pius, consequently between the years 138 and 161.
One of the Roman gateways of the city is still standing, but it is not an antiquity of much consequence. A ruin called the Tour Magne stands on a hill just out of Nismes; its destination is unknown, but it probably was a magnificent sepulchre; the base appears to have been a polygon, perhaps an octagon,[[21]] but with unequal sides: the upper part was clearly octagonal, but smaller, and ornamented with pilasters; within, it is an irregular oval. At present there is little to be seen but a towering mass of rubble. I found the people at Nismes unwilling to speak about their late sufferings, and still in a state of extreme apprehension.
LETTER XI.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Geneva, 18th August, 1816.
We left Nismes on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, for the Pont du Gard. The latter part of the way has some picturesque points of view, adorned by the ruins of old castles perched on rugged rocks; but it is deficient in wood, and in water; though we passed two or three abundant springs, and at each spring a village. We crossed the valley of the Gardon, by means of a bridge built against the ancient aqueduct; and found close by it a very decent country inn, with civil and obliging people, where we slept.
The Pont du Gard is a portion of a Roman aqueduct, formed to convey the water of two springs in the neighbourhood of Uzès, to Nismes; it being imagined to be of a quality superior to any which could be found at a smaller distance. Perhaps also their elevation, by means of which the water could be distributed readily all over the town, contributed to the preference given to them. It is a noble work, consisting of two ranges of large arches, and a third of small ones over them; the latter forming the immediate support of the water-course; the utmost length is 870 feet; the height, from the water of the little stream below, 156 feet.
After spending about four hours of the next morning at the aqueduct, we set off for Beaucaire, passing below the convent of Montfrin, whose ruins are of great extent, and occupy a fine situation. The fair was concluded, the people were packing up their merchandise, and every thing was in confusion. We descended the river to Arles, but a thick fog obscured the prospect, which we had the less cause to regret, since in this part, the Rhone passes through a flat alluvial country, and has little beauty to boast of. Arles stands on a gentle eminence. It is surrounded by walls and towers, which, though useless for defence, form sometimes admirable features in the landscape. It is a dirty disagreeable place, containing however, Roman antiquities of considerable importance; but the bad weather may perhaps have influenced my opinion of the city. Arles, like many other French towns, lays claim to a very remote antiquity, being, according to Lalauziere, (Abrégé Chronologique de l’Histoire d’Arles), a capital city, and the seat of a royal court, in the year of Rome 260, when the Phocæan colony founded Marseille. In order, however, to conciliate the advocates for the antiquity of the latter city, the author is willing to acknowledge a prior establishment of Marseille, before that recorded in history, (B. C. 539,) by two Phocæan chiefs, differing from the others only in name; which does not seem to be much, since we know, that in topographical histories, heroes have the attributes of pantonomism and ubiquity. These, however, arrived in France only forty-six years before the others. I must confess, I think this a very stingy allowance of Arles’s antiquary, when he had many ages at his entire disposal. Arles having been founded, according to the ‘Sçavant Anibert,’ seven hundred years before Rome. Leaving these dreams, Arles appears to have been a city of considerable importance, when the Cæsar Constantius fixed his residence there in 292; and from this time to 312, or perhaps to 324, when Constantine ultimately defeated Licinius, it was considered the capital of the western part of the Roman world; and it is probably to this period that we are to refer its principal monuments. The younger Constantine was born there in 315; and in 316 the first Constantine celebrated there the decennial games with great magnificence. Pownal says, that it is not to the great Constantine that Arles is indebted, but to Constantine the Third, a usurper in the reign of Honorius, who was proclaimed in Britain in 407, and defeated and put to death in 411. This man indeed made Arles for a short period his capital, but his reign was too short and turbulent for the production of extensive monuments of architecture. The amphitheatre is a larger building than that of Nismes, but so encumbered with houses within and without, that it is impossible to obtain a good view of it, and we must collect the parts as we see them here and there, to form an opinion of the whole. We found one open space, where we could walk on the tops of eight or ten of the upper row of vaults. It is said at present to contain within its circuit a thousand houses, but I would not vouch for the truth of this estimate. Lalauziere attributes it to Tiberius Nero, quæstor under Julius Cæsar, forty-six years before Christ.
The remains of a theatre, where a frieze ornamented with foliage is found over an architrave enriched with triglyphs, announce a great decline of art, and such as we can hardly suppose to have taken place before Constantine. In the progress of the fine arts towards perfection, it seems probable that the capital would take the lead. At least, in modern Europe, the metropolis seems to afford the example to the provinces; and in architecture, as in dress in the time of Steele and Addison, we may sometimes find a fashion commencing in the country, when it has had its day, and is already exploded in the city. Will this take place at all times? I do not mean in every particular instance, but may it be considered as a general rule, applicable to all periods? I incline to the affirmative, and conclude, that the earliest corruptions, as well as the earliest improvements, would take place in the chief towns: yet I suspect, that even at Rome, we shall be unable to find a greater absurdity than this at Arles, before the expiration of the third century. In the court of a convent of Cordeliers, are two columns of variegated marble without flutes, supposed also to belong to the theatre. They are of the Corinthian order, and appear to stand in their original position. The abacus of the capitals contains ovolos and dentils, as if it were a reduction of the cornice; yet the foliage seems to have been in good taste, and well carved, but it is much injured; these and the bases are of white marble, and are supposed to have been taken from the temple of Diana, and placed at the principal door of the Scene. We find a number of fragments in the same spot, of similar material; portions of shafts of columns of four different sizes, and as many different cornices; and morsels of sculpture, which show themselves to have belonged to very fine statues. In another place there are two capitals, and a piece of an entablature, which, together with two granite shafts on a larger scale than the parts they now support, are of a purer style: these are said to have belonged to the ancient capitol, but a capitol was a fortress, and for its own construction required no columns, and hardly admitted them. These columns were perhaps, those of a temple within the capital, or are we to suppose that the whole became a sacred inclosure, as at Athens, and was ornamented with a propylæon. Whatever it was, the edifice is believed to have been begun by the second Constantine in 339, and finished by his brother Constantius about 353. The architecture contradicts the history, unless we suppose it to have been composed of the spoils of more ancient buildings; which is the more probable, since these granite columns are too large for their capitals. If it formed part of a tetrastyle front, about one-third of the frieze and architrave remain, and these have holes in them, which doubtless supported letters of metal, and from these holes, and on that supposition, M. Seguier, who decyphered the holes at Nismes, has restored the whole inscription; a degree of supersagacity, which rather weakens the credit of his former exploit. An obelisk, 47 feet high, adorns the principal square of Arles, but it is not well mounted. The pedestal has a fulsome dedication to Louis the Fourteenth, and another, as fulsome, to Napoleon; but the latter was covered with a board, on which was painted a third, to Louis the Eighteenth. The investigation of the antiquities of Arles would be a fine subject for a skilful antiquary, but the attention of the French is more directed to the accurate examination of what is not in their own country, than to what is. Even the political condition of Arles down to 1251, when the Republic submitted itself to the counts of Provence, would form a curious subject. We feel an interest in the history of a free and independent state, where the mind and character are able to display themselves; but with the loss of liberty, the events of a provincial city lose all attraction for a stranger; and in all these states, which were once free, but are now subject to arbitrary power, it is extremely instructive to trace both the causes and consequences of the loss of freedom.
Beside the buildings already mentioned, there are several Roman vaults, the remains of baths; but all the parts of these that are known, are occupied as cellars, and make no appearance above ground. There are also in the neighbourhood, the fragments of an aqueduct, which collected the water of different springs in the principality of Baux, and conducted them to Arles, but I did not visit them.
What strikes a stranger the most at Arles, is the immense number of sarcophagi, of which the best are now collected in an old church. The sculpture shews that some are of Pagan, and some of Christian origin; but all of the lower empire, and of poor workmanship. One of them exhibits the fragment of a temple, where the supports seem to have been alternately columns and caryatides; but it is much damaged, and I am not quite sure that there were any columns. At the other end of the same sarcophagus, is an ornament which resembles those in the portal of Nôtre Dame at Dijon. On others, one might fancy it possible to trace the origin, both of the pointed arch, and of what has been called the trefoil ornament. One of them is ornamented with a range of Corinthian columns, supporting alternately semicircular and triangular arches, if they may be called so. I think, however, that we ought to consider both as pediments, where the horizontal cornice has been omitted; especially as they are ornamented with dentils. Another has a little point hanging down in the middle of the arch, thus:
A little out of the town is the old Roman burying ground, (necropolis) where there are still numbers of sarcophagi, and of their coverings, scattered about, but without sculpture; the former are uniformly parallelopipedons, not smaller at the base than above. The latter are of the usual form, like a hipped roof of very small elevation, with an eighth part of a sphere at each angle, by way of finish; but I observed one, with a quarter of a sphere also at each side. Just beyond the necropolis, are the ruins of the convent of Minims, which at one time seems to have contained a large collection of these sarcophagi. The number must have been originally exceedingly great. Many have been carried away for domestic purposes, to hold wine, oil, or water; to serve for washing, or for the preparation of saltpetre.[[22]] Charles IX. and Catherine of Medici being at Arles, gave several to the duke of Savoy, and to the Prince of Lorraine. The French monarch and his mother attempted to carry eight columns of porphyry, and many beautiful sarcophagi, to Paris; but the boat foundered at Pont St. Esprit, and these spoils remain yet concealed in the Rhone. Cardinal Barberini obtained permission of the town of Arles, and transported many of the most beautiful into Italy. In 1635, the Marquis St. Chaumont received thirteen, as a present from the municipality; three others were given in 1640 to Alphonso du Plessis, cardinal Archbishop of Lyon. Various other princes and nobles have carried away sarcophagi from Arles; and as, where it was in their power, they doubtless selected the best, one may be justly surprised at the number, and interest of those that remain.
The church of this convent is evidently very ancient. It is attributed to St. Virgil, Archbishop of Arles, in the seventh century, and it has been ruined in the most picturesque manner.
Edwards. Sculp.
A. B. Clayton del. from Sketches by J. Woods.
Monument at St. Remi.
At some distance is another convent, of which the ruins appear yet more considerable; and both for form and situation, are of great value in the landscape.
Arles is in an unwholesome situation. It rained almost all the time we were there, with a suffocating south wind; I do not know whether it was owing to this, or to the bad cookery at the Lion d’Or, (the Hotel du Nord was full) that my health suffered, and I became very impatient to get away. This was attended with some difficulty, as there is no post road to the place. The soil is clayey, and the ways are almost impassable in wet weather; it is true there are rocky limestone hills at a little distance, but nobody thinks of mending the road with these materials. At last we procured a cart, and placing a mattress in it, proceeded at a foot pace to Tarrascon, and thence to St. Remi, where a fine air and wholesome food soon restored me. We do not find our hosts very complaisant or obliging in this part of France; they give us what they please, when they please, and how they please; and if you don’t like it, you may let it alone. However, since we cannot bend them to our ways, we endeavour to accommodate ourselves to theirs, and do not experience any essential inconvenience.
The monuments of St. Remi are about a mile from the modern town. They occupy a delightful situation at the foot of some fine limestone rocks of the principality of Baux, and the ground slopes from them into a fertile plain, which the eye entirely commands. They consist of two distinct objects, entirely unencumbered by any neighbouring building, and with a few trees about them which afford some degree of shade. The first is an arch, supposed to be of the same date with that of Orange, and according to some French antiquaries, erected on the same occasion; but there is no other authority for this than a supposed similarity in the architecture. All the upper part is gone, and we have neither capitals nor entablature. There has been but a single arch, and that remains nearly entire, with the lower part of two columns on each side, and their bases and pedestals. The bases are of the Roman, not of the Greek, Attic; and though in other respects there is some similarity to the arch at Orange, yet it is hardly enough to prove that they were productions of the same period. The archivolt in both is in one face, entirely filled with a sculpture of leaves and fruit; two gigantic figures occupy the space between the columns on each side, and there are slight indications of a victory on each spandril. These are all the figures that remain.
At the distance of a few paces is a monument with this inscription, SEXLMIVLIEICFPARENTIBVSSVEIS; but these names do not help us to the date. The style of architecture, I should think posterior to that of the arches. Millin thinks it later than the Antonines. It is composed of a square plinth elevated on two steps, which supports a pedestal filled with sculpture, representing equestrian combats; upon this rises a square edifice, with a three-quarter column at each angle, or perhaps rather more than three-fourths of the column are exposed. The architrave has hardly any projection before the face of the work, so that the columns stand out beyond it for half their diameter, and do not appear to contribute materially to its support. This peculiarity was perhaps the result of judgment, (good or bad) and not of ignorance or carelessness, as it certainly preserves the pyramidal shape of the monument, and the general form of the whole is very fine, though thus singularly obtained. Above this division of the edifice is a circular temple of six columns, with a conical, or perhaps rather funnel-shaped roof, and in it are two statues, one male and the other female, the parents to whom the monument was erected.
We were fortunate enough to meet with a cabriolet de poste at St. Remi, and found cause enough to congratulate ourselves, that our carriage was ‘suspendu.’ Places are sometimes found on our sea-shores, where a bed of large rounded stones is fixed with some degree of firmness in the sand. This was precisely the state of the first part of our road. After having passed the long bridge of the Durance, a vast destructive torrent, rather than a river, descending from the Alps, we travelled for some leagues through a plain, sprinkled, not shaded, with mulberry trees. The little bridges over the water-courses which intersect and fertilize this plain, were hardly wider than the carriage, and without any sort of fence; one of them, moreover, had a large hole in it, and this was not the only place in the way where it appeared impossible that we should escape an overturn, but we happily passed them all without any accident.
We were later in the day than we ought to have been at Vaucluse, for the rays of the sun had already entered the deep, and almost naked valley, in which the spring rises; and being reflected from the rocks, rendered the heat insupportable. The place in England most like Vaucluse, is Malham Cove; but the rock at Vaucluse is much higher, and the river, after issuing from its subterraneous reservoir, foams along its rocky channel in a deep valley: this however shortly opens, and it assumes a more tranquil character: a column has lately been erected in the middle of the spring, to the memory of Petrarch and Laura.
From Vaucluse we returned to the high road at St. Andiol, where Mr. Sharp found a place in the diligence to Marseille, and I remained in a dirty, miserable inn, in order to resume my journey next morning to Avignon.
I find from Millin that there were two or three Roman monuments within the district I have been rambling over, which I did not see; a triumphal arch at Carpentras, another at Cavaillon, and the Pont de Chamay, consisting of a bridge, with a fine arch at each end. I am sorry to leave the country without seeing them, but there are so many objects of antiquity in these provinces, both of Roman times, and of almost every succeeding age, that it would take many months to examine them all, and I must leave them to the chance of a future opportunity.
