Part 26

To return:—The conduct of the allies after their occupation of Paris was undoubtedly strange, to say the least of it; and nothing could be more inconsistent than that of the populace on the return of King Louis. That Paris was betrayed is certain; and that the article of capitulation which provided that “wherever doubts existed, the construction should be in _favour_ of the Parisians,” was not adhered to, is equally so. It was never in contemplation, for instance, that the capital was to be rifled of the monuments of art and antiquity, whereof she had become possessed by right of conquest. If such a _right_ exists, it should be respected: if it does not exist, there have not been a more illegal body of depredators in the universe than ourselves. A reclamation of the great mortar in St. James’s Park, or of the throne of the king of Ceylon, would have just as much appearance of fairness as that of _Apollo_ by the Pope, and _Venus_ by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. What preposterous affectation of justice was there in employing British engineers to take down the brazen horses of Alexander the Great, in order that they may be re-erected in St. Mark’s Place at Venice,—a city to which the Austrian emperor has no more equitable a claim than we have to Vienna! I always was, and still remain to be, decidedly of opinion that, by giving our aid in emptying the Louvre, we authorised not only an act of unfairness to the French, but of impolicy as concerned ourselves;—since by so doing, we have removed beyond the reach of the great majority of British artists and students the finest specimens and models of sculpture and of painting this world has produced. Besides, to send a _heathen god_ to the _pope_ might certainly have been dispensed with.

When this step was first determined on the Prussians began with moderation; they rather _smuggled_ away than openly stole, fourteen paintings only; but no sooner was this rifling purpose generally made known, than the legate of his _holiness_ the pope was all anxiety to have his master’s _gods_ again locked up in the dusty store-rooms of the Vatican! The Parisians now took fire. They remonstrated, and protested against this infringement of the treaty; and a portion of the national guards stoutly declared that they would _defend the gallery_! But the king loved the pope’s toe better than all the works of art ever achieved; and the German autocrat being also a devoted friend of St. Peter’s (while at the same time he lusted after the “brazen images”), the assenting fiat was given, and the plundering proceeded with the utmost voracity. Wishing, however, to throw the stigma from the shoulders of Catholic monarchs upon those of Protestant soldiers, these wily allies determined that, although England was not to share the spoil, she should bear the trouble and discredit; and therefore the national guards in the Louvre were threatened with a regiment of Scotchmen—which threat produced the desired effect.

Now it may be said, that the “right of conquest” is as strong on one side as on the other, and justifies the reclamation as fully as it did the original capture of these _chef-d’œuvres_:—to which plausible argument I oppose two words—_the treaty!—the treaty!_ Besides, if the right of conquest is to decide, then I fearlessly advance the claim of Great Britain, who was the principal agent in winning the prize at Waterloo, and had therefore surely a right to wear at least some portion of it; but who nevertheless stood by and _sanctioned_ the injustice, although she affected to have too high a _moral sense_ to participate in it. What will my fellow-countrymen say, when they hear that the _liberal_ motive which served to counterbalance, in the minds of the British ministry of that day, the solid advantages resulting from the retention of the works of art at Paris, was, a jealousy of suffering the French capital to remain “the Athens of Europe?”[51]

Footnote 51:

These words were used to me by Mr. Secretary Cook, at the moment, in Paris. But the truth was, our generals and diplomatists then on the spot knew but little and cared less about the fine arts or belles lettres.

The farce played off between the French king and the allies was considered supremely ridiculous. The Cossacks bivouacked in the square of the Carousel before his majesty’s windows; and soldiers dried their shirts and trowsers on the iron railings of the palace. This was a nuisance; and for the purpose of abating it, three pieces of ordnance duly loaded, with a gunner and ready-lighted match, were stationed day and night upon the quay, and pointed directly at _his majesty’s drawing-room_; so that one salvo would have despatched the Most Christian King and all his august family to the _genuine_ Champs Elysées. This was carrying the jest rather too far, and every rational man in Paris was shaking his sides at so shallow a manœuvre, when a new object of derision appeared in shape of a letter purporting to be written by King Louis the XVIIIth, expressing his wish that he was young and active enough (who could doubt his wish to grow young again?) to put himself at the head of his own army, attack his puissant allies, and cut them all to pieces for their duplicity to his loving and beloved subjects.

