I dined at Chaillot, and returned in the evening to view the illuminations. These long continued straight lines are admirably adapted to display crowds and illuminations. From the Barrière de l’Étoile, at the extremity of the Champs Elysées, to the palace of the Tuilleries, all was one continued blaze. The lampions, used on these occasions, give a very strong light; they are pots of tallow, about two inches deep, and six in diameter, with a wick of hemp about one inch thick: they were disposed in festoons along the great avenue of the Elysian fields, and in pyramids in the gardens. On entering the Place Louis XV. the view was superb; on the right were the Chambre des Deputés, the dome of the Invalides, and at some distance, rising alone against the dark sky, the star of the Legion of Honour. Before us was the Tuilleries and its gardens, and the temple which had been erected for the purpose round the basin of water. The terraces presented a single row of illumination along the cornice, exhibiting the crowds which peopled them. On the left were the Garde Meuble and the Admiralty. At first, before daylight was entirely lost, the illumination of the dome of the Invalides being redder than the twilight, gave a silvery look to the building, which had a peculiar and a very beautiful effect. The portico of the Chambre des Deputés had the steps covered with lampions, and green candelabras (either formed by green lamps or by a transparency,) between the columns. The result was, that the columns were seen dark against the illuminated inside of the portico, without any cutting lines or strong contrasts, but with a sort of tenderness of tint, which gave to them the appearance of semi-transparency. Something of the same sort was exhibited in the Garde Meuble, but less beautifully. The perpendicular lines of the architecture were no where illuminated. Taken singly, none of these objects are equal to some of the best illuminations exhibited in London: but taking the whole together, nothing we have had, or can have, can be compared with it. On entering the gardens of the Tuilleries, the first object was the great basin, which was encircled by lampions on the edge of the water, and thickly surrounded by people, who were shewn to great advantage by the disposition of the lights, and all their varied colouring was reflected in the water. As we approached the Tuilleries, the temple erected round the smaller basin increased in consequence, and hid the palace, which was not highly illuminated. The open part of the gardens was terminated by a colonnade of lampions, and from this point the effect produced by the light thrown on the company on the terrace, from the line of lampions disposed on its cornice was very brilliant and beautiful. These exhibitions have been concluded with a review in the Champs de Mars. There is a raised slope round this place, made by the sovereign people themselves for their own convenience, which gives one a fine opportunity of seeing what passes, and also shews off the spectators to great advantage. The king rode twice round the plain in an open carriage, accompanied by the duchesses of Angoulême and Berri, and the troops saluted him with vive le roi!
On Wednesday the playhouses were opened gratis, but I did not go to see what sort of a scene was produced. A Parisian crowd seems in general very tractable; but the efficient cause of good order is in the soldiers, who are seen everywhere. This habitual submission to the military does not appear very favourable to public liberty; and in estimating the chance of a permanently free constitution in France, it is not enough to consider merely the conduct of the rulers, or the sentiments of the leaders of different parties; the manners and habits of the people form an important item. This acquiescence in the interference of the military in every concern may, I suppose, be traced to the ancient government; and we may perhaps attribute to it, in some measure, their ready submission to the despotism of Napoleon. The principle of liberty is not very strong in this country, but I think it exists, and is taking root. The friends of liberty have learned moderation, and that is a valuable lesson. They would be well pleased now with a constitution as free as that of England, with which twenty years ago they were not satisfied. Perhaps they are hardly yet convinced that a constitution can have no strength, and consequently no value, without the habitual attachment of the people. Let us hope that the present will last long enough to create such a habit. It has doubtless many defects in theory, and more in practice; but it may be better suited to the actual state of France than a more perfect system, and it will form a foundation on which they may stand to attain their further objects, without any violent revolution, an event which almost invariably leads to despotism.