Having now communicated to you my observations on the Roman architecture in these provinces, I will endeavour to throw into something of a connected form, those remarks on the edifices of a later date, which I have hitherto refrained from particularizing, in order to be able to give you a general view of the subject. If I were to arrange all the ancient buildings which I have lately seen, according to their supposed date, they would be in the following order:
| Arch at Vienne | Perhaps before our era. | |
| Arch at Orange | ||
| Arch at St. Remi | In the first century. | |
| Maison Carrée at Nismes | ||
| Temple at Vienne | In the second century. | |
| Temple of the fountain at Nismes | ||
| Monument at St. Remi | ||
| Entablature and capitals at Arles, said to be part of the Capitol | In the third century. | |
| Columns supposed of the theatre at Arles. | ||
| Theatre at Arles | In the fourth century. | |
| Portico of Nôtre Dame de Dom at Avignon | In the sixth century. | |
| Church of Nôtre Dame de Dom | In the seventh century. | |
| Church at Orange | ||
| Cathedral at Arles | ||
| Some other small churches | ||
| Cathedral at Nismes | In the ninth century. | |
| Front of ditto | In the tenth century. | |
| Cathedral at Valence | In the eleventh century. | |
| Porch of the church of Tarrascon | ||
| Porch of the church of St. Trophime at Arles |
These dates startle you, but if we still have many Roman buildings remaining, why should we not find some of later dates? Europe was in so disturbed a state during the period immediately following the fall of the Roman power, that we do not readily conceive that the means, or the will, should have been found, of erecting any considerable buildings; but from 539 to 585, after its submission to the kings of France, who made of Arles a sort of capital; and during the whole of the seventh century, and beginning of the eighth, Provence seems to have enjoyed a degree of tranquillity quite sufficient to account for the erection of public buildings of some magnificence; and their intercourse with Greece and Italy might have supplied artists. In 876, Arles became the capital of a powerful kingdom, and if the ambition of its sovereigns drew them away from their own subjects, the Counts of Provence, who were rich, powerful, superstitious, and nearly independent, may be well supposed capable of adorning their country with churches and monasteries. In short, from 539 to 736, and again from 879 to 1131, history offers no objection to the idea that magnificent edifices may have been raised in this country. The twelfth century was an age of republics, but of very turbulent ones.
I have already described the remains of Roman architecture; I will now particularize the others, in the supposed order of dates. The porch of the church of Nôtre Dame de Dom, is said by some antiquaries to be prior to the church; while others maintain, that the body of the building is also of the same early date; there is an upright joint in the masonry, about 15 inches from the main edifice, which appears to me to separate the erections of two different epochs. It seems quite the general opinion, but not resting on sufficient authority, that this porch was part of a Roman temple dedicated to Hercules. It is not in itself a complete edifice, but forms three sides of a small quadrangular building, with a Corinthian column at each of the two angles of the front, and an arch between them. The columns are set on pedestals, but the pilasters of the arch pass between them to the ground, as is usually the case in the Roman triumphal arches; so far the whole is correct. Above the columns there is merely an architrave, whose upper moulding is very large and solid. It is even finely profiled as a termination, but would appear rather too massive, if it were surmounted by a frieze and cornice; I will not assert that this was not the case, though there are now no vestiges of either: the present termination being a plain gable end to the roof. Though a little stiff and dry, both the ornaments, and their disposition, are decidedly Roman. The inner doorway, which is in the wall of the church tower, is nearly a repetition of the composition of the entrance to the porch, but instead of a pilaster, there is a little column under the impost of the arch, which is not brought down so low as the larger column, and the impost is an entire entablature. The columns may still be called Corinthian, but the volutes are little more than curled leaves, and the caulicoles have entirely disappeared. Instead of the bold and masculine character of the outer architrave, we find a small detached rectangular block above the capital, supporting a compressed cornice; and a raking cornice, with two rows of modillions, forms a very acute pediment. From the porch we enter into the vestibule: this is square below, octangular above, and is finished, I believe, by a hemispherical dome, which has eight ribs springing on the faces of the octagon, and not from the angles. It is in the tower, the whole lower part of which is likewise attributed to the Romans, but from the character of the architecture, it appears that the inner doorway, this vestibule, the nave, and the lantern at the end, are all of the same date, and though much disturbed by subsequent alterations, they offer the best specimen I have seen of cavern-like Gothic. Here is a new term for you, but it is also a new style of architecture, and one which seems nearly peculiar to the south of France. It is principally characterized by the continued vaulting of the roof, generally pointed, but without groins, and by the absence of windows in the sides of the nave, or if any, they were very small. There is no proper transept, but sometimes there are approaches to one; altogether it has very much the appearance of a cavern. In the present instance, four semi-circular arches open under the vaulting of the nave; the fifth division is not vaulted, but four advancing arches on each side contract it to a square, which is surmounted by an octagonal lantern with a dome; there have been eight windows in this drum, but seven are now filled up, and windows have been opened in the nave. There is also a window on each side below the lantern, which perhaps existed in the original work. The choir, I suspect to be somewhat later. In the fourteenth century all the arches on the south side seem to have been altered to the style of that age, the semicircular arches having been taken out, and pointed ones introduced; side chapels of greater extent were also then added, in one of which is a Gothic tomb of John XXII., of excellent design, but poor workmanship. Another, called the chapel of the popes, is also attributed to the fourteenth century, and corresponds in several particulars with the church of St. Nizier at Lyon, which is of the same period. The bases are all at the same elevation, but the shafts run up through the capitals, and are lost among the mouldings of the ribs. The roof of the earlier part of the building is covered with stone slabs, which I believe rest on the vaulting without the intervention of any wood-work. There is a little ridge ornament of intersecting ribs of stone, which does not seem to be of equal antiquity.
The next subject is the church at Orange. The arch which forms the western doorway here, is so much like the Roman work of the theatre, that it might almost be supposed to be of the same age. The church itself is of very high antiquity, and of a style of architecture very similar to that of Nôtre Dame de Dom; it is vaulted with a continued arch, slightly pointed, but without groins; there are no side aisles, but on each side are four chapels, with semicircular arches; the windows are small also, with semicircular heads, which enter into the vaulting of the nave, and are not perhaps as old as the building. At the end of the church is an apsis. I believe this is a semicircular niche, nearly as high as the nave, and like that with a pointed arch, but modern ornaments hide its form; and in the back of it there is a single lancet window. This I write from memory, as I neglected to note it on the spot; at any rate I should doubt of its being part of the original construction; it is rare to find this ancient apsis existing, as it has usually been pulled down to make room for a more spacious choir.
The nave of the cathedral at Arles, dedicated to St. Trophimus, is said to have been built by St. Virgil, and consecrated on the 17th May, 626. I am inclined to believe that we now see the original building. The vaulting is very obtusely pointed without groins. This church has aisles and no side chapels, but these aisles are vaulted only in a quarter of a circle, which forms a counterpoise to the thrust of the great arch of the nave; the openings into the side aisles are also very obtusely pointed. The windows are modern, and I suspect that no window was intended in the nave, except a small circular one over the principal entrance; how the choir was originally finished, I have not sufficient evidence to decide, but it is most likely that the building terminated in an apsis, as in the ancient churches of Rome, with the altar in front, and an inclosure for the choir before the altar.
Although in all the churches of this style, windows posterior to the date of the building have been opened into the nave, yet they almost always feel close, and have a disagreeable smell; this was very strongly the case at Arles, and perhaps contributed to my illness there. The bones of St. Trophimus were brought here in 1152, and it is not improbable that the porch was added on this occasion. It is very magnificent, consisting of a large and rich semicircular arch, with multiplied mouldings, supported on slender columns, and the whole adorned with a profusion of statues. Although of a style which terminated with the twelfth century, it is evidently an adjunct to the original building, but one to which it would be I believe, impossible to find a parallel. It is difficult to explain how it happens, that such a contradiction to good sense, as supporting a great arch upon little columns, can produce a pleasing effect, yet I must acknowledge that this porch is not only singular, but very beautiful. The porch at Tarrascon, already mentioned, was somewhat similar to this, but greatly inferior, and it has been much damaged during the Revolution, while that of Arles remains perfect.
The cathedral at Nismes has a simple nave, with groined and pointed arches and chapels, with semicircular arches on the sides. The west front bears evident traces of the Roman style of design; it has a pediment, and a cornice supported by modillions, with roses in the intervals, both on the upright face and on the soffite. Under the cornice is a continued frieze ornamented with a series of figures from the scripture history. This front has suffered much by repeated alterations; the part above described is certainly ancient, but lower down, the original form is become very obscure: it seems to have been a continued wall, ornamented with very slender shafts supporting small semicircular arches. The upper part of the western tower, for there is at present only one, is of the fifteenth century; the lower part is considerably more ancient. There is a gloomy passage behind the choir, and a ladies chapel, which is of later date. The church at St. Remi also partakes of this cavern style, and many of the village churches which I could not stop to examine seem to exhibit it, and are perhaps of the same early date.
The church at Valence is a very remarkable example, which must rather be classed with what is called Norman architecture, than with the edifices above described. Yet it must be confessed, that if it resemble the ancient buildings of our own country, in so many particulars as to be comprehended in the same term, it yet differs in others so much as to present an appearance by no means exactly similar. The ornaments in particular are all Roman; the only attempt at novelty in the earlier buildings of the middle ages, in the south of France, consisting in placing some of them topsy-turvy. The shape is a Latin cross, of which the foot is remarkably long, and the head short. The vaulting of the nave is waggon-headed, that of the side aisles is groined; all the vaults and arches are semicircular. The capitals are all nearly alike, and are only a step farther from the Corinthian than those of the inner archway of the church of Nôtre Dame de Dom. It is amusing to follow the steps of this degradation of the Roman architecture from one building to another; and here, though very much altered, there is still much more of the original form than we find in England, or in the north of France. The piers consist of four half columns of very slender proportions, united to a square pillar; and these half columns rise in one height, without any intermediate bands, from the small plinth on which they stand, to the underside of the vaulting. The arches of the side aisles rise nearly to the springing of the vault of the nave. The intersection of the nave and transept is surmounted with a dome, and the chevet finishes in a niche-head or semi-dome; it is earlier than any thing I know in the eleventh century, but the existence of a transept makes me unwilling to suppose its erection prior to the year 1000. The lower part of the tower is perhaps older; the upper is certainly more recent than the body of the church; yet it is still a sort of Norman, but with some Gothic ornaments, which do not seem to be additions. As the Norman, or something very like it, appears to have been the architecture of Charlemagne, it is possible that the cathedral at Valence is of the eighth century; but I find that I have freed myself from all those shackles about dates, which I had imbibed in England and strengthened at Paris; and now ramble through five or six centuries with very little light to guide me.
The church at Vienne which I have already described, is the last which retains any trace of this cavern-like style, and that rather in some of the accessories than in any of the principal parts. There we meet with something of Norman details, and something of a degraded Roman. The Norman may perhaps itself be called a degraded Roman, but the degradation has not always taken place exactly in the same manner. It is curious enough that in the latter imitations of Roman, they should frequently have reversed the ornaments, putting the eggs and darts, for instance, the wrong side uppermost, while at the expiration of the Gothic in the sixteenth century, we may sometimes find the trefoil ornament reversed in the same manner.
LETTER XII.
SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Geneva, 27th August, 1816.
In my last I ran through the architecture of the middle ages in the south of France, and have now only a few observations to add of a more miscellaneous nature. The church of Nôtre Dame de Dom is seated on a rock which rises immediately from the Rhone, above the rest of the town, to the height of about 120 feet: all the remainder of the country to the east of the river, is a plain, bounded at a moderate distance by rugged hills, and beyond these by Mont Ventou, a bulky mountain, estimated to rise 6,000 feet above the Mediterranean. On the other side of the river, rocky hills come down to the water’s edge, crowned in several places with picturesque ruins. In the middle of the Rhone is a large island shaded with trees; and extending half way across the nearest branch of the stream, are the ruins of the ancient bridge of St. Benezet; the first perhaps of any consequence built by the nations of modern Europe. It was begun in 1177, during the most flourishing period of Avignon, when the government of that city was republican. Notwithstanding the expense of the erection, we are told that in 1179, the magistrates declared the inhabitants free from all imposts on that account. The bridge consisted of twenty-two arches, and was 1,200 paces in length; but like all ancient bridges, very narrow, the road-way not exceeding nine feet in width. Each arch is composed of four ribs, or series of vault stones, not bonded together. Like the Pont St. Esprit, it forms an elbow towards the current. On the first pier of the bridge is a chapel for the passengers to pay their devotions. This custom was probably derived from times when there was only a dangerous ferry, and travellers performed an act of piety, that they might not die unprepared. The old chapel was entered by a descending flight of steps, but as this was found inconvenient, a vault was inserted at half the height, and a new chapel built at the top of the old one; the first has a semicircular apsis with little columns, much like the Corinthian; the other is polygonal.
When Louis XIV. visited Avignon, the inhabitants, to do him honour, spread the whole of the bridge with velvet, and covered it with a canopy of silk. They did it, perhaps, as sacrifices are performed to evil deities, in order to avert the mischief they may occasion: but Louis, struck with this appearance of wealth and prosperity, in a town which did not belong to him, and not to be propitiated by their hospitality, destroyed the bridge, surrounded the place with custom-houses, ruined its trade, and thus drove the manufacturers to other places; and the city, which once boasted a population of eighty thousand souls, is now reduced to less than twenty thousand.
Avignon was a republic from 1134 to 1251. The popes came here (Clement V.) in 1309, and abandoned it in 1376. Two sham popes were here till 1403, from which time Avignon was governed by a vice-legate, deputed by the popes, till the revolution, when it was finally taken possession of by the French, and I suppose stands no chance of being restored. Nor is it desirable that it should, since being inclosed in France, it must always be in effect, subject to the government of that country. There is a museum and a public library; and I visited the house of one gentleman in the place, who has a fine collection of casts, and some pictures; but I did not find any thing very interesting.
Close by the church of Nôtre Dame de Dom are remains of the palace. It is said to have existed before the arrival of the popes, but if so, it was greatly enlarged and embellished by them. It is, or rather it has been, for great part is now in ruins, an immense, irregular pile of building, without the least pretension to beauty: one part is now become the prison of the city; another is converted into barracks; but the greater part has long ceased to be of any use. Like so many other old buildings in France, it is deeply stained with blood: the walls of the hall are still shewn where the antipope Benedict XIII. blew up his guests, and one of the towers was the scene of a still more horrible enormity, perpetrated during the bloody era of the revolution, from which it has received the name of the Tower of Massacre. No less than sixty-five persons of both sexes, accused of being aristocrats, were crowded into a little room in the upper part of it, and the ruling party amused themselves with shooting from the door amongst the prisoners. When, in this manner, all of them had been more or less disabled, the ruffians entered the room, and having made a hole in the vaulting which supported the floor, precipitated the miserable victims one by one to the bottom of the tower, a height of 80 or 100 feet; for the intermediate floors, if ever there were any, had all been destroyed. The cries of the wretched sufferers were still heard, and a quantity of quick lime was thrown down, at once to stifle them, and to destroy the bodies. The gratuitous excesses of this period make one shudder for human nature. History presents nothing to equal them; we find examples of individuals, indeed, whose highest enjoyment seems to have arisen from the sufferings of others; but here the mass of the population, a population professing itself christian, and boasting even of its high civilization, appear to have had no greater delight than to make their fellow creatures suffer; and late events shew this most execrable spirit still to exist in the south of France. The chapel of this place remains entire; it is a large, and even handsome room, of seven bays with two windows at each end.
I left Avignon on the evening of the 9th of August for Valence, where there is a very curious church, which I have already described. Close by it is a monument, which Millin says would merit an engraving; it did not strike me as particularly interesting, but the weather was so cold as to impede my drawing; an inconvenience I certainly did not expect in this latitude, at this time of year. On the 11th I again resumed my place in a diligence for Grenoble. The morning was cold, but fine, with clouds hanging over the distant mountains. The first striking object was Romans; situated in the valley of the Isere, wild and varied, but without any mixture of the terrible; in the midst of which the city occupies a charming situation. Soon after, we approach the mountains, high, broken, and savage. These and the river were on our right; on the left were high wooded hills, sometimes rocky, but not rising into mountains; and our route lay through a delightful valley well wooded, with vines on high trellises, and corn underneath them, or rather stubble, for little corn remained on the ground. Where there were no vines, we found mulberry-trees, and there is very little ground not shaded in one way or the other. Besides these, the valley produces abundance of noble walnut trees, and the woods, which are spread over the hills, contain a considerable quantity of fine timber. As for the shape of the mountains, those about Settle may give you some notion of them, only they are I suppose three times as high, and more steep and abrupt, especially about the entrance of the valley of Grenoble. The Isere there, makes a sudden bend, and the road turning with it, conducts us between two magnificent rocky masses, with a rich and fertile valley of about a mile wide between them. Grenoble stands at the edge of a plain which looks as if it had been a lake, watered by the Isere and the Drac. The former is still a considerable river, but thick and muddy. In walking about Grenoble, wherever the street has length enough in a line nearly straight to give any opening, one is sure to see a mountain or a precipice, with clouds hanging about it, or with snow lying in its hollows. The difference of vegetation, between this neighbourhood and Provence is very striking; the plants are much more like those of England, and such as I had left in seed at Nismes are here still in flower. I find again cherries and strawberries, and young peas; none of which I had seen since leaving Lyon. No figs; and though there are green-gages in the market, they are not ripe, while at Avignon they are almost over.
