The Boulevards are a great, and precious, and a peculiar advantage, which the city of Paris enjoys above all cities that I have seen or heard of. This ancient enclosure of the town is now at about half-way from the Seine to the walls; so much have the Fauxbourgs increased; for all beyond the Boulevards is called Fauxbourg. Thus, in the midst of Paris, for the whole of the distance from the bridge of the Jardin des Plantes to the Place Louis XV. in a line running at first from south to north, then westward, and then inclining to the south, is found a wide street, with a broad walk on each side, shaded by two rows of trees. Here you may walk in safety, without fear of the cabriolets or one-horse chairs, which, in all the streets of Paris, even on the trottoirs, endanger life and limb. Here you may see exposed to sale, on tables niched in between the trees on one side, and between the trees and houses on the other, all kinds of wares; millinery and bon-bons, literature and jou-jous, maps, prints, and cutlery. "Voilà," says a boy, flashing in your eyes his string of steel watch-chains, "voilà des chaines superbes."—"Voilà le règne de Napoléon," says a moralist, out of time and place. Here you may find petits gâteaux and eau de groseille, to allay both hunger and thirst; and chairs, for a sous a-piece, to repose while you refresh yourself. The houses are lofty, and many have balconies: the shops are well supplied; at every step are theatres, and spectacles, and cafés, and public gardens and diversions of every sort: an infinite variety of physiognomy, character, and occupation is continually flitting before you. It is the most amusing morning scene of this amusing metropolis.
Napoleon gave to Paris the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena: the names have been changed to those of "du Jardin du Roi," and "des Invalides;" but the benefit remains: thus the extension of the city, at both extremities, was encouraged, and the value of property increased. Along the Seine, on both banks, from the one to the other of these bridges, is a space of the width of a very broad street between the houses and the river. This too, as well as the Boulevards, is an advantage peculiar to Paris. In London, to get a view, or a peep at the Thames, you must go to the ends of the streets at right angles with it: the projected terrace, when accomplished, will, I hope, form a magnificent answer to this reproach. At Florence, the lungarnata extends for about one third only of the course of the Arno through that beautiful city.
The Hotel-Dieu is in a central situation, more convenient, both for the patients and their medical attendants, than the sites now often chosen for such institutions in the precincts of cities. The course of the Seine supplies it with air and water. An admirable cleanliness is observed in the wards: even the beds of the patients are free from all offensive odour. This infirmary is a school of medicine: young surgical practitioners flock to Paris for instruction. The French have unhappily had of late so many opportunities of perfecting themselves in this science, that they are well qualified to give lessons. If honour hath no skill in surgery, he is obliged to lead in his train many who have. The Hotel-Dieu is a credit to the country.
It is very easy to find your way in Paris: between the Seine and the Boulevards you may always arrive quickly at a point where you may know whereabouts you are. This is facilitated too by a trifling, but ingenious arrangement: the streets parallel to the river are distinguished from those at right angles with it, by inscribing the names of the one set in black letters on a light ground, and of the other set in white letters on a black ground.
The Morgue is an excellently well-contrived establishment. It is a little building, on the bank of the river, where are deposited the bodies of persons found drowned or otherwise accidentally slain. These bodies are laid on an inclined plane, in a space partitioned off by glass doors and windows, stript of part of their clothes, which are hung up over their heads. By this simple method, the members of a family, of whom one is lost or missing, have the means of finding and reclaiming their own, if there, without inquiry,—without exposing to public remark a mischance which may be only temporary. Calling here one day, I was witness to a scene on which the genius of Sterne would have lived and revelled most sentimentally. The body of a middle-aged man, who, by the clothes suspended above, appeared to have been a sailor, was laid in its place to be recognised. After gazing on this sight for some little time, I was retiring, when I met, at the outer door, an elderly woman accompanied by a lad of about fourteen years old. Their steps were hurried: their countenances full of anxiety and terror. "They have lost," said I, "a son and a father." I waited the event. They advanced to the window, with what I will call, if the phrase may be allowed, a precipitate irresolution,—dreading to find what they sought. They returned consoled, but still dejected: the expression of their faces said plainly,—"It is not he; but then, where is he?" He was not found there, yet still he was lost.
There are several manufactures at Paris worthy of attention. Old renown led me to the Gobelins: it was not in a state of great activity at this time, but I saw some works both finished and carrying on, worthy of that old renown. The process of making this tapestry is exceedingly tedious. I observed that the workmen, like clock-makers, and printers, and other men of letters, were almost all short-sighted.
The Palais Royal, as a centre of wealth and dissipation, deserves all the celebrity it has acquired: it is besides a very handsome quadrangle, as I once was used to call the interior of buildings of this form: it is not a square; it would be pedantic to call it a parallelogram, and not according to usage to call it an oblong. The arches are not wide enough; and the arcade (the space, I mean, between the arches and the shops,) is not broad enough. Here is more splendour, but less of variety to be seen, than on the Boulevards. The shop-keepers are not dearer here than in other quarters of Paris: the greater number of their transactions pays their higher rents, though their profits may be only equal to those of their brethren in trade. I took ice at the Café de Mille Colonnes, and found that, counting shadows or reflections in the mirrors with which the rooms are lined, the number, though indefinite, may not be exaggerated.
The garden is enclosed by iron palisades between the arches: it is closed in the night, the arcade being still left as a thoroughfare. I found no reason to avoid passing through it with my elder son, a youth of seventeen, though I should have been most unwilling to lead him in the evening into any street in London. When will the police of the capital of the British empire take shame to themselves?
The colonnade of the Louvre, which the Gascon said was very much like the back front of his father's stables, is justly admired. The court I thought to be too much ornamented, and the ornaments too much subdivided, and the height of the building within too great for its extent of area. It is, however, an exceedingly handsome building: I was glad to see it completed, at least as to the exterior. I was told it had been nearly two centuries in building. He who had Versailles wanted no other dwelling.
I shall be well pleased to have excited the reader's attention to my remarks also on the curiosities of Paris: at any rate I have not detained him long. I hope he will not be disinclined to accompany me to the environs.