Paris, January 5th, 1829.
My most dear and valued Friend,
I could not write to you yesterday, because the diligence takes two days and a night to go from Calais to Paris, though it stops but once in twelve hours to eat, and then only for half an hour. The ride is not the most agreeable. The whole country, and even its metropolis, certainly appears somewhat dead, miserable, and dirty, after the rolling torrent of business, the splendour and the neatness of England. The contrast is doubly striking at this short distance. When you look at the grotesque machine in which you are seated, the wretchedly harnessed cart-horses by which you are slowly dragged along, and remember the noble horses, the elegant light-built coaches, the beautiful harness ornamented with bright brass and polished leather of England, you think you are transported a thousand miles in a dream. The bad roads, the miserable and dirty towns, awaken the same feeling. On the other hand, four things are manifestly better here,—climate, eating and drinking, cheapness, and sociability. ‘Mais commençons par le commencement.’ After I had exchanged my incognito passport for one equally provisional, and valid only as far as Paris, in the course of which operation I had nearly forgotten my new name, I approached the wonderful structure, which in France people have agreed to call a diligence. The monster was as long as a house, and consisted, in fact, of four distinct carriages, grown, as it were, together; the berline in the middle; a coach with a basket for luggage behind; a coupé in front; and a cabriolet above, where the conducteur sits, and where I also had perched myself. This conducteur, an old soldier of Napoleon’s Garde, was dressed like a wagoner, in a blue blouze, with a stitched cap of the same material on his head. The postillion was a still more extraordinary figure, and really looked almost like a savage: he too wore a blouze, under which appeared monstrous boots coated with mud; but besides this he wore an apron of untanned black sheep’s-skin, which hung down nearly to his knees. He drove six horses, harnessed three-and-three, which drew a weight of six thousand pounds over a very bad road. The whole road from Calais to Paris is one of the most melancholy and uninteresting I ever saw. I should therefore have read nearly all the way, had not the conversation of the conducteur afforded me better entertainment. His own heroic deeds and those of the Garde were an inexhaustible theme; and he assured me without the slightest hesitation, “que les trente mille hommes dont il faisoit partie dans ce tempslà,” (that was his expression,) “auraient été plus que suffisans pour conquérir toutes les nations de la terre, et que les autres n’avaient fait que gâter l’affaire.” He sighed every time he thought of his Emperor. “Mais c’est sa faute,” exclaimed he, “ah! s—— d—— il serait encore Empéreur, si dans les cent jours il avait seulement voulu employer de jeunes gens qui désiraient faire fortune, au lieu de ces vieux Maréchaux qui étaient trop riches, et qui avaient tous peur de leurs femmes. N’étaient ils pas tous gros et gras commes des monstres? Ah! parlez moi d’un jeune, Colonel, comme nous en avions! Celui-là vous aurait flanqué ça de la jolie manière.—Mais après tout l’Empéreur aurait dû se faira tuer à Waterloo comme notre Colonel. Eh bien, Monsieur, ce brave Colonel avait reçu trois coups de feu, un à la jambe, et deux dans le corps, et pourtant il nous ménait encore à l’attaque, porté par deux grénadiers. Mais quand tout fut en vain et tout fini pour nous; Camérades, dit-il, j’ai fait ce que j’ai pû, mais nous voilà.—Je ne puis plus rendre service à l’Empéreur, à quoi bon vivre plus long temps? Adieu donc, mes Camérades—Vive l’Empéreur! Et le voilà qui tire son pistolet, et le décharge dans sa bouche. C’est ainsi, ma foi, que l’Empéreur aurait dû finir aussi.”
Here we were interrupted by a pretty girl, who ran out of a poor-looking house by the road side, and called up to us, (for we were at least eight ells from the ground,) “Ah ça, Monsieur le Conducteur, oubliez vous les craipes?” “O ho! es tu là, mon enfant?” and he rapidly scrambled down the accustomed break-neck steps, made the postillion stop, and disappeared in the house. After a few minutes he came out with a packet, seated himself with an air of great satisfaction by me, and unfolded a prodigious store of hot smoking German Plinzen, a dish which, as he told me, he had learned to like so much in Germany, that he had imported it into his own country. Conquests are, you see, productive of some good. With French politeness he immediately begged me to partake of his ‘goûté,’ as he called it; and patriotism alone would have led me to accept his offer with pleasure. I must however admit that no farmer in Germany could have prepared his national dish better.
He was greatly troubled and distressed by a strange machine, nearly in the form of a pump, placed near his seat, with which he was incessantly busied; now pumping at it with all his might, then putting it in order, screwing it round or turning it backwards and forwards. On inquiry, I learned that this was a most admirable newly-invented piece of machinery, for the purpose of retarding the diligence without the aid of a drag-shoe. The conducteur was amazingly proud of this contrivance, never called it by any other name than ‘sa méchanique,’ and treated it with equal tenderness and reverence. Unhappily this prodigy broke the first day; and as we were forced in consequence to creep more slowly than before, the poor hero had to endure a good many jokes from the passengers, on the frailty of his ‘méchanique,’ as well as on the name of his huge vehicle, ‘l’Hirondelle,’ a name which truly seemed to have been given it in the bitterest irony.
It was irresistibly droll to hear the poor devil, at every relay, regularly advertise the postillion of the misfortune which had happened. The following dialogue, with few variations, always ensued: “Mon enfant, il faut que tu saches que je n’ai plus de méchanique.” “Comment, s—— d——, plus de méchanique?” “Ma méchanique fait encore un peu, vois-tu, mais c’est très peu de chose, le principal brancheron est au diable.” “Ah, diable!”
It was impossible to be worse seated, or to travel more uncomfortably or tediously than I in my lofty cabriolet: and indeed I had now been for some time deprived of my most familiar comforts: yet never were my health or my spirits better than during this whole journey: I felt uninterrupted cheerfulness and content, because I was completely free. Oh! inestimable blessing of freedom, never do we value thee enough! If every man would but clearly ascertain what were actually necessary to his individual happiness and content, and would unconditionally choose what best promised to secure that end, and heartily reject all the rest (for we cannot have everything at once in this world), how many mistakes were avoided, how much petty ambition crushed, how much true joy and pleasure promoted! All would find a great over-proportion of happiness in life, instead of torturing themselves to the very brink of the grave to obtain what gives them neither tranquillity nor enjoyment.
I will not weary you with any further details of so uninteresting a journey. It was like the melo-drame “One o’clock,” and as tiresome. The day we left Calais we stopped at one to dine; at one in the morning we supped: the next day at one we had breakfast or dinner at Beauvais, where a pretty girl who waited on us, and a friend of Bolivar’s, who told us a great deal about the disinterestedness of the Liberator, made us regret our quick departure; and again, at one in the morning, we had to fight for our luggage at the Custom-house at Paris. My servant put mine upon a ‘charrette’ which a man crowded before us through the dark and dirty streets to the Hotel St. Maurice, where I am now writing to you in a little room in which the cold wind whistles through all the doors and windows, so that the blazing fire in the chimney warms me only on one side. The silken hangings, as well as the quantity of dirt they cover; the number of looking-glasses; the large blocks of wood on the fire; the tile parquet,—all recall vividly to my mind that I am in France, and not in England.
I shall rest here a few days and make my purchases, and then hasten to you, without, if possible, seeing one acquaintance; ‘car celà m’entrainerait trop,’ Do not, therefore, expect to hear anything new from old Paris. A few detached remarks are all that I shall have to offer you.
January 6th.