On the morning of the 13th I set off with a guide to the Grande Chartreuse, going by the longer and more practicable route, and proposing to return by the shorter. We passed fine cliffs and deep ravines, such as you would take a long ride to see in England; but one of the great charms of the scene arises from the noble chesnut and walnut trees which shade the sloping parts. Even to the mountain tops there is plenty of wood, and firs are seen crowning the most elevated precipices. We crossed what is called in Cumberland a hawse, but instead of finding barren moors at top, as would be the case there, we meet with farm-houses, meadows, woods, trees, hedges, and even corn-fields; the wheat, however, was far from ripe, and the oats were quite green. From the village of St. Laurent our course lies by a little mountain stream, called the Gaiers Mort. While the horses rested, I walked forward alone, coasting the stream, sometimes down on the banks, sometimes two or three hundred feet above them, and seeming to be rather in a rift in the mountain than in a valley. This opening is entered by a passage, where there is just room for the road and the river, between perpendicular rocks. An arch built across the road, marks the limit of the ancient domain of the Chartreuse. If you can figure to yourself Helkswood, at Ingleton, immensely magnified, you will have no bad idea of this pass. Similar scenery, sometimes with a little more space, sometimes with less, and varied by precipices more or less tremendously magnificent, accompanies us till nearly the end of our journey. The road descends sometimes almost to the bottom; at others, carries us on the edge of slopes, higher and steeper than the steep part of Boxhill, but always covered with wood; and sometimes we seem to look down quite perpendicularly on the noisy torrent below. At one point, a sudden turn in the road, where we cross the stream by a bridge, and begin to ascend the opposite side of the valley, presents a particularly fine assemblage of these objects. At last the scene opens, and we behold meadows, and a number of men employed in mowing them, and soon after, the Grande Chartreuse itself, an enormous, ugly pile of building, standing on the slope of a mountain, a situation unavoidable where there is no level ground. I walked round the lengthened corridors, and examined the apartments of the monks; each of which contains a sitting-room and bed-room, a light closet, places for wood, &c., and a little garden; but after the neglect of twenty-five years, every thing looks forlorn and desolate. Five old men are returned, more are expected, but the establishment is at present very poor; they hope however to receive a grant of the woods immediately about them, and to obtain some revenue from the sale of charcoal, and from that of planks, all of which must be sent on the backs of mules to find a market in the lower country.
I walked up among the woods, which are of fir and beech, but mostly of the first, to the chapel of St. Bruno, and returned to a supper on soupe maigre, an omelet, and bread and cheese. I had taken the precaution to provide a substantial meat pie at Grenoble, aware that the cheer here was not very good, but my guide had lost it, together with his own great coat, by the way. I then retired to sleep on a bag of straw between two brown blankets, for all the sheets belonging to the establishment were dirty; and the whole population being employed about the hay, there was no possibility of washing them. It appears that the climate of the Grande Chartreuse has not summer enough to ripen corn. The convent is every where surrounded by mountains and precipices. Opposite to it is a steep slope covered with wood to an immense height; in the immediate neighbourhood are meadows and pastures, rising on hills which are pretty steep, but not rocky. Indeed the soil must be good, for the vegetation is vigorous. Behind are steep woods; and above these, lofty precipices form the summit of the Granson, on which there remained a small portion of the last winter’s snow.
The next morning I returned to Grenoble, among scenery of the same character. We are so used to the barrenness of the upper parts of our own mountains, that an Englishman is astonished to observe so much good land in such elevated situations. From the vegetable productions I might very well have imagined myself in Surrey, if the occasional appearance of Pyrola secunda, Saxifraga rotundifolia, and a few other Alpine plants had not disturbed the reverie. On a more extensive view indeed the number of fir trees, mixed with the beech, gave a different character to the landscape; and towards the summit the woods were almost all of fir, with only scrubby beeches interspersed, and patches of snow were still lying among them. My guide made me observe some cattle near the summit. Here, as in other parts of France, these always have attendants to take care that they do not trespass, and to drive them home at night; even if there were hedges or other inclosures, which there are not, they could not be left out at night on account of the wolves. During winter, a dog left at night in any court or open place, among these mountains, is almost certainly destroyed before morning. The latter part of the journey I performed on foot, and was highly gratified by my walk.
The view from the descent into the vale of Grenoble is extremely fine, extending over the rich and fertile plain beneath; the cultivated hills rising around it, the woody mountains, occupying a still wider circuit, and the rocky Alps towering above all, and still retaining, and some of them always retaining, great beds of snow. It was indeed a magnificent perspective, yet not without some alloy; for the dense clouds and thick vapour very much obscured the prospect. I only saw at intervals, sometimes one, sometimes another part of the scene, and was led to imagine what the glorious whole would be in more favourable weather. The plain and the lower hills were always visible, sometimes a black mass of rocks would rise above the clouds, unconnected with any other earthly object; sometimes nothing was to be seen of a mountain but an illumined patch of snow shining through the mist. When I reached the bottom, I began to feel the weather very hot, and found they had been complaining much at Grenoble of the heat for the last two days.
Grenoble contains nothing interesting in point of architecture, but the cathedral claims our attention in another way, by preserving the tomb of Bayard, the chevalier “sans peur, et sans reproche,” a long tasteless Latin inscription records the fact; it begins,
Hic lapis superbit tumulo non titulo,
Ubi sepultus Heros maximus suo ipsemet
Sepulchro monumentum.
One would have wished something of a very different character.
It was near one o’clock on Thursday, the 15th of August, before the diligence left Grenoble. The road winds along the charming valley of Gresivanda, presenting the richest views over its varied scenery. It was dark before we reached the frontiers of Savoy, and as I arrived at Chamberi at midnight, and left it at three o’clock the next morning, in a heavy rain, I shall not attempt a description. We reached Geneva about seven yesterday evening, but I postpone any account of this city, till I have seen a little more of it, and shall occupy the remaining part of my letter in answering yours. You ask me if I can really see nothing but buildings and mountains in France, or if I have at any time met with such phenomena as men and women. I will reply as well as I can to the spirit of this question; there are some observations on the French character which force themselves on the attention of the traveller, some of which, notwithstanding your sneer, I have already noticed. Whether there exist any attachment to the present dynasty is a question which I must answer in the negative. The French are willing to suffer the Bourbons, because they wish for peace, and there seems to be something of affection springing up towards the present king, which does not in the least extend itself to the other members of the reigning family. There is a widely diffused, and pretty generally received opinion of the moderation and good sense of the former, but the others are nowhere well spoken of. You will have seen in the French papers, accounts of the enthusiasm with which the Duke and Duchess of Angoulême were received on their late tour. I was not present at any place where they were, but I can form a tolerably correct idea of what I have not seen, from what I have. Lest however, you should be inclined to give more credit to the public journals than they deserve, I will give you a specimen of their courage in publishing the acceptable, rather than the true. It was stated in the Moniteur, while I was at Paris, that three hundred workmen were employed in the church of the Madelaine; I went there and found about twenty, who could not do much, as they were working without any plan, and it had not been decided whether the design of the Temple of Glory, adopted by Napoleon, should be continued, or some other preferred. The same paper asserted, that five hundred men were employed at St. Geneviève. My friend, Mr. Sharp, was drawing there every day; and as he saw nobody, he applied to the architect, who resides on the spot, to know where they were, but he also was entirely ignorant of their existence: a week after this, about a dozen men were set to work to take down the sculpture of the pediment, and to erase the inscription, Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante.[[23]] After this you will not wonder if I interpret the glowing accounts of the rejoicings in the south of France, by what I observed at Arles, where vive le roi was given out from the Hotel de Ville from time to time, and repeated by the children in the crowd, who were pleased with the fireworks. It is the municipal government which says all and does all on these occasions, the people are nothing. With respect to the transactions at Nismes, concerning which you think I must have collected many particulars, I am afraid that I can give you very little satisfaction. It seems to me that the Catholics were guilty of these excesses against the Protestants from superstition, and that they endeavoured to cover themselves by the pretence of zeal for the king; that the provincial government weakly lent itself to this feeling, of which indeed the members probably participated; and that the government of France, or at least their principal agent, the Duke of Angoulême, was unwilling to repress too strongly, a spirit, which whether considered in a religious or political point of view, his own prejudices taught him to consider as resting on a meritorious foundation, though carried to a culpable excess. At the same time some political circumstances had much inflamed this religious animosity, all of which however imply the previous existence of such a sentiment. The Protestants of Nismes form a body, whose consequence and respectability is proportionally much greater than their numbers. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if under a government which made no distinctions, they should occupy a larger share of public situations, than in the eyes of the Catholics they were entitled to do. On the return of the king, therefore, the Catholics united to drive them out, and irritated by what appeared to them an act of injustice, the Protestants took the first opportunity to retaliate. Thus politics became an important part of the quarrel, but religion remains the ground-work. The prisons at Nismes are filled with Protestants, who are confined merely on a general charge of attachment to Napoleon, and in some instances, a renunciation of religion has been sufficient immediately to procure the prisoner his liberty. Now I have no authority to cite for all this; it is merely intelligence picked up on the spot, in conversation with Catholics and Protestants, and connected together as well as I could. I contend however, that it is better deserving of credit than any thing issuing from the French authorities, who are in fact some of the parties accused; better than the letter of the Duke of Wellington, who probably gave himself no trouble to investigate the circumstances, but adopted with little hesitation what those authorities were pleased to communicate. The letter of the minister, Olivia, I was not able to clear up while I was there, he having left the place, but I have since been informed by an Englishman, whom I casually met with, that he talked on the subject with Olivia himself, and that this minister expressly disclaimed the letter as it appeared in the English papers: he had written a letter to the secretary of the committee, and that he might not be subject to any imputation for so doing, he had first sent it to the Duke of Richelieu. The letter published contained some of his expressions and phrases, but the substance was materially altered.
Generally speaking, the prisons of the south of France are filled with prisoners for political offences, or rather for political opinions, and at Grenoble, the criminal tribunal is declared permanent. Yet, if the French are not attached to the present government, it does not appear that they have, in general, any aversion to it. They do not love Napoleon, but their dislike is deeply mixed with regret for the splendour and glory of his reign. They do not trouble their heads about young Napoleon, yet if he should prove a man of any talents, and the Bourbons should take any measures to excite alarm concerning the national property, it is probably to him they would look, because there is no other, whose claim would be readily admitted by the party opposed to the present system. With the exception of some men of talents, who wish to open that career of honourable ambition, which a popular government admits more than any other, I do not think they have any inclination for a second experiment of a republic. I hope Louis XVIII. will live eight or ten years longer at least, for I think it would give a chance, I fear the only chance, the French have for a constitution, round which they will generally rally against either anarchy or despotism. If the feeling is once[[24]] fully called forth, they will soon improve their government; it may be an indifferent constitution at present, but such a union will gradually make it a good one, and I think it would be no small advantage to our own, to have liberty well understood and acted upon in a great neighbouring state. We submit to many inconveniences, and many abuses, because we fancy them inseparable from what we love and admire; if France were free, the difference of her prejudices and manners would show us the road in many instances, as we show it to her in others.
LETTER XIII.
GENEVA.
Lausanne, 8th September, 1816.
Geneva was very full, and the difficulty of finding a lodging drove me to a little inn, called the Hotel des Trois Maures, where I had a good chamber, and nothing else good. The first, to me, was an important advantage, as I wanted to revise the sketches and memoranda of the south of France, before the subject had faded from my recollection. In fact, I wished to disburthen my mind entirely, and transfer it to paper; which was a great relief, for I felt a continual anxiety lest any thing should escape me after having once been observed. On the 17th of August I walked to Cologni, where our friend, Mr. W., has taken up his abode; he has a beautiful spot; his grounds command, on one side, the Lake of Geneva and the distant range of Jura; on the other, a rich valley opens towards the Môle, a fine conical mountain, rising 4,800 feet above the lake; the Brezon, with its ragged summit crowning the hanging woods which creep up its sides; and beyond all, the brilliant summit of Mont Blanc.
A few days after, I rambled over the little Saleve. The greater Saleve is a limestone hill, with one precipitous face, very much, in character, like some of the limestone scars near Kendal. It is about 1,800 feet above the lake. The little Saleve is perhaps, 400 or 500 feet lower. It presents the most magnificent views over the Lake of Geneva, the Pays de Vaud, and of the range of Jura; and in the opposite direction, of the valley of the Arve, and of the mountains between that and the lake, and of the district of Chablais, famous for its wine. To the right of Chablais appeared the rugged rock D’Enfer, streaked with snow, the point of Agredon, the glaciers of the Siege Vert; and on the south, the Brezon and a long range of mountains, extending towards the Lake of Annecy. Mont Blanc only shone now and then from his throne of clouds; and even of Mont Buet I had only a transitory glimpse.
Another excursion was to Ferney, in order to see the chateau of Voltaire. The French government have insisted on retaining this village, as it is said, because it was the residence of the witty philosopher. The situation is fine, but it commands no view of the lake. The building is composed, to use the French terminology, of three pavillons and two corps de logis; the extent of the front may, perhaps, be about eighty feet. The bed-chamber, as I was told on the spot, remains just as it was in Voltaire’s lifetime; the same bed, the same furniture, the same prints, with the addition of one only, representing his monument; but I was assured at Geneva that other alterations had taken place. In the dining-room is a monumental stone, in a wooden frame, with this inscription: “Au chantre du premier des Bourbons, et au Fondateur de Ferney.” A wooden case, in the form of a pyramid, is put over the stone in order to preserve it, and in this a small hole has been made through which you are to peep. The whole has much the appearance of a showman’s box. The stone which contained the inscription on the church, “Deo Voltaire,” was taken down at the time of the revolution; the present possessor wished to restore it, but the curé opposes it. Returning from Ferney, I made a diversion towards the lake, by a road which runs on a sort of terrace, with the Alps on the right hand and Jura on the left; and afterwards descended through a pleasant wood, adorned with the showy flowers of Dianthus superbus, and the flowerless bushes of the Rosa pumila, to the edge of the water.
Geneva itself is a singular city, or at least two of the principal streets offer an arrangement, which is I believe, perfectly unique; the roofs of the houses project ten or twelve feet beyond the walls, and are supported across the foot ways by lofty posts. You thus walk in an open gallery, whose height is nearly that of the whole house.
In the Journal de Genève, for 1789 and 1790, are some researches into the history of the church of St. Peter, the cathedral of Geneva, by M. Sennebier, who quotes Besson, “Mémoires sur le Diocese de Genève,” as saying that Frederic II. was consecrated here in 1025; but as the emperor Frederic II. died in 1250, there must be some mistake. Even Frederic I. was only born in 1121. In 1025 Geneva probably belonged to the kingdom of Arles, of which Rodolph III. (faineant) was then sovereign.