A copy of this alleged letter was given me by a colonel of the national guards, who said that it was _circulated_ by the _highest_ authority. I still retain it.

“_Lettre du Roi au Prince Talleyrand._

“Du 22 Juillet, 1815.

“La conduite des armées alliées réduira bientôt mon peuple à s’armer contre elles, comme on a fait en Espagne.

“Plus jeune, je me mettrais à sa tête:—mais, si l’âge et mes infirmités m’en empêchent, je ne veux pas, au moins, paroître conniver à des mesures dont je gémis! je suis résolu, si je ne puis les adoucir, à demander asile au roi d’Espagne.

“Que ceux qui, même après la capture de l’homme à qui ils ont déclaré la guerre, continuent à traiter mon peuple en ennemi, et doivent par conséquent me regarder comme tel, attentent s’ils le veulent à ma liberté! ils en sont les maîtres! j’aime mieux vivre dans ma prison que de rester ici, témoin passif des pleurs de mes enfans.”

But,—to close the scene of his majesty’s gallantry, and anxiety to preserve the capitulation entire. After he had permitted the plunder of the Louvre, a report was circulated that Blucher had determined to send all considerations of the treaty to the d—, and with his soldiers to blow up the _Pont de Jena_, as the existence of a bridge so named was an _insult_ to the victorious Prussians! This was, it must be admitted, sufficiently in character with Blucher: but some people were so fastidious as to assert that it was in fact only a clap-trap on behalf of his Most Christian Majesty; and true it was, that next day copies of a very dignified and gallant letter from Louis XVIII. were circulated extensively throughout Paris. The purport of this royal epistle was not _remonstrance_: that would have been merely considered as matter of course: it demanded, that Marshal Blucher should inform his majesty of the precise moment the bridge was to be so blown up, as his majesty (having no power of resistance) was determined to go in person—stand upon the bridge at the time of the explosion, and mount into the air amidst the stones and mortar of this beautiful piece of architecture! No doubt it would have been a sublime termination of so _sine cura_ a reign; and would have done more to immortalise the Bourbon dynasty than any thing they seem at present likely to accomplish!

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]

Footnote 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.

The visitor of Paris will find it both curious and interesting to contrast with these another receptacle for the dead—the cemetery of Père la Chaise. It is strange that there should exist among the same people, in the same city, and almost in the same vicinity, two _Golgothas_, in their nature so utterly dissimilar and repugnant from each other.

The soft and beautiful features of landscape which characterise Père la Chaise are scarcely describable: so harmoniously are they blended together,—so sacred does the spot appear to quiet contemplation and hopeful repose,—that it seems almost profane to attempt description, or to submit its charms in detail before the reader’s eye. All in fact that I had ever read about it fell, as in the case of the catacombs, (“alike, but ah, how different!”) far short of the reality.

I have wandered whole mornings together over its winding paths and venerable avenues. Here are no “ninety steps” of descent to gloom and horror: on the contrary, a gradual _ascent_ leads to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, and to its enchanting summit, on every side shaded by brilliant evergreens. The straight lofty cypress and spreading cedar uplift themselves around; and the arbutus, exposing its deceptive berries, tenders to the walker at once its shade and fragrance. In lieu of the damp mouldering scent exhaled by three millions of human skeletons, we are presented with the perfumes of jasmines and of myrtles—of violet-beds or variegated flower-plats decked out by the ministering hand of love or duty;—as if benignant Nature had spread her most splendid carpet to cover, conceal, and render alluring even the abode of death, and commemorate the noblest passions and the purest sympathies of mortality.

