The gilded dome of the Church of the Invalids, from whatever point it can be seen, is the ornament of Paris, and it is an ornament because it is gilded. A dome is, on the outside, an ugly and heavy object to the view; and therefore gilding, or what is better, architectural ornament, like that left incomplete at Florence, is well employed on a dome. I know I have Cicero against me, who speaks in high praise of the dome of the Capitol. Cicero and the Capitol are great names; but, much as I venerate that great orator and philosopher, I hope there is no harm in saying, that I have seen more domes than he had an opportunity of seeing. I reserve what I have to say on the interior of domes till I shall arrive at St. Peter's and the Pantheon. The Church of the Invalids is a very handsome one: I attended military mass there: none but those who have proved it can judge of the fine effect produced, on such an occasion, by the military music and ceremonial.
The Halle aux Bleds is an object very likely to be overlooked by an elegant traveller. I have heard of a young man of fashion, who, being requested to call at Child's bank, declared he never had been so far in the city in his life. In this Halle is deposited the corn and flour brought for the supply of Paris: it is conveniently situated for the distribution of this supply, being in the most populous quarter of the city; but the streets leading to it are narrow; and it has, unfortunately both for its commercial uses and for the view of it, no open space around it. It is in form and dimensions exactly like the Pantheon at Rome, without the portico: no timber is employed in its construction; it is built entirely of stone and iron; even the doors are of iron. I know not if I saw it on a gloomy day, or if the sky of Italy be clearer than that of France, or if the corn and flour sacks hindered the reflection of the sun; but, though the opening at the top be equally large, it did not seem to admit so much day-light as that of the Pantheon.
Napoleon did much, and projected still more, for the embellishment of Paris. The pillar in the Place Vendôme is superior to those of Trajan and Antonine in every thing, but in the veneration due to antiquity and the name of Rome. His son bore the title of King of that ancient capital of the world; and for him,—for the king of Rome,—was projected a palace on the right bank of the Seine opposite the Hôtel des Invalides, that from his infancy the view of these emeriti of French valour might inspire him with an ardour for military exploits, and that these warriors also might find a part of their recompense in being continually under the eye of the heir of so much glory. This project has, of course, been abandoned. Yet why should not the education of the young Henry, the future heir of the French monarchy, be conducted in the same spirit as would have been that of the young Napoleon? There exists, indeed, but too much cause why it should be so conducted, as to form a leader fit to head the armies and direct the energies of France. A million of bayonets threaten Europe from the north, and France only can array itself against them, Russia has already absorbed, within its empire, that great limitrophe nation which might have been a barrier against its further progress: its nearest neighbour has a force not more than a third of that which Russia itself can wield: the first military power of Germany, Prussia,—a camp rather than a kingdom, a state rather than a nation,—must continue the voluntary or involuntary ally of Russia: the rest of Germany is divided into petty sovereignties. Russia has an army, the half of which is sufficient for its own defence; nay, it is secure from attack: what then may it do, What will it do, with the other half? The irruption of the now half-civilised and well-disciplined hordes of the north, directed by one will, which rules from the Aleutian isles to the banks of the Vistula, is an event that may take place before the infant Henry shall have attained the age of manhood: then, instead of the prospect of the Invalides, he may have that of the "tented field;" instead of mimic war and reviews on the Champ de Mars, he may join in real battle for the security of France and the protection of Europe.
The building which was to have been a monument dedicated to the grand army, is converted into a church, for which, by its form, it was well adapted. But, instead of this edifice, a monument has been raised to the glory of the French warriors, ære perennius;—a work in twenty-six volumes, by a society of military men and men of letters: it is entitled "Victoires et Conquêtes" in very large capitals, "désastres et revers" in very small capitals, of the French armies, from 1792 to 1815. It is composed in the spirit of the liberal party, but with great moderation: it speaks with constant respect of the royal family of France, with unreserved freedom of Bonaparte, and with severe censure of the faults of the republican government: its hatred of England is more than patriotic,—plus quam civilia: it is written in a very respectable style, itself a history, and forming a collection of materials to be embodied into future, general, or partial histories of the revolution. Even "the Great Unknown" himself, than whom no one has a better right to disprove the assertion of Pindar, that fable delights more than truth, since so much of what is delightful in fable is of his own creation, and every one may do what he wills with his own;—even he, who may dispute with Cervantes, Shakspeare, and Ariosto, the title of "the greatest liar that ever lived,"—may have recourse to more than the latter half of these twenty-six volumes, in the composition of that story, in which every thing shall be true, yet every thing shall be astonishing. It is superfluous to wish him success: of that he is assured, both by his subject, and by the novel manner in which it will be handled; but I wish he would take the trouble of once revising his manuscript before impression, to correct the blunders of rapid composition.
I saw the model in plaister of the statue in marble, of an elephant, which statue was to have been raised upon a high pedestal in the Place de la Bastille: a staircase, beginning within one of the fore-legs of the elephant, was to have led to the top of a tower on his back, from which would have been seen all Paris and its environs: from his proboscis was to have issued a fountain. The model, I am told, is now broken in pieces. Perhaps this is fortunate: the elephant might in future times have answered the purpose, if not of the Bastille, of the bull of Phalaris: after the pleasant jests we have heard of la petite fenêtre nationale,[15] and the baptême republicain[16],—who knows whether the sovereign people, calling to mind the bull of Phalaris oh the site of the Bastille, and justifying, according to custom, its own tyranny by that of others,—might not have amused itself with the bellowing of an elephant? Despots, of one or many heads, resemble each other:
——facies non omnibus una,
Nee diversa tamen.
Still it is a pity that the elephant is not to be erected: he would have been at once a curious and majestic figure; and his absence will not deprive cruelty, if the disposition to it should unhappily again exist, of the means of inflicting vengeance. It is always an easy matter, says the English proverb, to find a stick to beat a dog; and when one portion of society become dogs to the other and more powerful portion, of course the dogs must be beaten.
The model of the elephant drew me into the neighbourhood of the Marais: this quarter of Paris was once the court end of the town, and Vincennes was what St. Cloud has since become. The streets of the Marais are much wider and cleaner, and better built than the other ancient streets of Paris; and this quarter, with the Place Royale, is well worth visiting, though seldom visited: it is inhabited by an old-fashioned set of gentry, who prefer Paris, as a residence, to any country town, but take no part in its amusements; who go to church, and do not go to the opera; who persist obstinately in the more ancient mode of dining at one o'clock; who gave no assistance or encouragement to the revolution, it may be, because it brought in so many innovations. I am assured that, during the most tumultuous scenes of that period, the Marais was always tranquil. Strangers who mean to spend some time in Paris, and who have a carriage, or can do without one, would do well to establish themselves in the Marais: they would indeed be at a great distance from their astonished friends and from the places of amusement, but the line of the Boulevards would lead them any where.