‘The roads wretched—cut up by the artillery and ammunition-waggons, and in no places repaired, but a little picked in on the straight road from Calais to Paris for Lord Cornwallis. Crowded with turnpikes, the produce of which is applied to the public purse, and not to mend their ways. The Inns, as formerly, dirty, and good eating and drinking very dear. The lower classes are civil,—the higher very haughty.
‘Yet notwithstanding the distress and poverty of the country, there are no less than 26 theatres open and crowded every night in Paris, independent of shows, jugglers, etc. Nobody can form an idea of what an Opera is, unless they have seen the present style of one in Paris—so superb.
‘The Bishop of Durham would expire at seeing the dresses of the performers. The ladies are almost quite naked, and really not covered enough to give the least idea of modesty. There cannot be anything so profligate, so debauched, or so immoral, as the ideas or manners of all ranks of people, particularly the higher class; and poor Virtue and Decency are entirely banished their Calendars.
‘The daughter of Madame Bonaparte sits every night in a crimson and gold box at the Opera. The Consul in one directly below, with a gilded grating towards the audience, who see very little of him. He leaves the house before the dropping of the curtain, and escorted by a strong guard of cavalry and torches sets off full gallop for Malmaison, where he sleeps.’
Another visitor is reported by the Times as describing Paris as ‘more immersed in luxury than at any former period. The theatres are every night full, and the political coffee-houses, unless on particular occasions, nearly empty. Provisions of every kind are cheap and plentiful, and the best wine may be had at three livres the bottle.’
Whether by way of entertaining one another or of reciprocating French hospitality, some of the British visitors gave receptions and balls. Maurice Dudevant speaks of Lady Higginson’s balls, where he seems to have heard French nobles decrying their own country, and he warned Englishmen against judging France by this unpatriotic class. He may have been one of Lord Robert Spencer’s guests at Robert’s famous restaurant. The Duchess of Gordon and Mrs. Orby Hunter were prominent for their entertainments, and a Paris newspaper mentions those of Lady ‘Shumley,’ a phonetic approximation to Cholmondeley. Jerningham speaks of the Duchess of Gordon’s balls, and of her addiction to playing at hasard, at which she rattled the dice, and whenever she lost exclaimed, ‘God damn!’ Eliza Orby Hunter, aged twenty-three, was apparently the wife of George Orby Hunter, who afterwards, living at Dieppe, translated Byron into French verse, and died in 1843.[123] The Orby Hunter family were owners of Croyland, Lincolnshire.
‘Paris,’ wrote Colonel Ferrier to his sister, ‘is certainly the place of all others for young men. Plenty of amusement without dissipation; no drinking; if a gentleman was seen drunk here he would be looked upon as a perfect bête.’[124] If, however, there was less drinking than in London, there was clearly more gambling. John Sympson Jessopp left with the impression that debauchery abounded. With the natural English desire to see everything, he found himself one night, with his younger brother, in a magnificent gambling-house. Somebody who had lost heavily fell upon the croupier, snatched his rake from him, laid about him furiously, then hit out at a huge chandelier, with scores of wax candles in it, and frantically smashed it. There was terrible panic and confusion. One of the croupiers slipped out through a door leading to a staircase to fetch the police. Jessopp, plucking his brother by the sleeve, managed to get down the stairs and into the street, where they concealed themselves in a doorway. In a few minutes a company of gendarmes hastened up, and leaving two of their comrades at the door mounted the stairs, arrested every soul on the premises, and carried them off to the lock-up. The two young Englishmen, watching their opportunity, hurried back to their hotel. The sequel they never heard.[125] Francis Jackson, moreover, writing to Abbot, described Paris life as an uninterrupted picture of vulgarity and profligacy, and the Times of the 23rd September says:—
‘Paris, under the Regent of Orleans, was not so profligate and corrupt as it appears to our best travellers at present. Gambling, debauchery, intemperance, and the insatiable desire after public spectacles, with all the vices in the train of indolence and licentiousness, form the monotonous indiscriminable character of the Citizens.’
Some of the visitors must have shared in the stupefaction felt on the 21st January 1803 at seeing the Madeleine draped in crape in memory of the anniversary of Louis XVI.’s death, but they were as ignorant as the rest of the world that this audacious celebration was the act of a man of English parentage, Hyde de Neuville. The Madeleine, as Holcroft tells us, was then ‘a grand colonnade of lofty uncorniced pillars, rising about roofless, half-finished walls.’
British visitors had the opportunity of mixing with some of their countrymen. There was Paine, until his return in September 1802 to America, where his friend Jefferson had become President, and we have seen that Redhead Yorke and Rickman renewed acquaintance with him. He had had to wait, not only for funds, but for a safe passage without fear of British cruisers. When Redhead Yorke with some difficulty recalled himself to his remembrance, Paine thus unbosomed himself:—