Whichever way we turn, the labours of art combine with the luxuriance of vegetation to raise in the mind new reflections: marble, in all its varieties of shade and grain, is wrought by the hand of man into numerous bewitching shapes; while one of the most brilliant and cheerful cities in the universe seems to lie, with its wooded boulevards, gilded domes, palaces, gardens, and glittering waters, just beneath our feet. One sepulchre, alone, of a decidedly mournful character, attracted my notice—a large and solid mausoleum, buried amidst gloomy yews and low drooping willows; and this looked only like a patch on the face of loveliness. Père la Chaise presents a solitary instance of the abode of the dead ever interesting me _agreeably_.

I will not remark on the well-known tomb of Abelard and Eloisa: a hundred pens have anticipated me in most of the observations I should be inclined to make respecting that celebrated couple. The most obvious circumstance in their “sad story” always struck me as being—that he turned priest when he was good for nothing else, and she became “quite correct” when opportunities for the reverse began to slacken. They no doubt were properly qualified to make very respectable _saints_: but since they took care previously to have their fling, I cannot say much for their _morality_.

I am not sure that a burial-place similar to Père la Chaise would be admired in England: it is almost of too picturesque and sentimental a character. The humbler orders of the English people are too coarse to appreciate the peculiar feeling such a cemetery is calculated to excite; the higher orders too licentious; the trading classes too avaricious. The plum-holder of the city would very honestly and frankly “d—n all your nonsensical sentiment!” I heard one of these gentlemen, last year, declare that what poets and _such-like_ called _sentiment_, was neither more nor less than deadly poison to the _Protestant religion_!

Though there is perhaps as much real refinement in London as in Paris, the French certainly mingle more _mind_ with their _vices_. Those of the Englishman are merely sensual: those of the French seasoned with intellect.—The Englishman’s the result of _instinct_—the Frenchman’s of _excitement_: an Englishman is _always_, a Frenchman _never_, in _earnest_.

Père la Chaise would only remind a cockney of _suicide_: it sets a Parisian gabbling about the meadows of Elysium. A Paris shopkeeper can descant on the _heathen mythology_: the _cockney_ talks of _heaven_ from his _bible_ and the _pulpit_; and if the _river Styx_ should be mentioned, he probably considers it scaffolding at London Bridge.

As to the French ladies, they all fancy that they are saturated with refinement. A very spirited and handsome Frenchwoman told me some time since, with as much gravity as she was susceptible of, that she had more _refinement_ than she knew what to do with, and most ardently wished that she could have the honour of transferring the _balance_ to some of my fair countrywomen, who, she understood, considered it a particular _dainty_.

PEDIGREE-HUNTING.

The author’s efforts to discover the source of his name and family—The Irish herald-at-arms—Reference made by him to the English professor—Heraldic speculation—Ascent of the author’s pedigree to the reign of William the Conqueror—Consultation with the Norman herald suggested—Author’s visit to Rouen—Anecdotes of French convents—Madame Cousin and her _system_—Traits of toleration—M. Helliot, the celebrated _ancien avocat_ of Rouen—Practice of _legal bigamy_ in Normandy—A breakfast party—Death of M. Helliot—Interview with an old herald, formerly of the noblesse—His person and costume described—Discovery of the town and castle of _Barentin_—Occurrences there—The old beggar-man—Visit to Jersey, where Drogo de Barentin was killed in defending the castle of Mont Orgueil—Return to Barentin, and singular incident at Ivetot—Conclusion.

My visit to France enabled me, besides gratifying myself by the sight and observation of the distinguished characters of whom I have in the Sketches immediately foregoing made mention, to pursue an inquiry that I had set on foot some time previously in my own country.

As I have already informed the reader in the commencement of this work, I was brought up among a sort of democratic aristocracy, which, like the race of wolf-dogs, seems to be extinct in Ireland. The gentry of those days took the greatest care to trace, and to preserve by tradition, the pedigree of their families and the exploits of their ancestors.