In 1206 we find an order for the appropriation of the revenues of vacant benefices to the building of St. Pierre, till the work shall be finished; an expression which seems to imply that it was then in a state of some forwardness. In 1219 we have complaints against the then bishop, for neglecting to complete the edifice, or perhaps, only to repair it: in 1300 the first year’s revenue of vacant benefices was again ordered to be applied to the use of the fabric: in 1334 it was damaged by fire, and again in 1349: in 1380 application was made to the Pope, “pour lui demander quelques subventions,” in order to repair the church. The chapel of the Maccabees was founded in 1406; in 1430 was a terrible fire, which entirely destroyed the west front, and left the church a heap of ruins. In 1441 Felix V. granted the first year’s revenue of all benefices becoming vacant, for twenty years; a similar grant of a half-year’s revenue, probably for the same term, was made by Julius II., in 1505, principally to erect the southern tower; but this not proving sufficient, Clement VII., in 1525, prolonged it for four years. The west front was not restored till 1749, and it is said to be in imitation of the portico of the Pantheon.
The building, however, of which the above is the history, was not the original church. The period of the erection of the first edifice is unknown, but it was destroyed by an enemy before the year 515, and rebuilt immediately afterwards on a more magnificent scale, by Gondebaud, king of Burgundy. A fragment of this second church is said to be still in existence; and there are some indications in the present church of a still older building, which some fancy was a temple of Apollo.
Thus, then, we have a fragment of wall still existing in the present church, built before 515.
The fragment of the second church, if it really exist, escaped my observation.
Rejecting the consecration of some monarch in 1025, as uncertain, we may fairly assume, that the choir, in which the style of work is decidedly Norman, was erected before 1206.
The body of the building was probably finished not much after that time, or about 1219. Its character much resembles that of Salisbury Cathedral.
The style of the architecture is nowhere of a later date, in any considerable erection, except the west front, which was begun in 1749.
In all this the history and the internal evidence agree very well. There is some pleasure in such coincidences; but at the same time, it is saying that one has learnt nothing new from the edifice; indeed it can hardly be said, that it affords any important confirmation of former results, for it seems to have been long in progress, and prosecuted without zeal or energy. The dimensions are as follows:
| Feet. | Inch. | |
|---|---|---|
| Whole length internally | 202 | 0 |
| Length of transept | 111 | 0 |
| Length of nave | 137 | 0 |
| Width of nave | 23 | 3 |
| Width of side aisles | 10 | 0 |
| Width of nave and side aisles | 64 | 4 |
| Width of transept | 26 | 0 |
| Length of choir | 39 | 0 |
| Thickness of piers east to west | 9 | 0 |
| Thickness of piers north to south | 8 | 6 |
| Height of shafts to springing | 45 | 6 |
| Height of vaulting | 63 | 0 |
| Height of ditto of side aisles | 35 | 0 |
The arches are mixed, some round and some pointed; all of them have key-stones. The towers are at each end of the transept. The lower capitals are imitations of the Corinthian, or with grotesque figures. The bases have a deep scotia. There is some stained glass in the chevet, but it is of little consequence; and, for modern accommodation, there is a paltry gallery, and seats rising one above the other, instead of pews: a much finer building would fail to be impressive with such accessories. I attended divine service in it. There seems to be no kneeling, either here, or in the Protestant churches in France; but at Geneva the men take off their hats, which is not the case at Nismes.
I left Geneva on the 30th of August to walk to Chamouni, or as it is perhaps more properly written, Chamounix. The terminal x seems to belong to a peculiarity in the dialect of Savoy and the adjacent parts of Switzerland and France. Ferney ought to be Fernex; Gensey, Gensex; Gex, Bex, &c. still retain it, but it is never heard in pronunciation. The road offers a great variety of scenery; at first the views have the comparatively mild character of the immediate neighbourhood of Geneva; then the rocks of the Saleve grow upon you, but speedily diminish again, as you leave them, to advance to more magnificent objects. Afterwards the Voiron becomes a fine object; and when our back is turned upon these, the green slopes of the Môle rise nobly in front, and the rugged and woody precipices of the Brezon appear to close the valley, as the traveller approaches to Bonneville. In England our high hills are generally very naked; here they are usually woody, and the Môle, which is bare compared with his neighbours, is more covered with wood than any of the higher mountains of our own country: it is a conical hill, 4,730 feet above the Lake of Geneva, and retained, at this time, one patch of last winter’s snow. The Brezon is as high, or perhaps higher than the Môle, but it is less insulated. The summit is bare rock, with here and there a spot of snow: the shoulders are dark with firs, below which is an ascending slope of cultivated land mixed with wood, and the lower precipices are mantled with deciduous trees. The Arve passes between these two mountains, but there is also a fine romantic valley on the east side of the Môle, and the winding road sometimes presents one object, sometimes another; Mont Blanc, with his clouds and snows, overtopping the whole. At Soingi, Siongy, Siongir, or Scionzier, for I have seen it spelt all these ways, I turned out of the road to visit the Reposoir, a convent of Chartreux, high among the mountains; but though the route presents some very fine scenery, I did not, in this land of magnificent nature, think myself repaid for the delay. After leaving Siongy, the road continues along the valley to Cluse, whose name indicates its situation. The valley seems so completely shut up, that I could not imagine whence the Arve could issue. A sudden turn to the right exhibits the pass; where the mountains, rising in high and woody precipices on each side, leave hardly any space for cultivation on the sides of the stream. At Cluse the character of the scene alters, and becomes more magnificent, and more picturesque, yet still presenting scenes of great beauty and repose. In the former part of the walk we were coasting the mountains, we are now fairly among them. In this neighbourhood I first saw the triangular form which water assumes in falling from a great elevation: it flourishes off at the top in circles, but the heavier drops falling faster than the smaller, the circle changes into one or more parabolas; these become afterwards hyperbolas; at last the curve is lost to the eye, and we have rectilineal angles, not triangles, for the top line is never given, and the points rush down with great rapidity, while the slower sides are overtaken by the points of the succeeding portion. I am rather afraid that this appearance cannot be rendered intelligible by description; and the incessant motion is so essential to the effect, that the pencil is as inefficient as the pen. The road keeps in the valley, sometimes running along the bottom, sometimes rising over the lower eminences, while the valley itself, occasionally almost closing upon the stream, and at other times opening into a wide and cultivated space, presents the most varied and beautiful landscapes. The rocky and savage mountain, its base clothed with wood, its summit shooting into sharp points divided by tracery of snow, never fails to stamp upon the scene the impression of its own magnificence. The whole walk from Cluse to Les Ouches, is certainly one of the finest in the world; and one who has seen Mont Blanc illuminated by the setting sun, from St. Martin or Salenche, may be excused, if he thinks it impossible for inanimate nature to produce a more sublime scene. The instant change produced at sun-set is very striking. The moment before every thing glows with a life and beauty, of which neither the pencil nor the pen can give you any idea. The moment after, the vast extent of snow, which before exhibited the richest and warmest colouring, becomes pale and cold. It is the transition from life to death; from the exquisite animated form to a corpse.
From Les Ouches, the valley of Chamounix begins; an immense gigantic trough, which, though grand, and even sublime, from the immensity of its parts, is by no means so beautiful as the scenery I had just passed. Before reaching Chamounix I fell in with a returning guide, who conducted me to the glacier of Bossons; and, as no description of a glacier can be completely intelligible to those who have never seen one, mine, like those of preceding travellers, must be very imperfect; nevertheless it may furnish your imagination with some assistance. It is neither a plain, nor a valley full of snow. It is not a mountain of snow or covered with snow. It is more like a mountain of ice, or a valley filled with ice; and if you join these two apparently inconsistent ideas, you will have the best notion of it. Imagine some deep gill, such as you find on a smaller scale in Yorkshire or Westmoreland, filled with snow, and the snow half melted and frozen again, till the whole is reduced into large masses, composed of little lumps of ice, about the size of a pigeon’s egg; or, to speak more correctly, varying from the size of a pea to that of a hen’s egg, perfectly transparent in themselves, but forming a mass only imperfectly translucent. The snow, still increasing on the mountain, and throwing additional weight on this immense mass, pushes it bodily out of the gill, and half across the more open valley; so that what was at first included in the hollow, being thus forced out beyond the line of the hills, forms itself an inferior hill, while the gill behind, is filled up with new matter of the same sort, continually pushing forward to supply the waste below. This advancing hill of ice presents to us cliffs of ice at top, then a slope of fragments of ice, and below that a bank of earth, covered, here and there, with the pieces which fall from above. The weight of snow pushes out, not only the ice below it, but a great deal of the soil on which it lies, grinding it, as it proceeds, to powder; and hence the streams issuing at the foot of a glacier are always muddy, while the water on its surface is pure and transparent. At this glacier, the trees, which had been overturned in its progress, still lay about at its foot; but those which were untouched by its mechanical action, did not appear to be injured by the cold, and corn grew within a small distance. Part of the slope was covered with sand, and many of the blocks seemed mixed with sand. Where the ice is pure, it is shaded with the tenderest gray, verging very little, if at all, towards green; and it reflects a vivid blue green, or perhaps a greenish blue, from the deep hollows. I found several men stationed at the entrance to the glacier to offer their assistance, but I already had a guide, and wanted nothing further, for the passage was by no means difficult. The middle is firm, and pretty even; it is only towards the edge that the deep fissures are usually found: the ice is not so slippery as you would imagine; and the sand, or some little inequalities, give tolerable foot-hold, but it felt very cold to the feet. I ascended with my back to the setting sun, and turning to look again at the glacier, after having crossed it, enjoyed a new spectacle, the sun shining through the upper and thinner parts of the ice, and giving sometimes by transmitted light, the same beautiful colour I had admired in the reflected. This green or blue, is however, by no means general, and it is equally difficult to say why it exists at all, and why, since it does exist, there is not more of it. I observed here three sorts of light; the white of pure snow, the shining light, where the surface caught the rays of the sun in a particular direction and reflected them to my eye, and the transmitted light of the edges of the blocks; and two series of shade, the gray and the green; independent of that produced by impurities, and of the patches of dark sand, which sometimes occur. The clouds appeared quite purple against the glacier, yet that colour did not show itself amongst them in any other direction; whence I conclude that the whole mass of the ice had somewhat of a greenish hue.
Fog, rain, and snow, were very inimical to my rambles about Chamounix. I visited the source of the Arveiron, which issues from the foot of the Glacier des bois, itself a continuation of the Mer de Glace. It exhibited no picturesque accompaniments, but in a hot summer, it sometimes forms for itself a magnificent arch in the ice. I thence climbed to the Hospice on the Montanvert, 621 toises, or 3,980 feet above the inn at Chamounix, almost the whole of which is in one rapid slope, mostly covered with fir trees. In the upper part every thing was wet with the half-melted snow; and the fir trees were abundantly sprinkled with it. The Mer de Glace was also covered with fresh snow; but the Alpine plants peeped forth from their white covering, seemingly very little affected. The Aiguille de Dru rises immediately above the glacier, into one of those sharp rugged points, of which no English or Scotch scenery will give you any idea.[[25]] I do not know its exact height, but comparing it with those that are known, it must rise in a broken pyramidal form, nearly 5,000 feet from the surface of the ice. The Jorass rises in a squarish form, furrowed with perpendicular lines, which were marked with fresh snow. On the right, the rude and lofty Aiguille des Charmeaux was lost in the clouds. In this view of the Mer de Glace, it is a large, branched, winding valley, filled with ice and snow, the surface of which is nearly horizontal, if the eye is directed on a line across the valley; but with a very irregular and broken descent, if applied on a line along the valley. It seemed almost everywhere bordered by the Moraine; that is, by a heap of fragments which it pushes up in its progress.
I found only one name inserted in the Album at Montanvert on that morning; this was of a person who had arrived there by six o’clock, to see the sun rise: he recorded that he was satisfied, but what he saw I know not; as from below, the whole atmosphere appeared at that time to be filled with dense clouds. One other traveller had been there, for I saw two descending the mountain as I went up, but he had not left his name; perhaps he was not satisfied.
The morning of Thursday, the 5th of September, was dark and wet; but the rain abating about ten, I proceeded towards Martigny, by the Tête noire. The Col de Baume was enveloped in clouds, and offered me no temptation to pass that way. The road I chose passed down Valorsine, where I was delighted with the luxuriant bushes of Rosa rubrifolia, covered with flowers. The lower part of this valley is very beautiful. It often happens in the Swiss valleys, that the descent is finer than the ascent. At the upper part are a few noble masses, which remain almost unchanged in appearance during a day’s walk, while the lower parts are frequently bounded with broken rocks, whose composition varies at every stage of our progress; and sometimes the vallies are so nearly closed, that it is impossible to follow the stream, and we are obliged to pass over the hills to find an exit: this is the case at Valorsine, and the rocks and woods about the pass are magnificent and finely varied. There is also a beautiful waterfall among the woods, plentiful in such weather as I had, and still more so in hot dry weather, till the snows are melted which supply it, a circumstance not likely to take place this year. The spring rains bring down an immense quantity of water, by dissolving the snows and ice of the winter; but the wet which I experienced, became itself snow in the upper regions of the Alps. We leave Valorsine and ascend the vale of Trient, whose river gives its name to the united streams, though the smallest of the two. This vale is narrow and deep, but without any very fine features, except just where it unites with Valorsine.
The village of Trient is a dismal gloomy place, and the dark and dirty little ale-house is perfectly in unison with the scenery.[[26]] The landlady was goitrous; I have seen many such persons, and when they are young it only produces a plumpness in the lower part of the throat, which is hardly disagreeable; but as the disease increases, two unequal protuberances are produced, which at length become loose and skinny, and are excessively disgusting. The people among the mountains are pale, and seem unhealthy and inactive; the women more so than the men. The children have little vivacity; and I have not seen a woman dancing an infant, or giving it any exercise, either in Savoy or Switzerland. From Trient I ascended the Forclaz. The valley, which descends thence to Martigny, was completely filled with a cloud at some hundred feet below me. The descent is long and tedious, but the upper part of the way is adorned with noble pines and larches, particularly the latter. Some enormous trees waved their wild branches over the road, in magnificent style; others, which had been broken by storms while yet young, assumed the most irregular shapes; but they were large trees, vigorous and flourishing, and would have been capital subjects for the pencil. About half way down, we emerged under the cloud, and saw the Vallais stretched out beneath us; but the stratum of vapour I had just passed, prevented all view of the summits, and communicated a dull monotony to the scene, which it probably would not have had in finer weather.
The next morning I left Martigny in the rain, which prevented me from making any sketch of the old castle, part of which is said to be of Roman work. A little farther, the Trient, which I had left yesterday to ascend the Forclaz, passes between lofty precipices into the valley of the Rhone, and lower down the Pisse Vache, a noble waterfall, descends close by the road. These are too fine not to call forth our admiration under any circumstances, but certainly I should have enjoyed them more in clear weather. The Vallais above Martigny seems to be bounded by sloping mountains, without much variety; but from Martigny to the Lake of Geneva, nothing can be more beautiful, or more finely varied. It is curious to observe here the different characters of the vallies, dependent on their direction. When the Arve runs from N. E. to S. W., it is through a trough valley with sloping sides; where it runs from S. to N., or nearly so, it is through a defile with broken and precipitous sides; and where its course is from S. E. to N. W., it is through a comparatively wide and irregular basin. Nearly the same disposition is observable in the Isere; and in the Vallais, the Rhone runs from the N. E. along an immense trough valley, and turning short to the north at Martigny, with occasional bendings to the west, passes alternately through wide defiles, with broken and precipitous sides, and small, irregular basins. At St. Maurice the valley is very much contracted; and here the road crosses the river, and we enter the Pays de Vaud. At Bex it is wider; and perhaps this is the most beautiful part of this charming valley. A hill almost covered with an open grove of chesnut trees, rises behind the town, and the views from this are truly enchanting: below is a rich valley and gentle slopes, cultivated with vines and maize, and well shaded with trees. The lower eminences are frequently covered with groves of chesnut, and a fine mass of oak spreads over one hill, which extends almost across the valley: above are woods of pine and larch; higher up, rocky pointed summits, and snow and ice. I continued over the lower hills to the salt mines, which are about three miles from the town. The supply is altogether from springs, as they have not yet met with the salt-rock. The natural issue was at a considerable elevation, and the directors first endeavoured to follow from this point the course of the water. Observing, however, that it came from below, a new work was commenced, which is now the great level, and nearly a mile in length; and this cut off the spring, 500 feet below its natural issue. Since this a still lower level has been carried to the extent of 1,718 feet, and in this a well has been sunk to the depth of 700 feet, which is below the level of the Lake of Geneva; but the salt-rock is supposed to lie still deeper. If this be fact, what a prodigious rise took place in the water of the original spring! No considerable quantity of water occurred in sinking the well, but it oozes in at the sides from several places, and is so salt, as to crystallize in the well. All the works are in successive strata of gypsum, black carbonaceous limestone, and schist; but the nearest summits are of grauwacke; no organic remains have been observed. This is the information I received on the spot, and having satisfied my curiosity, I returned to Bex.
