However, Blucher frustrated that gallant achievement, as he did many others; and declared in reply, that he would not singe a hair of his majesty’s head for the pleasure of blowing up a hundred bridges![[52]]
[52]. Nothing could be more hostile than the feelings of the French were, at that period, to the allies;—the Prussians they hated inveterately; the English next in proportion. Their detestation of the Prussians remains still in full vigour, and, indeed, daily increases: their animosity to the English is extinguished. The French clearly see that both interest and pleasure are the result of a friendly intercourse with us, and I think it is cementing fast, and ought to be cultivated by the respective governments. They are a fine people. England and France never should be enemies: there is world enough for both: united, they might command Europe as far as Smolensko; that is the “Rubicon Russe.” The liberal policy of Mr. Canning’s government made an incredible and most rapid impression on the French nation: the old and savage principle that England and France were natural enemies is totally at an end: they may be occasionally political, but not natural adversaries.
I have never seen popular gratification more strong or more general than that of the French on hearing of the battle of Navarino; nor have I ever yet seen a feeling of generous liberality and growing friendship more pure and unequivocal than was evinced by the French military and people at the cordiality with which their fleets and ours mingled in battle. Their having been led to victory by an Englishman, so far from creating jealousy, delighted them.
THE CATACOMBS AND PERE LA CHAISE.
The Catacombs of Paris—Ineffective nature of the written description of these as compared with the reality—Author’s descent into them—His speedy return—Contrast presented by the cemetery of Père la Chaise—Tomb of Abelard and Heloise—An English capitalist’s notions of sentiment.
The stupendous catacombs of Paris form perhaps the greatest curiosity of that capital. I have seen many well-written descriptions of this magazine of human fragments, yet on actually visiting it, my sensations of awe, and I may add, of disgust, exceeded my anticipation.
I found myself (after descending to a considerable depth from the light of day) among winding vaults, where, ranged on every side, are the trophies of Death’s universal conquest. Myriads of grim, fleshless, grinning visages seem (even through their eyeless sockets) to stare at the passing mortals who have succeeded them, and ready with long knotted fingers to grasp the living into their own society. On turning away from these hideous objects, my sight was arrested by innumerable white scalpless skulls and mouldering limbs of disjointed skeletons—mingled and misplaced in terrific pyramids; or, as if in architectural mockery of nature, framed into mosaics, or piled into walls and barriers with taste fantastic!
There are men of nerve strong enough to endure the contemplation of such things without shrinking. I participate not in this apathetic mood. Almost at the first step which I took between these ghastly ranks in the deep catacomb d’Enfer, (whereinto I had plunged by a descent of ninety steps,) my spirit no longer remained buoyant: it felt subdued and cowed; my feet reluctantly advanced through the gloomy mazes; and at length a universal thrill of horror crawled along the surface of my skin. It would have been to little purpose to protract this struggle, and force my will to obedience: I therefore, instinctively as it were, made a retrograde movement; I ascended into the world again, more rapidly than I had gone downward, and left my less sensitive and wiser friends to explore at leisure those dreary regions. And never did the sun appear to me more bright; never did I feel his rays more cheering and genial, than as I emerged from the melancholy catacombs, to resume the sight of man and the sensations of existence.