It is said that “he must be a wise man who knows _his own_ father;” but if there are thirty or forty of one’s forefathers to make out, it must necessarily be a research rather difficult for ordinary capacities. Such are therefore in the habit of resorting to a person who obtains his livelihood by begetting grandfathers and great-grandfathers _ad infinitum_!—namely, the herald, who, without much tedious research, can, in these commercial days, furnish any private gentleman, dealer, or chapman, with as beautifully transcribed, painted, and gilt a pedigree as he chooses to be at the expense of purchasing—with arms, crests, and mottoes to match: nor are there among the nobility themselves emblazonments more gaudy than may occasionally be seen upon the tilbury of some retired tailor, whose name was probably selected at random by the nurse of a foundling hospital.

But as there is, I believe, no great mob of persons bearing my name in existence, and as it is pretty well known to be rather old, I fancied I would pay a visit to our Irish herald-at-arms, to find out, if possible to a certainty, from what country I originally sprang. After having consulted every thing he had to consult, this worthy functionary only brought me back to Queen Elizabeth, which was doing nothing, as it was that virgin monarch who had made the first territorial grant to my family in Ireland, with liberty to return two members to every future parliament, which they actually did down to my father.

The Irish herald assured me that he could not honestly carry me one inch farther _back_ on the _male_ line, and so (having painted a most beautiful pedigree) he recommended me to the English herald-at-arms, who, he had no doubt, could take the thread at the top, and unravel it to my satisfaction.

I accordingly took the first opportunity of consulting this fresh oracle in London, whose minister having politely heard my case, transferred it to writing, screwed up his lips, and looked steadfastly at the ceiling for some five minutes: he then began to reckon centuries on his fingers; but there being only _eight_ of them, he applied to his _thumbs_; took down several large books full of emblazonments, nodded his head, and at last, cleverly and scientifically taking me up from the times of Queen Elizabeth, where I had been abruptly dropped by my fellow-countryman, delivered me, in less than a fortnight, as handsome a genealogical tree as could be reasonably desired: on this I triumphantly ascended to the reign of William the Conqueror, and the battle of Hastings, at which some of my ancestors were, it appears, fairly sped, and provided with neat lodgings in Battle Abbey, where, for aught I know to the contrary, they still remain.

The English herald-at-arms also informed me (but rather mysteriously) that it was _probable_ I had a right to put a French _De_ at the beginning of my name, as there was a Norman _ton_ at the end of it; but that, as he did not profess French heraldry, I had better inquire further from some of the craft in Normandy, where that science had at the period of the crusades greatly flourished—William the Conqueror, at the time he was denominated _the Bastard_, having by all accounts established a very celebrated heraldic college at Rouen.

I was much pleased with his candour, and thus the matter rested until Louis XVIII. returned home with his family, when, as the reader is aware, I likewise passed over to France with mine.

I did not forget the hint given me by my armorial friend in London; and in order to benefit by it, repaired, as soon as circumstances permitted, to Rouen, in which town we had been advised to place our two youngest daughters, for purposes of education, at a celebrated Ursuline convent, the abbess whereof was considered a more tolerating _religieuse_ than any of her contemporaries. Before I proceed to detail the sequel of my heraldic investigations I will lay before the reader one or two anecdotes connected with French nunneries.

The abbess of the convent in question, Madame Cousin, was a fine, handsome, fat old nun, as affable and insinuating as possible, and gained on us at first sight. She enlarged on the great advantages of her system; and showed us long galleries of beautiful little bed-chambers, together with gardens overlooking the boulevards, and adorned by that interesting tower wherein Jeanne d’Arc was so long confined previous to her being humanely burned alive as a _witch_ by our Duke of Bedford, who _attended the execution_! The window he overlooked her tortures from is still preserved in the square at Rouen. Her table, Madame Cousin assured us, was _excellent_ and _abundant_.

I was naturally impressed with an idea that a _nun_ feared God at any rate too much to tell twenty direct falsehoods, and practise twenty deceptions in the course of half an hour, for the lucre of fifty Napoleons,—which she required in advance, without the least intention of giving the value of five for them: and, under this impression, I paid the sum demanded, gave up our two children to Madame Cousin’s _motherly_ tutelage, and returned to the Hôtel de France, almost in love with the old abbess.