The next morning the rain was even more steady and incessant than before; yet I left the high road to cut across the marshes to the ferry over the Rhone, and in so doing lost my way, and had to walk almost in the water. I crossed the Rhone at Chessel. In winter, I am told that the stream is bright and clear, but in summer always thick and muddy, from the glaciers which supply it; whereas at Geneva it always leaves the lake pure, and of a deep blue. Thence I walked along the new road to St. Gingouf. Whatever faults Napoleon may have had, he was certainly a capital road-maker; and here, had his object been beauty, instead of dry utility, he could not have chosen a finer line; the lake and its surrounding mountains are on the right; on the left, lofty hills shaded with chesnut trees, some of which are of the grandest size; and here and there the opening of a little valley exposes a pointed summit of the Alps. A Russian countess had engaged the whole inn at St. Gingouf; but the landlady very justly observed, that this order could not be understood to include her own bed, and she gave that up to me.
In the morning I walked to Meillerie, where the road has been cut out of the solid rock, and a wide and excellent road it is; no contrivances or make-shifts, but completely as it should be. An inconsiderable work of this sort, well done, excites more pleasure than a much larger one imperfectly performed. In the first case the power shows itself superior to the obstacle, and the mind is satisfied: in the latter the mind is not satisfied, because we seem to feel the limits of the power employed. After viewing the rocks, I took a boat, and crossed the lake to Ouchy, and from Ouchy walked to Lausanne, but the cloudiness of the weather injured the prospect.
From Lausanne there are some very fine views over the lake, but a long and almost unbroken hill opposite, in the Pays de Chablais, which in great measure shuts out the higher Alps, is a displeasing feature. Yet with this defect, there are few places in the world equal to Lausanne. Gibbon’s house offers nothing remarkable, excepting as a memorial of the Historian, I was rather surprised at the table d’hôte, where several gentlemen of the neighbourhood were present, that his name was unknown to them.
The cathedral at Lausanne is much superior to that of Geneva; and indeed may fairly be esteemed both a beautiful building, and an interesting specimen of art. The nave alone is at present used, the remaining part being under repair. I have met with no history of the building; and the woman who shews it, points out the tomb of a St. Bertrand who lived in the tenth century, as that of its founder; but this is not admissible.
The style of the building, without being precisely like any thing in England, evidently classes with our early pointed architecture. It is anterior not only to tracery and trefoil heads, but to the introduction of roses in the upper part of the windows, and would with us be assigned to about the year 1200. A comparison with French buildings would induce me to place it in the first half of the twelfth century. The piers, or pillars of the nave, are very whimsical, and almost every pair is different. One pair is composed, each of two unequal columns, the little one before the other; yet the largest is only two feet four inches and a half in diameter, with a height of twenty-four feet, and the front one is no more than ten inches and a half in diameter, though as it goes up to the springing of the vault, it must be fifty feet high. In another pair, formed nearly in the same manner, modern improvers have had the courage to cut away the smaller pillar, to make room for some arrangements below. In another pair, each pier is composed of four columns, two large, and two small, entirely detached: the other piers are rectangular, but with small shafts variously attached. The original design evidently provided for two western towers, and an octagonal lantern at the intersection of the cross. One only of the western towers has been erected. The lantern has been carried above the roof, but not completed, and it is now covered with a make-shift roof of tiles, terminating in a wooden spire: the octagon was not carried down to the ground, as at Ely, but rests upon the four piers at the intersection of the cross. I regret much that this is imperfect, as I have met with no example on the continent of the original method of terminating this part, but it seems certain that our great towers, or spires, were not usual.
There is in this church a very singular rose window, composed of a capricious combination of squares and circles, which I imagined at first to be the freak of some architect of the seventeenth or eighteenth century; but my conductress assured me that it was ancient, and the painted glass favoured her assertion. The southern porch is a curious structure, which reminded me in some particulars of that of Chartres; and I think it was intended to be continued to a greater extent, and to form an open gallery, as in that building.
The western porch also exhibits some striking peculiarities, and is one of those anomalous productions to which it is difficult to fix a date; but it is certainly early Gothic: the external archway of this porch is a beautiful little addition of the fifteenth century.
LETTER XIV.
TOUR IN SWITZERLAND.
Milan, 12th October, 1816.
I left Lausanne in the diligence for Bern, on the 10th of September. A long ascent leads us to the summit of the Jorat, 1,767 feet above the Lake of Geneva; but it was night, and I lost the prospect. We breakfasted at Moudon at half past two in the morning. The day dawned beautifully among woods of fir and oak, and the same sort of scenery continued to Fribourg, a city seated partly at the bottom, and partly at the top of some sandstone cliffs, between which the river Saane takes a very winding course. Beyond Fribourg I walked up some long hills, and found the views singularly beautiful. The near ground is well varied, and rich with woods intermingled with cultivation, like some of the best parts of the weald of Kent and Sussex. Beyond this are more distant mountains, while the extensive snows of the Jung Frau, and the steep pyramid of the Schreckhorn, bound the horizon. On the other side we see the Jura; behind us are the mountains of the canton of Fribourg, and those which formed the principal objects about the Lake of Geneva. We arrived at Bern about noon. It is a regularly built city, in which the foot-paths are under low arcades, taken from the ground floor of the houses. Beneath these arches are the shops, but nothing belonging to the dwelling-house or inn, till you have mounted to the first story. There is a good table d’hôte at the Falcon, where I was fortunate enough to meet some old acquaintance, and to form some new ones, by which I profited in the thoroughly wet day which succeeded my arrival. The cathedral here is a building of the latter part of the fifteenth, or beginning of the sixteenth century; rather clumsily though richly decorated, and presenting no features of much interest; but the situation is admirable.
At the Museum at Bern are some of the best models I have seen of the Swiss mountains. I suspect however, that nothing of the sort is very exact in the mountain forms, and after all the observations which can be made, it is hardly possible to refrain from mixing up a little imagination in the details.[[27]] All of them are made with a scale of heights, different from that of lengths, which is another source of misconception. Another object well deserving attention at Bern, is the Gymnasium. The children at the public school are taught not only the exercises of the mind, but also those of the body; to swim, to jump, to climb, to ride; a plan which seems to me excellent, as giving a wholesome direction to that restless activity of boys, which so often leads them first into mischief, and then into vice. Not far from Bern is the establishment of M. Fellenberg at Hofwyl, but the children were not there when I visited it; and you may find so much better accounts of the establishment than any I could give, that I shall not obtrude upon you my hasty observations.
On Saturday about noon I took the diligence for Thun, a most delightful ride through a fine cultivated country, bounded by some of the most magnificent summits of the Alps. At Thun the nearer mountains rise into importance, while the more lofty ones, though partially hidden, lose nothing of their consequence. The next day I took a boat up the Thuner See to Nieuhaus, whence I walked to Unterseen. This is a delightful place; the town itself is extremely interesting, because it is completely Swiss. All the houses are of wood, with galleries and great projecting roofs. The situation is a level valley between two lakes, well cultivated and shaded with fine trees; mostly walnut. The Harder is a noble crag, rising immediately above the plain; all around are fine craggy mountains shaded with wood, the lower parts of which are sprinkled with cottages, and enlivened by cultivation; and an opening in the range, which forms the little valley of Zwey Lütschinen, exposes to the delighted eye the vast mass of the Jung Frau, the beautiful pyramid of the purest snow called the Silberhorn, and the craggy summit of the higher Mönch. The Hotel de Ville of Unterseen is in the inn. The landlord procured me a lad to act as a guide, and to carry my parcels, for thirty batzen[[28]] per diem, just half what had been previously demanded of me; but he could speak only German, at which I hammer terribly.
We set out on a fine morning for Zwey Lütschinen, and thence proceeded to Lauterbrunnen. The first part of the walk is amazingly fine; the second still finer. It seemed impossible that after this there could be any thing worth seeing in the way of mountain vallies, but I was very much mistaken. The best notion I can give you of the valley of Lauterbrunnen is, to tell you to magnify Gordale, and stretch it out into a valley six or seven miles long; put trees, hedges, and cottages below, fringe the tops of the precipices with trees, and pour down a multitude of little waterfalls. Of these the Staubbach and the Myrrenbach are the principal; the first falls 900 feet, and for two thirds of the way without touching the rock; the latter I should think quite as high, but it streams down like a lock of dishevelled hair of the purest white. The next morning I ascended to the top of the Staubbach, and to the foot of an upper fall; and here standing on a rock at the summit of the great fall, in a place however of perfect safety; I looked down into the deep contracted valley beneath, and saw one of the smaller waterfalls entirely turned into a rainbow. I had no idea of the presence of water there, except from the colours it produced. I then continued my walk to Myrrem, one of the highest villages in Europe, though not by any means the highest habitation. It is 5,156 feet above the level of the sea. The Curé of Lauterbrunnen, at whose house I have taken up my lodgings, pays it a visit every winter. I was at first surprised at his chusing this time of year to visit his parishioners; but he reminded me that in the summer, the men were dispersed in the chalets still higher on the mountains. The path in winter is very dangerous, as the little streams are frozen, and present inclined planes of ice which terminate in the precipices overhanging the valley of Lauterbrunnen. At Myrrem, the sun shines every fine day in the year; at a hamlet beneath it, they are three months without sun. Even at Lauterbrunnen in the middle of September, the sun does not appear till past eight, and sets about half past two. This walk gave me a fine view of the branch of the Alps which divides the Vallais from the Oberland of Bern, some of the highest and wildest in Switzerland; and I had the pleasure of seeing, though at a great distance, a considerable avalanche. I suppose the fall could not be of much less than 1,200 feet, and it raised a cloud of snow which at last obscured the whole mass of rock. Hardly half an hour elapsed during the whole walk, in which I did not hear some smaller ones, and I saw many; but such an exhibition as this large one is of rare occurrence. As they give no previous notice, the traveller has but little chance of seeing them, till the sound of the first fall serves to direct him, and of course the first burst is thus lost to the eye. My attention was quite on the alert, and I marked a vast body of snow and ice on the Ebene fluh which seemed almost suspended, and a dark line above indicated that a separation had already taken place. I watched for some time in hopes of seeing a most stupendous fall; for there were, I dare say, ten acres of snow and ice, and the middle of the mass was not less than 100 feet thick,—but I watched in vain. These avalanches are only from one bed of snow to another, or on to ground kept naked by frequent falls, and consequently do no harm. It is those formed of the snow of the preceding winter, and falling in the spring, on or near the cultivated ground, which do so much mischief. They destroy all the hopes of the farmer, and bury his cottage, or overturn and carry it along with them; and even sweep down the woods before them. The wind produced by them is said to be so violent, as sometimes to throw down large trees, which are not touched by the snow. Descending into the valley, I stumbled upon another waterfall; perhaps the most beautiful of any, though less astonishing. It is only about 120 feet high, and is therefore no subject of interest or admiration to the inhabitants, who see so many of much greater elevation.
The next day I had another fine walk over the Wengern Alp to Grindelwald. The mountain tops were partially veiled in clouds, but there was no uniform covering of mist, and the Silberhorn rose beautifully above me in unsullied whiteness. Grindelwald is as different as possible from Lauterbrunnen. On the north side, the hills rise in steep slopes, thickly set with cottages, and divided into meadows by hedges mixed with trees, to a considerable height, before the wild and craggy Alps begin. The term Alp in Switzerland indicates a mountain pasture, as distinguished from a snowy mountain: the highest summits are consequently never called Alps. Some of our travellers mention this as a corruption of the word, but it has, I think, never been proved that it was not its primitive signification. The Blumlis (flowerless) Alp is agreed on all hands to be a tract covered with perpetual snow, though tradition says it was once the best pasture in Switzerland: it is not however agreed where this Blumlis Alp was placed. Some give the name to a range of glaciers above Lauterbrunnenthal, while others apply it to parts of those above Kanderthal, because, they say, there is a more extensive tract very little above the snow line, which renders the tradition more reasonable. The name of Blumlis Alp in Keller’s map is given to a point 11,370 feet above the sea, which never could have been Alp at all. For my part, if I may not reject the story altogether as a fable, I should incline to adopt the first opinion, because it has nothing but tradition to support it; while there seems a reason for the invention of the second; and it is very possible that some small spot above Lauterbrunnen, now covered with ice, may once have been pasture. The lower glaciers are said to be all on the increase, yet with one exception, (that of Bosson) they all bear evident marks of having been at some period much larger than they are at present, and similar changes may occur in the upper ones without supposing any constant increase of snow and ice.
I have made a great digression from the description of Grindelwald, to which I will now return. On the south side of the valley, three enormous crags rise immediately into the region of perpetual snow; the Wetterhorn, which is 11,720 feet high, the Mettenburg somewhat less, and the Eiger 12,240. Grindelwald is 3,182 feet above the sea. It is not perhaps quite the summit of these rocks that is visible, and there are some hundred feet of slope at the bottom; the rest is almost perpendicular cliff, at least what appears such to the eye, whose height indeed you may estimate, but whose effect you will find it difficult to imagine. Between these three vast mountains are two glaciers, at one of which I spent the morning in attempting to imitate its forms and colouring, in company with two very agreeable young Englishmen, whom I met at Grindelwald. On the 20th I returned down the valley to Zwey Lütchinen, and thence to Unterseen. The walk was delightful, but that from Unterseen to Grindelwald would have been still finer; for in that case I should have had the three great mountains successively before me: first the Wetterhorn and the mountain behind it, the Hinter gletscher horn, over the woods and rocks of the valley; then the Mettenburg, and then the Eiger; and after some interval the same objects in the opposite order, with the accompaniments entirely changed. About a mile from Unterseen is the castle of Unspunnen, which makes some figure in Swiss history; and near this, a spot whence one has the finest imaginable view over both lakes. Each appeared enchanting; the lake of Thun more varied, but with the surrounding objects in shade, as I was looking towards the sun; the lake of Brientz, with its cliffs and woods in light, more uniformly wild and savage. From Unterseen I walked to Müllinen. What a country to ramble in! Wherever one goes, some new object, some new mode of beauty delights us; but language has little of the variety of nature; and the perpetual recurrence of lakes and streams, rocks and mountains, woods and cultivation, and snow and ice, fatigues, instead of exciting the attention. I made a diversion to the top of the Niesen, 7,310 feet in height: snow still lingered on the summit, but only in patches. I expected a fine view of the Simmenthal and Kanderthal, but clouds obstructed the prospect. In the other direction, Bern and the Jura were distinguishable at intervals, through openings in the thick bed of clouds which lay before me. The next morning I proceeded up Kanderthal. The clouds hung low upon the mountains, but now and then exposed the waste of snow above me, and I saw enough to persuade me that Kanderthal was well worth a visit, even after Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald; and that its style of beauty, or of sublimity, is quite different from that of those vallies. On the 25th I passed the Gemmi: the ascent is steep, but not otherwise bad, and at the top is a public house, where I procured some hot milk. The scenery is wild and dreary in the extreme, and the natural melancholy of the place was heightened by the gloom of the weather. The Dauben See is a shallow and muddy pool at the top. I met there a solitary Englishman, who was taking a wrong track; my guide set him right. He observed to me that there was something very sublime in crossing the Alps alone in a snow storm, which in fact was then coming on very heavily. I regretted afterwards that he had been set in the right path, for there only wanted to complete the sublime, that he should lose his way; and there would have been no danger, since meeting with the lake would have shewn him his error. The flakes of snow soon hid him from my sight, and I shortly after arrived at the descent: but what a descent! It is impossible I can give you any idea of it. It would be easier to make a road up the most inaccessible part of the wildest mountain in England, than up the Gemmi. The inn-keeper at Lausanne told me that the Gemmi was passable all the year; and in fact the couriers do pass it at all seasons, but it is extremely dangerous, and accidents frequently occur. Last year there were six avalanches, and three couriers lost their lives. These avalanches fill the road with snow, and the couriers are obliged in some places to creep upon ledges of rock, half supporting themselves on the snow; and sometimes to trust themselves entirely to the snow over a precipice of six or eight hundred feet. It does not appear that these accidents arise from negligence or ignorance; but the men advance with full sense of their danger, and using every possible precaution to avoid it. The road is cut out of the face of the precipice, and in some instances completely into the rock. At this time of year there is no danger; yet I would not advise a person to undertake the descent, whose head is apt to be giddy. After reaching the bottom I looked back, and began to wonder where the path could be, or how it had been possible to descend such a horrible precipice.
