Here we arrived about an hour ago; for the last two miles the country was a perfect garden—cherries, gooseberries, apple-trees, corn, vineyards, all chequered together in profusion; in other respects nothing remarkable....
The first sight of Paris, or rather its situation, is about 10 miles off, when the heights of Montmartre, on one side, and the dome of the Hôpital des[109] Invalides on the other reminded us of their trophies and disasters at the same time....
Now you must enter our rooms in l'Hôtel des Etrangers, rue du Hazard, as I know you wish to see minutely. First walk, if you please, into an antechamber paved with red hexagon tiles (dirty enough, to be sure), and the saloon also, into which you next enter through a pair of folding doors. This saloon is in the genuine tawdry French style—gold and silver carving work and dirt are the component features. It is about 20 feet square, plenty of chairs, sofas of velvet, and so forth, but only one wretched rickety table in the centre. Two folding doors open into our bedroom, which is in furniture pretty much like the rest; the beds are excellent—fitted up in a sort of tent fashion—and mine has a looking-glass occupying the whole of one side, in which I may at leisure contemplate myself in my night-cap, for I cannot discover for what other purpose it was placed there.
Now let us take a walk—put on thick shoes or you will find yourself rather troubled with the paving stones, for nothing like a flagged footpath exists; a slight inclination from each side terminates in a central gutter, from which are exploded showers of mud by the passing carriages and cabriolets. You must get on as you can; horse and foot, coaches and carts are jumbled together, and he who walks in Paris must have his eyes about him. The streets are in general narrow and irregular, and so much alike that it requires no small skill to find[110] one's way home again. Ariadne in Paris would wish for her clue. First we ascended the bronze column[40] in the Place de Vendôme—figure to yourself a column perfect in proportions much resembling Nelson's in Dublin, ornamented after the plan of Trajan's pillar—all of bronze, on which the operations of the wars and victories in Germany are recorded. Bonaparte's statue crowned it, but that was removed. The column itself, however, will remain an eternal statue commemorating his deeds, and though the Eagles and letter N are rapidly effacing from every quarter, this must last till Paris shall be no more. From the top of this pillar you of course have a magnificent view, and it must have been a choice spot from whence to behold the fight of Montmartre. It will scarcely interest you much to say much about the other public buildings, suffice it to say that all the improvements are in the very best style—magnificent to the last degree; they may be the works of a Tyrant, but it was a Tyrant of taste, who had more sense than to spend 120,000 Louis in sky-rockets. His public buildings at least were for the public good, and were ornaments to his capital.
But let us turn from inanimate to living objects; since I penned the last line I have been sitting with Mme. de Staël.... By appointment we[111] called at 12.[41] For a few moments we waited in a gaudy drawing-room; the door then opened and an elderly form dressed à la jeunesse appeared; she is not ugly; she is not vulgar (Edward begs to differ from this opinion, he thinks her ugly beyond measure); her countenance is pleasing, but very different from anything my fancy had formed; a pale complexion not far from that of a white Mulatto, if you will allow me to make the bull; her eyebrows dark and her hair quite sable, dry and crisp like a negro's, though not quite so curling. She scarcely gave me time to make my compliments in French before she spoke in fluent English. I was not sorry she fought under British colors, for though she was never at a loss, I knew I could express and defend myself better than had she spoken in French. I hurried her as much as decency would permit from one subject to another, but I found politics were uppermost in her thoughts.... She was equally averse to both parties—to the royal because she said it was despotism; the Imperial because it was tyranny. "Is there," said I, "no happy medium; are there none who can feel the advantages of liberty, and wish for a free constitution?" "None," said she, "but myself and a few—some 12 or 15—we are nothing; not enough to make a dinner party." I ventured to throw in a little flattery—I knew my ground[112]—and remarked that an opinion like hers, which had in some measure influenced Europe, was in itself an host; the compliment was well received, and in truth I could offer it conscientiously to pay tribute to her abilities.
On leaving Mme. de S. we paid another visit. From the greatest woman we went to see our greatest man in Paris, Sir Charles Stuart,[42] to whom Lord Sheffield had given me a letter of introduction. This had been sent the day before, and of course I now went to see the effect. After waiting in the Anti-chamber of the great man for about half an hour, and seeing divers and sundry faces pass and repass in review, we were summoned to an audience. We found a little, vulgar-looking man, whom I should have mistaken for the great man's butler if he had not first given a hint that he was bonâ fide the great man himself. I think the conversation was nearly thus: E. S.: "Pray, Sir, are the Marshalls in Paris, and if so is it easy to see them?" Sir C. S.: "Upon my soul I don't know." E. S.: "Pray, Sir, is there anything interesting to a stranger like myself likely to take place in the course of the next fortnight?" Sir C. S.: "Upon[113] my soul I don't know." E. S.: "Pray, Sir, is the interior of the Thuilleries worth seeing, and could we easily see the apartments?" Sir C. S.: "Upon my soul I don't know." This, I do assure you, was the cream of the conversation. Now certainly a great man ought to look wise and say he does not know so and so, when in fact he knows all about it, but somehow or other I could not help thinking that Sir Charles spoke the truth, for if I may draw any inference from Physiognomy, I never saw a face upon which the character of "upon my soul I don't know" was more visibly stamped. I left my card, bowed, and retired....
I next turned my eyes to the Louvre.[43] What are the exhibitions of London, modern or ancient? What are Lord Stafford's, Grosvenor's, Angerstein's, &c., in comparison with this unrivalled gallery? Words cannot describe the coup d'œil. Figure to yourself a magnificent room so long that you would be unable to recognise a person at the other extremity, so long that the perspective lines terminate in a point, covered with the finest works of art all classed and numbered so as to afford the utmost facility of inspection; no questions asked on entering, no money to be given to bowing porters or butlers, no cards of admission procured by interest—all open to the public view, unfettered and unshackled; the liberality of the exhibition is increased by the appearance of Easels and desks occupied by artists[114] who copy at leisure. It is noble and grand beyond imagination. In the Halls below are the Statues, arranged with equal taste, though, as they are in different rooms, the general effect is not so striking. I recognised all my old friends, the Venus de Medicis was alone new to me. She is sadly mutilated, but is still the admiration of all persons of sound judgment and orthodox taste, amongst whom, I regret to say, I deserve not to be classed, as I really cannot enter into the merits of statues, and the difference between a perfect and moderate specimen of sculpture appears to me infinitely less than between good and moderate paintings....
After dining at a Restaurateur's, who gave us a most excellent dinner, wine, &c., for about 3s. a head, we went to the Théâtre Français, or the Drury Lane of Paris. We expected to see Talma[44] in Mérope, but his part was taken by one who is equally famous, Dufour, and the female part by Mme. Roncour. She was intolerable, though apparently a great favourite; he tolerable, and that is all I can say. In truth, French tragedy is little to my taste.... The best part of the play was the opportunity it afforded "les bonnes gens" de Paris to show their loyalty, and much gratified I was in hearing some enthusiastic applause of certain passages as they applied to the return of their ancient sovereign. There is something very sombre and vulgar in the French playhouses with the men's boots and the women's bonnets. Could I in an instant[115] waft you from the solitudes of Stoke to the clatter of Paris, how you would stare to see the boxes filled with persons almost extinguished in their enormous casques of straw and flowers. I have seen several bearing, in addition to other ornaments, a bunch of 5 or 6 lilies as large as life....