A rough sketch of modern Paris

by J. G. Lemaistre

The perfection to which the stage has advanced in London, and the splendid manner in which our theatres are lighted, prevent our being greatly struck with the renowned spectacles of this place; and the taste, profusion, and magnificence, displayed in our private entertainments, oppose too powerful a contrast to the gayeties of Paris, to allow us to be much delighted with the latter. Our race of horses, and our manufacture of carriages, are both too perfect to render it possible for us to admire the wretched equipages, which are here considered as the acme of elegance. It is equally impossible for us to praise the gardens of the Thuilleries, the Champs Elisées, or the Bois de Boulogne, as long as we remember Hyde park or Kensington gardens. Nor can the lighting and paving of Paris excite the admiration of those who have been used to the comfortable trottoir and brilliant lamps of the streets of London.

Having thus stated the reasons, good and bad, for the tameness with which englishmen often speak of Paris, I shall endeavour to divest myself, as much as possible, of national prejudice, and to lay before you the advantages and disadvantages attendant on a residence in this city.

In respect to literature, the arts and sciences, certainly every opportunity is offered which knowledge can afford, or which a zeal for letters can desire. In this respect, I think, Paris is superiour to London. Besides the immense acquisitions which it has lately made, and the great and wonderful collections that are constantly open to the public, there are so many private institutions within the reach of men of moderate fortune, that this city would soon rival all the universities of Europe, did not the pleasures of the place hold out temptations dangerous to the morals of youth.

Literary men also are more respected than in England; and, instead of abandoning society (which is too much the case with men of learning in our country), the industrious, but unprotected frenchman, who engages in the career of letters, finds his way into the most brilliant circles of the capital. Even the haughtiest of the old nobility admit into their most intimate coteries, those who have attained any literary fame, however low their origin, or however mean their appearance. On this head, I give unqualified and unrivalled praise to Paris.

Whether a foreigner could profitably pursue any commercial speculation here, it is not for me to inquire. I shall only observe, that, notwithstanding the laws of equality, prejudices exist as strongly as ever at Paris; and could a fortune be accumulated here as rapidly as in London, that fortune would never purchase the respect and consequence with which a similar acquisition is attended in England. A merchant (or “négociant,” to use the french expression) is still an insignificant character in this town, and all the wealth of India would not place him on a level with a general, a minister, or a ci-devant noble.

A man of pleasure, or rather of dissipation, may, in all the joys of unbounded variety, destroy his health, vitiate his principles, enervate his mind, and ruin his fortune. To the rich, however old, ugly, or deformed, beauty will not refuse her smiles; and every assembly is open to him who, in the morning, will convey “madame” to milliners, jewellers, and lace merchants, and will devote his evenings to the boulotte[93] of “monsieur.”

The politician, or in other words, he who is anxious to become acquainted with the real causes of the present order of things, and to examine to their source the many-coloured events which have preceded it, will be much disappointed. The greater number of those who took an active part in the revolution, have been swept away in the general torrent; the few that remain, are either living in obscurity, and cautious of expressing their opinions, or become, like other apostates, as violent on one side as they were formerly on the other. Of course, no satisfactory information is to be derived from them. As to the general bulk of the nation, passive under the iron tyranny of that sanguinary monster, Robespierre, they preferred, at that time, the accidental hope of individual escape, to the generous and braver conduct of a bold resistance. They are still the same people; and, now that their tranquillity and private happiness are secured, they look on in perfect apathy, and (if the term were not too rash) I should add, in sulky content.

Should France be deprived of Bonaparte, a circumstance which french men of all parties allow would be at present a great national misfortune, I have no doubt that obedience would be quietly and generally yielded to whatever party should seize the reins of power. It is universally allowed, that there is no security beyond the life of the first consul[94]; yet no one proposes, and I am sure no one thinks of providing against an event, which, in the order of nature, must sooner or later arrive. You cannot, living in England, form an idea of the indifference prevalent here about public matters.

The time of Robespierre, or “la regne de la terreur,” as it is commonly called, is often the subject of conversation, and it is mentioned with as much disgust and horror as in other countries; yet it never seems to occur to any one, that in having been the tacit spectators and instruments of the murders committed at that time, the inhabitants of this country were parties to his crimes. But it is perhaps absurd to complain of the present want of feeling, when we recollect the strange unconcern with which, under the immediate terror and view of the guillotine, the persons confined in the different prisons, while they awaited their turn of cruelty, engaged in every sort of frivolous amusement. I have been assured, by those who were themselves in custody at that unhappy period, that toilets were made, parties planned, cards played, scandal talked of, assemblies arranged, and little jealousies entertained, in the very caverns of death. More than one person was taken from the dinner table, or the game of chess, to the place of execution. From a nation so strangely indifferent to its dearest interests, what intelligence can you expect to collect? If you ask a question relating to those dreadful moments, instead of a simple answer of facts, you receive a violent philippic against the memory of a man, too infamous even to deserve the honours of abuse. If you make an inquiry about the present constitution, you are laughed at, and, pour toute réponse, are told, “C’est Bonaparte qui fait tout—tout lui est soumis—tout lui est possible.[95]”