Never before had there been such an influx of English visitors as during these eighteen months. ‘All the idle captives of the land of fogs,’ says M. Sorel, ‘shook their damp wings and prepared to take their flight towards the regions of pleasure and brightness.’ Even the influenza or grippe, which prevailed in January and February 1803, did not deter them, and they mostly escaped the malady, an escape attributed to their being habituated to humidity. ‘Ours,’ says Samuel Rogers, who was one of the visitors, ‘is a nation of travellers, and no wonder, when the elements, air, water, and fire attend at our bidding to transport us from shore to shore, when the ship rushes into the deep, her track the foam as of some mighty torrent, and in three hours or less we stand gazing and gazed at among a foreign people. None want an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy; if poor, to retrench; if sick, to recover; if studious, to learn; if learned, to relax from their studies.’[25] This, though written in 1839, is, with the exception of the reference to steam, applicable to the influx of 1801–1803. A few went for health, taking Paris as a stage to Montpellier, then still in repute, Nice, or Italy, others to recover property or for business, a few for study, most for pleasure. The current steadily swelled all the winter, spring, and summer. One of the earliest packets brought sixty-three ladies, and the Calais hotels were packed, seven hundred and ninety-eight passengers landing in ten days. In the last decade of Prairial (June 1802) there were ninety-one arrivals, in the last decade of Thermidor (August) ninety-seven, in the last decade of Fructidor (September) one hundred and fifty-six.[26] This last average of fifteen a day seems small to us, but was surprising for that time. Merry states that there were once as many as five thousand English in Paris, and that when he left in December there were one thousand nine hundred. In the autumn he sent home long lists of persons to whom he had given return passports, and he had complained in May that he was so busy in issuing them as to have no time to attend properly to diplomatic business.
The cost of a trip to Paris was what in those days seemed moderate. For £4, 13s. you could get a through ticket by Dover and Calais, starting either from the City at 4.30 A.M. by the old and now revived line of coaches connected with the rue Notre Dame des Victoires establishment in Paris, or morning and night by a new line from Charing Cross.[27] Probably a still cheaper route, though there were no through tickets, was by Brighton and Dieppe, the crossing taking 10 or 15 hours. By Calais it seldom took more than 8 hours, but passengers were advised to carry light refreshments with them. The diligence from Calais to Paris, going only four miles an hour, took 54 hours for the journey, but a handsome carriage drawn by three horses, in a style somewhat similar to the English post-chaise, could be hired by four or five fellow-travellers, and this made six miles an hour. £30 would cover the expense of a seven weeks’ visit, including hotels, sight-seeing, and restaurants.[28] As for fashionable people, even if they went by coach to Dover, they posted from Calais to Paris, especially if they formed a family party and took servants with them. Some, like Lord Guilford, even shipped their own carriages, but he had to hire four sorry steeds at Calais, for horses were not allowed to land.[29]
Lord Elgin had four servants, Lord Yarmouth, with his wife and two children, had eight, Thomas Hope three, and Lady Maynard two. The journey occupied four days, if we may judge by the French General Hardy, who, captured in Ireland in 1798, had been exchanged—there being no English prisoner of equal rank—for four officers, four non-commissioned officers, and ten privates. It took him a day to get from London to Dover, another day for the crossing, and two days for the journey from Calais to Paris.
Passengers by Boulogne if arriving at low tide were landed in a singular fashion. Thomas Manning, of whom we shall hear presently, in a letter to his father communicated to me by his grand-nephew, Mr. E. B. Harris, says:—
‘The tide having ebbed, we were obliged to land without entering the inner harbour of Boulogne. It was night before the sluggish boat that the Boulogne mariners sent off could land us all, and a strange landing it seemed to me. The boat rowed towards the nearest shore till it ran aground, which happened in the midst of the breakers. In an instant the boathead was surrounded by a throng of women up to their middles and over, who were there to carry us on shore. Not being aware of this manœuvre, we did not throw ourselves into the arms of these sea-nymphs so instantly as we ought, whereby those who sat at the stern of the boat were deluged with sea spray. For myself I was in front, and very quickly understood the clamour of the mermaids. I flung myself upon the backs of two of them without reserve, and was safely and dryly borne on shore, but one poor gentleman slipped through their fingers and fell over head and ears into the sea.’
This primitive mode of landing had been noted in 1792 by William Hunter, who states that one of the ‘mermaids,’ unequal to the weight of a stout Englishman who had been reserved to the last, dropped him midway. Lanterns dimly lit up this curious scene.[30]
The return voyage had to be made on French bottoms, in order that the mercantile marine might be encouraged, and this regulation had its inconvenience, not to say dangers. The Times of 12th January, 1803, says:—
‘A navy Officer, who recently returned from Calais, where he had spent a few days, was actually under the necessity of giving directions, and afterwards exerting himself with alacrity, to preserve his own life and that of the other passengers. The master of the vessel, who was very much afraid of the violence of the wind, sat half-way down to the cabin, with his head under the companion, and covered with a huge night-cap, to prevent its reaching him, as he was (he said) grievously afflicted with the rheumatism; and to the repeated demands of the passengers, why he did not come upon deck and give orders for the safety of the vessel, he answered, deliberately, taking the pipe out of his mouth, that there was no immediate danger, and if any should arise, he had a good sea-boat, which would carry him and all his crew safe to land.’
Let us now see who were the visitors, beginning not with the earliest but by far the most eminent of them, Fox. He had not seen France since 1788, when he passed through with Mrs. Armistead on his way to Switzerland and Italy. Waiting, like many other M.P.’s, till his election was over, he started at Dover on the 31st July 1802, again accompanied by the so-called Mrs. Armistead (only now for the first time publicly figuring as his wife, though they had been privately married some years previously), by St. Andrew (afterwards Lord) St. John, M.P., and by John Bernard Trotter, his secretary.[31] His nephew Lord Holland had engaged rooms for him in the faubourg St. Germain, but he seems to have removed to the hotel Grange Batelière and eventually to the hotel Richelieu, the mansion erected and formerly occupied by the notorious roué, Marshal (grand-nephew of Cardinal) Richelieu, who had entertained him in 1788. Fox’s chief object was to consult French records for his life of James II., his ancestor, and he daily frequented the National Archives for that purpose, in company with St. John, Robert (afterwards Sir Robert) Adair, and Trotter. Talleyrand, after his return to England, sent him a complete copy of Barillon’s despatches, which Fox had declared to be worth their weight in gold.
Many people in England fancied, however, that he was mainly bent on seeing Napoleon, and the caricaturists did not neglect so tempting a subject. Gillray, in a cartoon entitled ‘Introduction of Citizen Volpone and his suite at Paris,’ represented Bonaparte as seated on a chair surrounded by Mamelukes, while Fox and his wife,[32] both extremely corpulent, are bowing and curtseying, Erskine, in legal costume with his hand on his heart, and Lord and Lady Holland making up the group. Another caricaturist depicted the reception by the First Consul of Fox, Erskine, and Combe. To Fox he says, ‘Fox, ha! How old are you?’ To Combe, ‘A brewer, Lord Mayor, ha! great pomp,’ and to Erskine, ‘Mr. Brief, ha! a great lawyer; can talk well. There, you may go.’[33] Trotter tells us what really occurred:—