The company had nearly left the baths of Lötsch, and had I been a few days later, I should have found the inn deserted, except by a single individual, who is left to take care of the house, and to give shelter to any stray wanderer. During the proper season, the invalids begin to resort to the bath about five o’clock in the morning, and remain there four or five hours, usually taking their breakfast while sitting in the warm water. At eleven they dine, and afterwards return again to sit in the bath. At six they sup, and go to bed at eight. How should you like this regimen?
Next morning I walked down to Leuk, or Lötsch, where I breakfasted, and hired a char à banc, which took me to Brigg. The Vallais is a fine valley, much narrower here than I had imagined from my view of it from above Martigny: the mountains which bound it are steep slopes, the bottom appears flat, and altogether, it wants variety; yet it offers some beautiful scenes, especially at the openings of the little vallies. The inhabitants are esteemed to be lazy, dirty, and goitrous, and by far the most licentious in Switzerland, but rather improving of late years. Till the road over the Simplon was made, it was one of the most unfrequented parts of the country, and it may serve as an encouragement to those who fear that good roads and freer intercourse with their neighbours, will spoil the sobriety and simplicity of the Swiss character.
On Friday morning I set off to cross this famous pass. A thick dark bed of clouds covered the opposite mountains, and against them was reflected the finest rainbow I ever saw. The middle colours were repeated seven times. The road is excellent, as good as any about London, but not so wide; and here and there the rubbish fallen down from above, has contracted it perhaps to fifteen or eighteen feet, but this is a mere guess; I did not measure it. It is certainly a most noble work, but the scenery of the ascent is not picturesque. It winds up sloping hills covered with wood, and runs round the little vallies, hardly ever making a zig-zag upon the face of the hill. The village of Simplon is about two leagues beyond the summit. The republic of the Vallais is repairing the road, and there is no indication of any intention to abandon it, nor do the inhabitants seem to entertain the least idea that such a design could be entertained.
I slept at the village of Simplon, where I was told that it is always cold, and certainly I found it so. The people were cleaner and honester, and spoke better French than I had met with the preceding days in the Vallais. Next morning I resumed my walk towards Italy: the descent on this side is highly romantic, but after winding among savage rocks and subterranean passages, and looking against mountains crowned with snow, I was delighted to come out of the confined pass at Dovedro, and find myself in a fertile valley full of corn-fields, vineyards, and villages. In one part of this day’s walk, I observed a quantity of snow which had fallen the preceding winter, and being afterwards thickly covered with earth, was sprinkled with vegetation. After this opening the valley again contracts into another wild and rocky pass, though not with the frowning horrors of the preceding: this leads into the comparatively open Val Ocella, one league along which brought me to Duomo d’Ossola.
I have now left Switzerland, but I will not begin another subject without a few general observations. The country churches are generally small and poor buildings, each with a square tower at the west end, which terminates in a high gable. They are, I believe, always of stone; the cottages always of wood. These latter are generally elevated on a stone basement of six or eight feet in height. There are two stories below the roof, and one in it. The wood-work is not painted all over, and sometimes not at all; but there are frequently broad horizontal bands ornamented with painting, as well as with carving. The roofs span the long way of the building, and project five or six feet all round; they are consequently immensely large; and they are covered with shingles, or with slates. On one side, or often on both, is a gallery under the shelter of the roof, and the whole of this covered way forms an admirable place for drying flax, and sometimes corn: the flax, by the bye, is dressed without steeping.
I did not find any building at Duomo d’Ossola to excite much attention. There is a Via Crucis, that is, an ascent leading to a church or convent, on which is a series of chapels, representing the circumstances of our Saviour’s passion. Each chapel is here a small room filled with figures, carved in wood and painted: as much light is admitted as will shew them distinctly, and two or three holes are left, with gratings of wire, through which one may peep to see the imagery. These things are very common in Italy, but not all on so expensive a scale: the chapels are generally much smaller, like watch-boxes, and are adorned only with a painting exhibited in the same manner: sometimes they are mere arched recesses, to protect the series of pictures. This history is not confined to the facts related in the scriptures, but is heightened by tradition or invention. It is regularly a part of the story, not only that our Saviour himself carried the cross, nearly if not quite all the way, but that he fell down under it three times; and the circumstance is improved, if we may use the methodist expression in speaking of Roman Catholic superstition, by the inscriptions placed underneath. Little stations of this sort are also frequent by the road-sides, with a saint painted at the bottom of the niche.
From the top of the hill of the Via Crucis at Duomo d’Ossola, there is a fine view of the flat circular valley, at the edge of which stands the town. A considerable portion of this plain is covered by the enormous beds of gravel and sand brought down by the mountain torrents. In other places it appears rich and fertile, and the meadows are as green as in England.
The churches in this part of Italy have very high slender towers, covered with a depressed pyramidal roof of red tiles, or sometimes with a little cupola; they are almost always white, and form a very striking and characteristic feature in the landscape.
I dined at Duomo d’Ossola in company with a young Englishman, who seemed to have been all over the world; and afterwards, as we were talking together in the balcony, he exclaimed, “Do you keep a pet scorpion?” I followed the direction of his eyes, and saw one of the largest size, crawling on my right breast. I soon got rid of him, but I dare say I looked fifty times at my waistcoat during the evening to see if any other had taken its place: I have no conception how it came there. The room we were in had been newly plastered, but we found another on the wall: they seem to be dull, sluggish animals.
On Monday, 30th of September, I left Duomo d’Ossola, and crossing the valley, great part of the way on beds of gravel covered with Hippophæ rhamnoides, mounted by a pleasant rocky defile to Val Vigezza. These Italian vals are for the most part surrounded on three sides by mountains, and on the fourth connected with the plain country by a deep ravine, through which the waters are discharged. I should perhaps rather say separated than connected, as it is only by a narrow track on the slope of the mountain, that the communication is preserved; and it has in some cases been found easier to make the road across the mountain, than to carry it through the defile. Val Vigezza occupies the highest part of the hollow, and discharges its water both ways; partly by the defile through which I ascended, and partly by Cento Valli, where there is hardly any open space, and where the views are finer than on the ascent, but which I should probably have admired more, if I had not just passed the grander and more impressive scenery of the Simplon. I eat, and slept, at the house of the parish priest in the little village of Borgnone, in the Swiss state of Ticino, and the next morning continued my walk to Locarno. I did not fare very well on this road, probably from not being sufficiently aware of the manners of the people, nor having learned to apply for food at the proper hours. In all these remote places you must comply with the customs of the country; it is too difficult a task to teach the inhabitants to accommodate themselves to yours.
On Wednesday morning I walked to Ascona, and thence, along the shores of the lake, to Canobio. The road near the villages is usually between two stone walls, with a trellis supporting the vines overhead. The grapes within reach are whitewashed, apparently to prevent passengers from eating them. In the remoter parts these precautions are omitted, and the rude trellis, which supports the vines, rests on posts of granite or mica slate; but the trees and vines seldom permit an extensive view, though the road is a continued succession of steep ascents and descents. I became rather tired of this, and at Canobio hired a boat to take me down the lake, and to the Borromean islands. The scenery improves as we descend; the mountains divide, and present more variety in themselves, as well as give occasional views of higher and more distant summits. About Intra, Palanza, and Laveno, it is particularly fine: the long continuous range of mountains, forming the eastern shore of the lake, here ceases; and at the last mentioned place, and below it, we have only hills of moderate elevation, covered with trees and cultivation, and terminating in steep banks or little cliffs at the water’s edge. The range on the western side also ceases at Intra; but there is a fine detached hill behind Palanza, and mountains again occur of considerable height, beyond the bay which incloses the Borromean islands. Two rivers fall into the head of this bay: their vallies are separated by a noble crag, and a long perspective of a succession of mountains, exposes the snowy summits of the higher Alps, which form a delightful contrast with the beauties of the nearer scenery. There is one island near Palanza which commands this view better than any other; but it is seldom visited, because there is only a small villa upon it. On the Isola Madre is a larger villa; on another island (Isola Peschiera) is a little village; but the great object of curiosity is the Isola Bella, where we see a magnificent villa of the Borromean family, in sublimely bad taste, both inside and out. There are however, some handsome rooms within; and the profuse and extended scale on which art has exerted itself, joined to a luxuriant vegetation, produces no small effect of grandeur without. The views from it are most beautiful, both up and down the lake, and up the bay. I landed at Stresa, and walked to Belgirate, and thence to Arona. The lower part of the lake is quiet, and without any of the sublime character of the upper, but still very beautiful; and points of cliff occasionally rise from the water. Arona is a very picturesque little place, seated on a point at the foot of one of these cliffs. On a hill above it is the statue of St. Charles Borromeo; 66 feet high, on a pedestal of above 30, so that the whole is about 100 English feet in height. As I walked along the road below, the pedestal was quite lost; and the great priest, walking among the woods, which reach only to his middle, and holding up his fingers in the act of blessing the people, had a very singular effect. It is made partly of cast bronze, and partly of plates of copper on timber framing, and the execution is very good. The views from it are exceedingly fine. From Arona I crossed the lake to Ispra, where the custom-house officers took it into their heads to examine my little bundle, and then asked me for something to drink. From Ispra I walked to Comerio, near the lake Varese. The entire change of scenery had a pleasing effect; instead of rocks and mountains, I was among gently swelling hills, well cultivated with different sorts of grain, and shaded with fine chesnut trees. The maize was nearly ripe: the barren flowers and the upper leaves had just been cut off, that the juices of the plant might all be directed to the seed. In some instances the heads of seeds had likewise been gathered and hung up to dry about the houses. Many of the inhabitants were employed in beating down the chesnuts; which were large and good, like the Spanish chesnut; whereas among the mountains, though great part of the wood is formed of chesnut trees, yet the fruit is small, like what we have in England.[[29]] From Gavirate to Comerio, the land rises considerably, and there are extensive surfaces of white limestone, containing beds of flint rather than chertz. Before me lay a great extent of country of the same character as that which I had passed; the Lake of Varese lying on the right; to the left is the woody hill on whose slope the road runs; and behind are the distant mountains of Lago Maggiore, and the still more distant snowy mass of Monte Rosa. My eye is so familiarized to white tops, that I can hardly fancy any mountain high without them, and something always seems wanting where they are not. As it was meagre day, I could get nothing at the little inn but some small fish, called Cavezzali, not much bigger than minnows, maccaroni, and an omelet, but the fellow charged for my supper five francs, the usual price to English travellers at the better inns in this part of Italy, and three for a miserable bed. I gave him six francs, which I am told was twice as much as I ought to have paid; indeed he seemed perfectly conscious that it was too much. I walked in this direction as far as Varese, and then turning short to the left, soon found myself again among mountains, much broken and varied, but not very high. The road lies so low and is so much sheltered, that we only see enough of the scenery to tantalize us; but by the deviation of a few yards, before the descent to Porto on the Lake of Lugano, I enjoyed one of those delicious scenes which baffle all description, comprising every mode of rich and beautiful in landscape, set in a frame of magnificent mountains. A man, who overtook me on the road, asked me a louis for a boat to Lugano, then a napoleon, then eighteen francs, as the least possible. I offered him five, which he accepted, and seemed just as active and good humoured as if he had obtained his whole demand.
The Lake of Lugano is very beautiful, and very different from Lago Maggiore; yet I despair of making you perceive the difference. The mountains are rugged and abrupt, generally rising from the water’s edge; but at the bottom of each of its six bays, they recede, and leave cultivated vallies. The lower part of the slopes is covered with vines and olives, and spotted with villages wherever they are not too steep to admit of it; in other places they are clothed with wood, and the upper parts are all woody, except where the perpendicular rocks prohibit vegetation. Two of the crags, San Salvadore and Valsolda, are particularly fine. Lugano is a nice little town with an excellent inn: it is celebrated for one of the best newspapers on the continent. The women here (and the fashion is common through the north of Italy,) form a sort of star of pins, in fastening the hair at the back of the head, which is a very conspicuous and not ungraceful ornament.
A boat belonging to Porlezza was at Lugano; I engaged it for four francs. The olive-trees here are not pollards, like those of the south of France, nor collected together into olive-grounds; but graceful trees of a gray green, scattered among the yellow vineyards, and contrasting with the warm hues of the chesnut. They are entirely confined to the lower and more sheltered parts of the hills: the colour is perhaps, rather dull; nevertheless they are, to a northern eye, a beautiful novelty in the landscape. From Porlezza I walked to Menaggio, by a delightful path between mountains; and a charming little lake (Lago di Piano) occurs in the way: all was sweetness and repose. The first view over the Lake of Como is still finer than that I enjoyed of the Lake of Lugano. Some boatmen accompanied me, to persuade me to go to the top of the lake, for which one of them asked me a louis. I offered him seven francs, at which he burst into a laugh, declaring it was quite ridiculous to think of doing it for so little; but it was afterwards accepted by him and his companion; so you see what sort of people I have to deal with; and in the inns it is nearly the same. The next morning, accordingly, I set out on this expedition: the head of the Lake of Como is much more broken than that of Lago Maggiore, and presents some stupendous crags; in each lake, however, the middle is the finest part. There is, perhaps, nothing on the Lake of Como equal to the view up the bay of the Borromean islands, on the Lago Maggiore; yet there is greater variety, and on the whole, greater beauty; indeed the scenes about Menaggio and the opposite shore are exquisitely fine. We caught some Agomi on our return; these are small fishes, little larger than our bleak, and much resembling them in appearance. On being taken out of the water, the colours change very beautifully. They are sold here at thirty sous the pound of thirty ounces, and are very good eating. The next morning I resumed my walk; every step was beautiful; and yet, to say the truth, I got tired of passing continually through rich vineyards and noble groves of chesnut, with the lake eternally spread out on the left. From Caretti I crossed the lake to see the Villa Pliniana; a house built absolutely in the water, at the foot of a steep mountain. Behind it, there is a celebrated intermitting spring, which I believe diminished a little while I was there, but so little that I could hardly be certain of it. It is said to ebb and flow three times a day, but at uncertain intervals; in rainy weather the quantity of water increases very much. Just by there is a waterfall, which the Cicerone estimated at 300 feet, and I at half that height, but in dry weather there is but little water. Since I have crossed the Alps, the weather has been fine and warm, and the first feelings of summer have been accompanied by the symptoms of approaching winter. The leaves had not begun to fall in Switzerland, but in Italy I found them strewed abundantly on the ground. I left this desolate villa, and returned to the little public-house at Caretti, where there was a tidy little bed-room, a very fair dinner, and moderate charges.