I have concerned myself very little with politics, but it does not appear to me that the French are in general at all sulky after their defeat. “What could we do against all Europe?” They have no affection for the Bourbons: it is not in human nature that they should; but they would be very unwilling to do any thing to excite a fresh war. “Ah monsieur, la France était si florissante, tout allait si bien avant l’expedition à Moscou.” “C’etait un grand homme, il a fait beaucoup de belles choses, mais son ambition a gâté tout, il nous a tous perdus.”—These are sentiments you hear everywhere. They ask me what is thought of Bonaparte in England. I tell them that he is considered as a man of great talents, but that his immoderate ambition rendered his existence dangerous to every country in Europe. For the most part they perfectly agree with me; but after all, I am persuaded they regret him. The dazzling splendor which he spread around the throne of France, his personal activity, his firm and vigorous administration, and the employment of his revenues to public purposes, gratified the imagination, and form altogether a striking contrast with the present sovereign. Yet I believe Louis is not disliked, and his personal character has certainly made him friends since his return. All this seems perfectly natural; and if we except in favour of England, a somewhat deeper feeling of national honour, and a higher sense of liberty, it is what might take place in any country of Europe, without injury to the character of the people. They did not dislike the Bourbons, but after twenty-five years of absence, it is not wonderful that they did not feel much attachment to them. Neither did they much like Napoleon, but they were pleased with the military glory which the nation attained under his auspices. At last they were alienated and disgusted with the mad expedition to Moscow, the enormous waste of human life consequent upon it, and the severe conscription to supply that waste; and received the Bourbons with pleasure. After a time, the changes actually introduced excited an apprehension that further and more important changes were in contemplation, affecting the individual interests of almost every class in the community. Alarmed at this, they rejoiced at the return of Napoleon, merely as a means of putting down a government from whose progress they dreaded much personal evil.
Independently of submission to the military, the habitual dependence of the people on the government to accomplish every object of public utility, is unfavourable to their liberty. Whatever is of advantage to more persons than one, is to be done by the sovereign, or not at all; and even when an individual is to profit from it, it is a chance if he will do any thing for himself, if he think the government ought to do it for him. The French themselves tell a story to ridicule this propensity, of which they are very sensible. A soldier had enriched himself with plunder, but his shoes were full of holes, and his feet blistered in consequence. “Why do you not buy yourself a pair of shoes?” said one of his comrades. “Ah non, c’est le roi qui doit faire cela.” Perhaps for “roi” you should read “empereur,” but that is of little consequence.
LETTER VIII.
JOURNEY TO LYON.
Lyon, July 1, 1816.
I have at last left Paris, after having staid longer than I intended, though by no means long enough to learn all that might have been acquired by a continued residence. I took my place for Troyes in the cabriolet of the diligence, but found it so small that I could not sit upright, and therefore changed to the inside, where I had plenty of room, for the carriage was calculated for nine, and we were only four. We left Paris at three o’clock in the afternoon, and the first part of the ride was tolerably pleasant, but in the morning I found myself in one of those wide naked common fields, of which I have so often complained. At Troyes the whole visible horizon is chalk, but there is shade about the town, and a promenade ornamented with large trees all round it, with the Seine running at the bottom.
Champaine is famous for its wine; the country about Chartres for corn. After hearing this, one is rather surprised to see almost the whole of the first province a corn country, and the latter city exclusively surrounded by vineyards; yet such is the fact. Champaine is almost all chalk, a soil very unfavourable to vines. According to Cuvier, one part of it is a complete chalky desert. A similar barrenness of soil has given to another district the name of Lousy Champaine. The wine seems to be grown on the hills which form the edge of the Paris basin.
We observed in passing along, numerous traces of the campaign of 1814. Houses and villages destroyed, and the inhabitants restoring a bit of roof or a floor, as the one or the other was most necessary for their immediate accommodation, and leaving the rest to be gradually renewed, as they should find themselves able to effect it.
One of my companions had been an officer under Napoleon, and another, perhaps a serjeant, or corporal, but he seemed an observing man. Neither of them appeared to have any affection for their general, but the officer in particular was very bitter against him. He had been torn by him from all his domestic comforts, and had not been long enough in the army to cease to think about the privations it required. Both had been wounded, but not very severely, and both wished for peace. This the French think they shall have, if the English will let them be quiet; but it is difficult to persuade them that there is any correspondent wish on our part; and quite impossible to convince them that Napoleon’s return from Elba was not favoured by the English government. This is very extravagant no doubt, but not more so than the belief in England that the French wish for war. One universal cry rises from every part of France, peace! peace! This may perhaps be in some degree the consequence of having suffered by unsuccessful war; but the wish is not for the moment the less earnest or sincere. Returning strength may recall their ambition. In all nations the consciousness of power seems to produce the desire to exert it, so far at least as to make their neighbours feel it; and it would be unreasonable to expect that France should prove an exception.