On Thursday morning I walked to Cernobio, where at last, the mountains begin to open. The Princess of Wales has purchased a villa here, and I believe, added to it considerably. There are twenty-one windows in front, on the principal floor; but in Italy this is not reckoned very large. Curiosity prompted me to apply for admittance, but it was refused. Bread here is eighteen French sous per pound: wages in agriculture, three lire per diem. The Milanese lira is about two-thirds of the French. My landlord attributes to the high price of bread, the robberies which are sometimes heard of in these parts. Whatever there might be of romantic in being robbed by a horde of picturesque banditti, it would be altogether flat and disagreeable, to be knocked on the head by distressed peasants: however, it does not appear that any thing of the sort is frequent. On the surface of a large plain, the distant objects seem crowded together; but as you approach, they separate, and you find ample space between them: thus it is with these robberies. To you in England; France, Germany, and Italy, are all crowded together; and in these distant events, time as well as space is very much lost; when you come here and find that only one robbery has happened in six months, the danger does not seem very alarming. The south-western branch of the Lake of Como, like the upper part of Lago Maggiore, is inclosed by hills too uniform and unbroken to be altogether pleasing.
Como boasts a large and curious cathedral of the middle ages, but I did not find it out till it was too dark to make any particular observations upon it; and early the next morning I got into the diligence and came to Milan, of which I shall not, at present, attempt any description.
LETTER XV.
MILAN.
Milan, 23rd October, 1816.
I begin my account of this city with its celebrated cathedral, or duomo, as the Italians call it; for that word has no relation to what is called a dome in England, but in coming to us, has travelled as far from its original meaning, as from its original place. The emperor Joseph the Second reproached the Visconti with having transformed a mountain of money into a mountain of marble; such a remark from Vienna is too bad. It is said to have been designed by a German architect, of the name of Henry of Gamodia or Zamodia, but this does not sound very much like a German name; and what proof there is even of the existence of such a person I do not know: the original account of the expenses of the edifice makes no mention of him. Other authorities (says the Guide de l’étranger dans la ville de Milan) claim the honour for Mario di Campileone, native of a little village near Lugano. Be that as it may, the character of the building is rather of the German than of the Italian Gothic, though some particulars of the latter are distinguishable.
The present building was founded in 1385, by order of John Galeazzo, first duke of Milan. He died in 1402, and it is probable that most of the old work was performed during this interval. The church was not however consecrated till 1418, when the ceremony was performed by Pope Martin V. About the middle of the sixteenth century, St. Charles Borromeo undertook to complete the edifice, and employed Pellegrini to design a suitable front. This architect is said to have conceived the idea of so engrafting upon Gothic, the beauties of Grecian architecture, as to make an harmonious whole out of the discordant materials. If such were his endeavours, we need not wonder that he did not succeed. A part only of his design was executed by the direction of Cardinal Frederic Borromeo, the cousin and successor of St. Charles in the archbishoprick of Milan; and this part has been suffered to stand, although the completion of the rest of the façade in a style imitated from the Gothic, has served to make its utter discordance with the rest of the building, much more obstrusive. The central column and spire were added by Brunelleschi, for Philip, the son of John Galeazzo, who reigned from 1412 to 1447. The present front is by a modern architect of the name of Amati; both having shewn by these additions, their want of skill in Gothic architecture.
Separating the old work from its injudicious additions, and considering it only as a portion of an unfinished building, the exterior is very rich and very beautiful, with its parts well composed and well combined. The pinnacles rise gracefully from the general line, and are richly ornamented with subordinate pinnacles and statues; the material is a white marble, and the workmanship is very good. One may imagine what a sumptuous edifice it would have been, with two lofty western towers, and a light and highly decorated lantern in the centre. The Italian architects indeed have not generally adopted the western towers. The design below would be more in their usual taste, but in a building of so intermediate a style, it is difficult to say which was intended.
That an architect in Italy, where the pointed style is considered as unworthy of serious attention, should think, in restoring Gothic architecture, that he could improve it by approximating its mouldings and ornaments to those of the Roman, is not wonderful; but it is remarkable, that abstractedly from their want of suitable character, the modern ornaments are poorer in design than the ancient, and inferior in execution. At present, the ancient part of the lantern is surmounted by a slender steeple, whose outline is that of a column supporting a spire: this, as I have already said, was added by Brunelleschi; and it is astonishing, that living so nearly in the time of the Gothic architects, he should have been so deficient in understanding the character of their architecture. The front is a mere triangle, and excessively poor. The artists, among them, have contrived to produce a Gothic building, of which the outline, when contemplated as a simple mass without the details, is everywhere displeasing. Another remarkable circumstance is the want of apparent size. That it does not look very high (although the head of the figure which crowns the spires is 360 feet from the pavement,) may perhaps be attributed to its actual magnitude; yet in the distant view, where the lower part of the building is lost, it does not suggest the idea of a lofty edifice; and the front, although extending 200 feet, almost looks little. Perhaps this may arise in some degree from the style of the Italian houses, which are so much larger and loftier than ours.
The following are the principal dimensions of the building:
| Braccia. | Eng. Ft.[[30]] | In. | |
|---|---|---|---|
| Length internally | 248 | 493 | 4 |
| Whole width | 96 | 177 | 3 |
| Length of transept | 118 | ||
| Ditto, including the chapels | 146 | 283 | 10 |
| Width of transept and of choir | 64 | ||
| Thickness of piers | 4 | ||
| Thickness of walls | 4 | ||
| Height of the nave | 78 | 151 | 11 |
| Height of First aisles | 50 | ||
| Height of Second aisles | 40 | ||
| Height to the summit of the cupola | 112 | ||
| Height to the top of the lantern | 127 | 247 | 0 |
| Height to the top of spire and statue | 183 | 356 | 0 |
There are fifty-two piers, ninety-eight pinnacles, and inside and out, four thousand four hundred statues.
Pellegrini’s plan was to place ten Corinthian columns in front; but to judge from what is done, and from the three stories of windows of unequal elevation, he could hardly have proposed to unite them in a simple portico. The mouldings and ornaments were all of Roman architecture. Of this design, the columns were never erected, but the five doorways, and as many windows over them, are preserved as parts of the present composition. Two other windows of this design are concealed by Gothic tracery. The remainder, which is only just finished, is imitated from the old work; but the architect, by Grecising the ornaments, and cutting the upright mouldings, has failed as signally in the details, as in the general composition.
The first particulars which strike you on passing to the interior, are, that it is dark and gloomy, and that the leading lines are very much interrupted by the shrines introduced in the capitals of the piers, which injure also the apparent solidity of the building. And if you are told that it is nearly 500 feet long, 180 feet wide, and 150 feet high, you can hardly believe it. Indeed, as to the last dimension, I still remain incredulous; for whether I estimate the height by a general comparison with the other dimensions, or from summing up the estimated heights of the different parts which compose it, or from counting the steps which lead to the outside, and measuring some of them, it seems to me to fall short of 140; and it is necessary to be aware that the side aisles are 96 feet in height, to be reconciled even to that supposition. I do not know to what to attribute this want of apparent magnitude: the height of the side aisles certainly diminishes the appearance of that of the nave; but the width of the nave is not remarkably great in proportion to the other dimensions. At Amiens, this is 45 feet 6 inches. In York, our largest cathedral, it is 47; here it is about 55. In company with some other English gentlemen, I listened to a sermon there last Sunday: we did not hear very distinctly, but we probably lost something from our want of sufficient familiarity with the Italian language; for the people around us appeared to hear and comprehend, and they were very silent and attentive; the preacher was an old man, and the voice did not seem very clear or strong. According to Mr. Saunders, (Treatise on Theatres) the articulations of an ordinary human voice, are only heard distinctly to about the distance of eighty feet, and we were above seventy from the speaker. I had no conception of the distance till I came to calculate it.
With all these defects however, and with some feeling of disappointment from having heard so much of this building, it was impossible not to acknowledge the sublime effect of the interior. The style does not correspond with any of our English modes of pointed architecture. The vaulting is simple, without any branching ribs, or any ridge piece; it is so much supervaulted, that each bay appears to be the portion of a dome; and the disposition of the materials in concentric circles, or in portions of such circles, makes me believe that this is nearly the case. The windows of the clerestory are extremely small and insignificant; those of the side aisles are long and narrow. They are ornamented with quatre-foils: but a division of the height into two parts by arched ribs, which have not precisely the effect of transums, because they do not cross the window at the same level, indicate a very different period of taste from that of the rose and quatre-foil heads in France and England. The lower part of the capitals has something of the running foliage of the fourteenth century in England; but the shrine work, which forms their upper part, is perfectly unique; at least, I know nothing parallel, either in the work itself, or in the manner it is here introduced. The bases and the plans of the pillars are equally anomalous, and I think any person would be baffled in attempting to determine the date from the architecture; only he might safely decide that it could not be very early. The smallness of the upper windows produces a gloomy appearance, and oppressive feeling, like that of the cavern style of architecture in the south of France, with which it has nothing else in common. The height of 78 feet, which is that of the lower range of aisles, seems indeed to give plenty of room for the admission of an ample quantity of light from this part alone, but such a disposition seldom produces a pleasing effect. There are three fine large windows in the polygonal end of the choir, but even these are ill placed, and have little effect. A few days ago I went into the cathedral late in the evening; there was just light enough to enable me to walk about without striking the pillars, or running against any other persons in the church; but not enough to distinguish at any distance, those who were scattered about on their knees in various parts, or who were mumbling their prayers, or sleeping on the benches. In a small church the number of persons thus engaged would have appeared considerable, but here they hardly seemed to interrupt the solitude of the place. There was no noise; every one was perfectly silent. A few glimmering lamps feebly exhibited the altars at which they were placed, but diffused no general light in the church. In these circumstances the painted windows lost their colour; they were merely parts of the edifice lighter than the rest, and served to show that the deep gloom around was that of the building, and not that of night. What the extent of that building might be, either in length, breadth, or height, was left to the imagination. What is it, in such a scene, that so powerfully impresses the mind? There was no danger; if there had been, the impression might have been stronger, but it would have ceased to be accompanied with pleasure. Even without the sentiment of danger, I believe many persons would find the effect of such circumstances, rather oppressive, than agreeable: for myself, I am rather exhilarated than depressed by gloom, while a strong light disturbs and depresses me, and seems inimical both to reflection and enjoyment.
The roof of this edifice is covered with slabs of marble. It is everywhere accessible, and is a fine place on which to ramble about undisturbed, and examine the details of the architecture; or turning our eyes to more distant objects, to survey the wide extended plain of fertile Lombardy, and the long continued ridges of the distant Alps. Even at this distance (near eighty English miles) I never contemplate the splendid summit of Monte Rosa, without a new impression of its stupendous magnificence.
The Guide de l’étranger points out many churches besides the cathedral as deserving notice, and I have made a little tour to such as appeared from the description, the most interesting; but very few presented any thing to detain me beyond the first glance. They are not in general beautiful, either on the inside or the out; but we meet with some happy effects. As antiquities, most of them have lost their interest by being modernized, particularly the inside; and this seems to have been done very much at one period, probably about the time of St. Charles Borromeo.
J. Hawksworth Sculp.
Steeple of St Gothard
London. Published by J & A. Arch. Cornhill, March 1st. 1828.
The steeple of St. Gothard, built in 1336, is a curious specimen of that age; it is of brick, except the little shafts which decorate it, and these are of stone. The four lower stories appearing above the roof of the church, are plain octagons, with unequal faces, with a row of ornamental intersecting arches to each cornice, and a shaft or bead at each angle, which interrupts all the cornices. There is a little window in the lowest but one, but it appears to have been broken through at a later period; the fourth has on each face, a window divided into two parts by a little column, and each part finishes in a small semicircular arch. This sort of arrangement occurs in the early architecture of France, of the eleventh, and perhaps of part of the twelfth century, but I think not later. In the fifth story, the angular shafts receive their capitals, and unite with other shafts on the faces of the octagon to support a series of little arches; but as the angular shafts intersect the little cornices of each story, and consequently pass beyond the upright of the plain faces, while the intermediate shafts are within that line, the latter are broken into two heights, one projecting before the other. Over this are two stories, rather smaller than those below, and forming an equal sided octagon; and above all is a spire, cut to indicate scales or shingles, terminating in a globe, and a little winged figure supporting a weathercock. I have dwelt more fully on these details, because they so strongly distinguish the Lombard buildings, from similar edifices of the same period in France or England; and because also they shew the necessity of a new system of dates, when we would determine the epoch of a building by the peculiarities of its architecture. Though built in the fourteenth century, it exhibits more of what we call Norman than of the Gothic; and perhaps the Italians never entirely abandoned that mode of building for any consistent style, till the restoration of the Roman architecture in the fifteenth century, under Brunelleschi. There are several steeples at Milan of this sort, but this is the best. It was highly extolled by contemporary writers; and it derives some additional interest from having contained the first clock which ever sounded the hours. In the earliest buildings of this kind, there are no intersections in the little ornamental arches of the several cornices: the later the edifices, the more complicated is this decoration, and in the steeple of St. Gothard, some of them are composed of four series of interwoven semicircular arches.
The Milan Guide says, that the church of the Passione is one of the handsomest in Milan; I found it very large and very ugly. Near to it is a shabby little church, I know not to whom dedicated, which struck me as giving the outline of what perhaps, ought to have been the composition of the cathedral; a large octagonal lantern at the intersection, and at the west end two towers rising considerably higher than the lantern. Under every disadvantage, the experiment proves the excellence of such an arrangement.
In all the churches of Milan, in whatever style, the arches are retained in both directions by iron bars. One would think it a point of taste with the Milanese, if that were possible, and indeed the Milan Guide does speak of it as one of the valuable inventions of modern times. A large tie-beam, generally gilt, is also seen to the arch which opens into the choir; and upon the tie-beam a crucifix, and over that a canopy of crimson silk, or velvet; nothing can be worse in point of taste, but it is curious, as exhibiting the probable origin of the rood-lofts of our own cathedrals.
Many of the churches at Milan lay claim to a high antiquity; but as I have already observed, they have been generally modernized. That of the Madonna near San Celso, was built towards the close of the fifteenth century. The architecture has been attributed to Bramante, and to Solari, a Milanese, while the font is the design of Galeazzo Alessi, who was not born till about the year 1500. It exhibits no trace of Gothic architecture; unless it should be contended that the general distribution of a Christian church, even of the present day, is borrowed from that style. The entrance is from a court surrounded by arcades, which has a very elegant appearance. Courts of this sort are said to have been frequent appendages to the early Basilican churches. It is surprising that they have not been introduced more frequently, for they add a dignity to the building, by seeming to separate it from the bustle of the world; and they rather enhance than diminish the effect of the architecture, by limiting the point of view. The edifice is of marble, and both the court and the interior of the church are well proportioned, and produce a pleasing impression, though the details are bad.
The little church of San Satyro, still exhibits some of the architecture of the ninth century. It is a mere fragment, of no great interest, except as it serves to prove that the taste of that period was very much like that which we call Norman, with capitals more nearly resembling the ancient Corinthian; but I could not trace any thing of the Beautems de Rome, which is said to characterize this edifice.
The church of St. Eustorgio deserves a passing glance; the outside is of brick, probably of the thirteenth century, as in 1220 it came into the possession of the Dominicans; the inside has been modernized, but it contains some interesting tombs of the Visconti, and of the early restorers of Greek literature in Italy. Here also they pretend to shew the marble sarcophagi of the three wise men—kings they are pleased to call them, who followed the star of our Saviour from the East. An archbishop is said to have brought the bones from Asia to Milan in the fourth century; and Frederic Barbarossa in the twelfth, seized and carried them to Cologne. Prester John, who it seems valued himself on his descent from these kings, (query from all?) sent here some offerings to their relics in the fifteenth century, and these have also been carried to Cologne. The guide-book vouches for the latter part of the story, though it acknowledges that the bodies or bones of the Magi were never here; for my part I vouch for nothing, but leave you to accept or reject what you please.
Next to the cathedral, the most interesting church in Milan is certainly that of St. Ambrose, or perhaps many might put it in the first place. It is said to be the very church which that saint closed against Theodosius after the massacre at Thessalonica, in 390. They even pretend on the spot, to shew you the identical doors; but the more probable opinion is, that these doors are of the ninth century, made by order of the Archbishop Anspert; they are covered with a profusion of carving in figures and foliage, but the wire-work added to protect them almost hides the detail. The most ancient part of the building which presents any character of architecture, is probably of the same period, though one would not venture to deny that some remains of the original church of St. Ambrose may still exist. The court in front is acknowledged to be of the ninth century, and the church exhibits very much of the same style of art. This court is a parallelogram surrounded by arcades, having three arches at each end and six on each side. The walls abound with fragments of inscriptions, and one or two curious tombs are built up in them, particularly a large rude sarcophagus of Paganus Petrasanta, captain of the Florentines, who died in 800, and at whose funeral four cardinals were present. Considerable vestiges of the old painting in stucco remain on the wall, but the subject is no longer discernible. This stucco must have covered up the inscriptions, unless indeed they have been recently inserted. On the side of the court next the church, is a second story of arches of unequal heights, surmounted with a gable, the sloping line of which is enriched by little ornamental semicircular arches, some formed on the sloping line entirely, some with a little perpendicular appendage, and some
springing on horizontal lines; nor need you be surprised at this diversity, since a similar irregularity of disposition has been observed in the modillions and dentils of the pediments in Roman architecture. These little arches run round the cornice of the court, and are almost the only ornament it has. The piers, which support the arches of the court, are formed each of two half columns attached to an oblong pillar; they are of stone, and have rude leafy capitals, with hardly any projection. The upper arches, and the central lower arch next the church, have the archivolts of stone, rudely, but richly carved; every thing else is of brick. It appears from this description, that there is nothing in the details of the design, or in the execution of this little court, to demand our admiration; and yet it is exceedingly beautiful, from the mere simplicity and harmony of the general disposition. The tower is a square brick building, the panels of which are marked by little shafts of stone, and finish at the top in rows of ornamental arches without intersections. The inside of the church was originally divided on the plan, into square portions, each division having two semicircularly arched openings on each side, on the ground, and two above to the gallery; and a vaulting of semicircular groined arches. The two first squares remain in this state, but the third has two pointed groins springing from a lower point; the strong ribs which separate the squares, unite likewise in a point. The fourth square is that of the lantern, which, from the external appearance, is probably an addition of the thirteenth century; within, it is entirely modernized. There is no transept. The parallel walls of the building continue a little beyond the lantern, and the building terminates in an ancient niche or apsis.
None of the churches here have that elevation of the middle above the sides, to which we are accustomed in our Gothic edifices; there is at most only room for a range of small windows above the arches of the aisles, and sometimes, as in the present example, not even for that; they are consequently much lower in proportion to their dimensions on the plan, but they may help to show, that beauty is not confined to one scale of proportion, as two or three of them produce a very pleasing effect, and amongst others, S. Ambrogio is good in this particular. Yet I rather imagine, that it requires a practised eye to be able to judge of this proportion, and to be pleased with it, when the building taken as a whole is faulty; and that a man of good taste, not accustomed to analyze the composition, is very likely to condemn the church as he finds it, proportion and all. At my first visit the last rites were celebrated to one who had been an abbot. The church was hung with black tapestry; but broad borders of gold and silver tissue, covered nearly as much space as the black. The Italians seem unable to bear the gloom of entire black, and choose to introduce something of gaiety and splendour, even in their funerals. The pall was of white satin, embroidered with coloured flowers, and the mitre and crosiers were laid over it on the coffin. Although it was mid-day, the church was lighted up with multitudes of wax candles, and a man dressed entirely in scarlet, stockings included, walked from one to the other, to collect the wax which guttered down from them. Each candle seemed composed of four stuck together, which I apprehend to be very well calculated to make the wax run down, and as this is, I believe, a perquisite of some of the inferior officers, it may really be an object. One candle was neglected, and an old woman interrupted her prayers, to pick up a fine lump of wax, which fell down from it; her cautious look round, to see that no one belonging to the church observed her, shewed that she felt she was stealing; but I suppose the moral sense of the poor in Italy is hardly high enough to condemn with severity, petty thieving, or petty cheating. In the churches of France, I used to find more women than men; I think in Italy, or at least in Milan, the men are more numerous than the women. All seem very devout, and are very silent.
To return to the architecture of the church. The choir has been modernized, except the apsis, which is ornamented with mosaics representing our Saviour, and with saints and angels. It is said to have been executed by Greek artists in the tenth century; the pieces of the mosaic are formed of a thin lamina of gold, or metal, laid on a thick die of glass, and covered with a very thin plate of the same material, and the whole united by exposure to heat. In a little chapel of San Satyro in this church, is another mosaic of the same sort, which is thought to be still more ancient.
The great altar contains the ashes of St. Ambrose, St. Gervase, and St. Protasius; over it is a canopy, supported on four columns, of a beautiful red porphyry. The canopy is attributed to the ninth century, (if I understand rightly) but the columns are esteemed much more ancient, and I dare say they are so, but not in their present situation; they pass through the present paving, and tradition says that they are as much below it as they are above, which is about ten feet. The bases of the piers in the nave shew the pavement there to have been raised above a foot; that of the choir is about two feet above that of the nave; if we add these two dimensions, equal to three feet, to the present height of the columns above the pavement, we shall probably have their total height. The canopy is composed of four arches, each somewhat exceeding a semicircle, and of four gables of a greenish colour, richly adorned with gold. The ornament of the archivolt is formed of a series of intersecting arches, all gilt, and little gilt crockets run along the gables. The altar is also said to be very rich with gold, silver, and precious stones; but it was covered with a case, and I did not see it. Besides the altar, this church contains part of a granite column with a marble capital, much too small for the shaft; and upon this is the identical brazen serpent made by Moses for the Children of Israel in the wilderness. More moderate people say, that it was made in imitation of that of Moses; but these do not specify where the artist of the present, could have seen the ancient one, or how he could have made a copy, without knowing any thing of the original. It is entirely devoid of use or beauty, and does not seem to be an object of reverence. Near this is a sculptured sarcophagus of white marble, of Christian times, and supposed to have been made to receive the ashes of Stilico, and his wife Serena. Without entering very minutely into the truth of these more reasonable traditions, they are certainly very pleasant, and seem to bring history home to us; and they do really by increasing our associations with it, fix it more firmly on the mind. Over this sarcophagus, and partly resting on it, is a marble pulpit, which with the eagle of gilt bronze which forms the reading desk, is of the time of Frederic I. i. e. of the twelfth century.
On leaving this church I went to visit a little chapel, where St. Augustine was baptized; but it has been modernized. I was much disappointed, because, as the interest of the place depended entirely on the event which took place there, it is palpably of importance, to any impression received from it, that the original form and disposition should as much as possible be preserved; and the Roman Catholic clergy generally know how to give effect to their religious establishments.
Another church which interested me very much, is the Madonna delle Grazie. It did belong to a rich convent of Dominicans, celebrated for containing the Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci. The front of this edifice has suggested to me, the idea of what that of the cathedral might have been. The nave is ancient, with a sort of half modernization which lets the antique character peep through; to this have been added a large square edifice, forming the centre of the building, crowned with a lantern of sixteen sides, and a choir. The central part is just of the beginning of the restoration of Roman architecture, and retains traces of Gothic taste; but the parts are so well disposed, and so well combined, that it forms one of the most picturesque compositions possible. The Last Supper still exists in a room in the convent; but it is in so bad a state, that hardly any thing but the design and composition are readily intelligible. The head of our Saviour is said by Vasari to have been left unfinished by Leonardo; but Lanzi rather throws a doubt on this fact, though he acknowledges that in its present state, three heads of the apostles alone remain of the original work. However this may be, the expression of the head of Christ pleased me very much; but I shall not presume to enter on the merits of the painting, a subject already so often treated. The damage is principally owing to time and damp, though the feet of our Saviour were cut away by a superior of the convent to heighten a doorway; and some mischief was done by the French troops, and especially by the cavalry, who were stationed there in 1796; but I think from the carelessness and inattention unavoidable in these circumstances, and not from that systematic love of destruction which Eustace attributes to the French in all cases. The woman who showed it said she had known the water stand three feet deep in the room. Under Eugène Beauharnois it was drained; and I believe every thing possible has since been done for the preservation of the picture. On the opposite wall is a composition in distemper, anterior to Leonardo, on which two figures in oil were painted by him, previous to the execution of his own subject, which was done in oil. The ancient distemper remains much more perfect than either these figures, or those of the Last Supper.
Another of the churches I visited at Milan is that of St. Mark; the proportions of which are very good, though low in comparison with those usual with us. It was built in the thirteenth century, and its beauty is said to have passed into a proverb; the front seems to have had a magnificent rose window, which is now filled up; the inside has been entirely modernized, but enough of the exterior remains to shew how very inferior the architecture of Italy was, at that period, to that of France and England. Though adopting a slightly pointed arch, the buildings do not seem to have risen above the plainness and rudeness of the Saxon style, till the middle of the fourteenth century. The artists then began to copy the forms they found in France, but without adopting the greatly elevated nave, and without abandoning the strong expression of horizontal line, and horizontal extent, which they had retained from the Roman architecture. In the following age, Gothic was entirely abandoned.
Besides the churches, many public and private edifices at Milan are pointed out to the notice of strangers. The first I shall mention is the Palace of the government. While Eugene was there something was added every year to its embellishments; but now this has ceased. The principal suite of apartments is hung with tapestry, with large cornices, and broad gilt borders, and ornamented with painted ceilings; such materials, if tolerably well disposed, always produce an appearance of splendour and princely magnificence; and this effect is not wanting here. I considered how far Mrs. Schimmelpenning’s theory of the superiority of light borders might be here illustrated. The relation of the colour of the plain surface to that of the border, is very various, but the lightest did not seem always the best; however, I so far agreed with her, as to think that borders lighter than the ground, have sometimes a degree of delicacy and elegance, which can hardly be attained by the contrary disposition. In general it appeared to me, that the rooms hung with yellow are the handsomest. I remarked this also at the Palazzo Litte, where are two large rooms almost alike, one hung with crimson, the other with yellow damask; and the effect of the latter was far superior to that of the former. Next to yellow, blue and crimson are the best colours. Green is the worst; but one room, sprinkled over with large and high coloured flowers on a white ground, was exceedingly tawdry, and much inferior, even to those where the green was predominant. The ceilings are painted in fresco on the cove, and in the middle, with ornaments in general very well designed and well executed; and with subjects of history or allegory. These are partly the productions of a Roman, of the name, I believe, of Traballesi; and partly of Appiani, a native of Milan, scholar of the former. The scholar’s works are excellent; full, rich, and harmonious; and far exceed the master’s. Of the floors, some are very beautifully inlaid with different sorts of wood; others are of the Venetian stucco, which receives different kinds of marble, while yet soft, and the whole is afterwards polished down to an even surface. When well done, it is very handsome. Some of the rooms are hung with Gobelin tapestry, which at the best, forms only indifferent pictures. Besides this suite there are two large and lofty saloons, the largest of which has a gallery supported by caryatides, one or two of which are justly admired for their execution; particularly a female, covered with a veil. When first pointed out to me, I thought the face had really been covered with a linen veil, in order to preserve it. The other is a music room, the ceiling of which is supported by columns. Both these rooms have been ornamented with paintings representing the exploits of Napoleon, which are now removed.
The Brera was formerly the principal establishment of the order of the Umiliati, who in the middle of the sixteenth century were found, like so many other religious orders, to have departed very far from that humility and piety, which was the first object of their institution. St. Charles Borromeo attempted to reform them; and on this occasion their chiefs are accused of endeavouring to assassinate the saint. The order was suppressed in consequence of this charge in 1570, and this building was given to the Jesuits for the establishment of public schools; and it is still used for this purpose, and for the academy of the fine arts. The great court is surrounded by two stories of arcades, the lower upon coupled Doric, the upper upon coupled Ionic columns. On the side of the entrance a double range of these archways gives room for the great staircase. The judgment does not easily reconcile itself to arches upon columns; or on posts; for a column is only an ornamented stone post; yet I confess there is sometimes a delightful lightness and airiness of effect, produced by the distribution, which I should be very much puzzled to obtain by any other means. With regard to painting, I seem here to have got into a new world. The number of pictures at Milan is astonishing; not perhaps of absolutely first rate productions, but still very fine ones. The grandest collection is in the Brera, and one feels quite dazzled and almost overwhelmed by the splendour of art there exhibited: but however delightful it is to have ready access to such a gallery, I am aware that nothing is more dull, than a long enumeration and description of paintings you cannot see; and I shall therefore abstain from particularizing them. I have learnt here a great respect for names which make very little noise in England. The drawing and design of some of the frescos of Bernardino Luini are most excellent; and the smaller pieces of Daniele Crespi are very fine, as are some of the pictures of Giulio Cesare Procaccini. Besides many first rate pictures, and these of the second rate, of the Milanese school, the Brera contains a great number of ancient paintings; extremely valuable to those who examine the history of the art, and trace its progress, from the stiff attitudes and hard finish of early times, to the grace of Coreggio, and the glow of Titian. It contains also a fine collection of casts, and one of engravings. There are likewise rooms for the exhibition of the produce of the useful arts; and attached to it is a botanic garden. Every body must find his curiosity gratified in the Brera.
The churches in Milan are full of good paintings, the chief performers in which are Luini, Crespi, and Procaccini; but they are mostly in bad lights, and the row of wax candles stuck in front of them is unfavourable to their effect: but even in the poorest paintings, there is a knowledge of drawing and colouring, and a grace in the position of the figures, which we should seek in vain in the common productions of France and our own country.
I have said nothing of the Great hospital, and I have very little to say about it; for it possesses little interest as an object of architecture. It is very large; about, I suppose, twice as big as the new Bedlam. It was begun in the middle of the fifteenth century by duke Francis Sforza, and has been increased at different times; the last addition being in consequence of a bequest of a Dr. Macchi, who lived in misery, in order to be able to leave three millions of livres to this hospital. Every body is received, whatever may be their country, their religion, or their disorder; and it possesses moreover a magnificent dispensary, where medicines are delivered to the poor, gratis, on the specification of any physician that they require them, but where also they are sold to those who can afford to pay for them.
There are many fine houses in Milan; but were I to particularize every thing which attracts my attention, I should never have done. The only Roman antiquity is a range of sixteen Corinthian columns, with their architrave, said to have been part of the public bath. They are very much mutilated, but enough remains to shew that they were of good style and well executed.
One of the principal lions in Milan, is the workshop of Rafaelli, who is just finishing a copy in mosaic of the last supper of Leonardo da Vinci; the labour of seven years, began by order of Eugene, and continued for the Emperor of Austria. These mosaics have the richness and depth of colour of oil paintings, and they last for ever. Had I been a rich man, I think I should have been tempted to throw away twenty louis d’or on a snuff-box, on which a greyhound was most beautifully executed; but I suspect it is rather in bad taste to have trinkets in mosaic, as its great merit consists in its durability, and a snuff-box does not seem intended to last for centuries.