Paris, January 5th, 1829.

My most dear and valued Friend,

I could not write to you yesterday, because the diligence takes two days and a night to go from Calais to Paris, though it stops but once in twelve hours to eat, and then only for half an hour. The ride is not the most agreeable. The whole country, and even its metropolis, certainly appears somewhat dead, miserable, and dirty, after the rolling torrent of business, the splendour and the neatness of England. The contrast is doubly striking at this short distance. When you look at the grotesque machine in which you are seated, the wretchedly harnessed cart-horses by which you are slowly dragged along, and remember the noble horses, the elegant light-built coaches, the beautiful harness ornamented with bright brass and polished leather of England, you think you are transported a thousand miles in a dream. The bad roads, the miserable and dirty towns, awaken the same feeling. On the other hand, four things are manifestly better here,—climate, eating and drinking, cheapness, and sociability. ‘Mais commenÇons par le commencement.’ After I had exchanged my incognito passport for one equally provisional, and valid only as far as Paris, in the course of which operation I had nearly forgotten my new name, I approached the wonderful structure, which in France people have agreed to call a diligence. The monster was as long as a house, and consisted, in fact, of four distinct carriages, grown, as it were, together; the berline in the middle; a coach with a basket for luggage behind; a coupÉ in front; and a cabriolet above, where the conducteur sits, and where I also had perched myself. This conducteur, an old soldier of Napoleon’s Garde, was dressed like a wagoner, in a blue blouze, with a stitched cap of the same material on his head. The postillion was a still more extraordinary figure, and really looked almost like a savage: he too wore a blouze, under which appeared monstrous boots coated with mud; but besides this he wore an apron of untanned black sheep’s-skin, which hung down nearly to his knees. He drove six horses, harnessed three-and-three, which drew a weight of six thousand pounds over a very bad road. The whole road from Calais to Paris is one of the most melancholy and uninteresting I ever saw. I should therefore have read nearly all the way, had not the conversation of the conducteur afforded me better entertainment. His own heroic deeds and those of the Garde were an inexhaustible theme; and he assured me without the slightest hesitation, “que les trente mille hommes dont il faisoit partie dans ce tempslÀ,” (that was his expression,) “auraient ÉtÉ plus que suffisans pour conquÉrir toutes les nations de la terre, et que les autres n’avaient fait que gÂter l’affaire.” He sighed every time he thought of his Emperor. “Mais c’est sa faute,” exclaimed he, “ah! s—— d—— il serait encore EmpÉreur, si dans les cent jours il avait seulement voulu employer de jeunes gens qui dÉsiraient faire fortune, au lieu de ces vieux MarÉchaux qui Étaient trop riches, et qui avaient tous peur de leurs femmes. N’Étaient ils pas tous gros et gras commes des monstres? Ah! parlez moi d’un jeune, Colonel, comme nous en avions! Celui-lÀ vous aurait flanquÉ Ça de la jolie maniÈre.—Mais aprÈs tout l’EmpÉreur aurait dÛ se faira tuer À Waterloo comme notre Colonel. Eh bien, Monsieur, ce brave Colonel avait reÇu trois coups de feu, un À la jambe, et deux dans le corps, et pourtant il nous mÉnait encore À l’attaque, portÉ par deux grÉnadiers. Mais quand tout fut en vain et tout fini pour nous; CamÉrades, dit-il, j’ai fait ce que j’ai pÛ, mais nous voilÀ.—Je ne puis plus rendre service À l’EmpÉreur, À quoi bon vivre plus long temps? Adieu donc, mes CamÉrades—Vive l’EmpÉreur! Et le voilÀ qui tire son pistolet, et le dÉcharge dans sa bouche. C’est ainsi, ma foi, que l’EmpÉreur aurait dÛ finir aussi.”

Here we were interrupted by a pretty girl, who ran out of a poor-looking house by the road side, and called up to us, (for we were at least eight ells from the ground,) “Ah Ça, Monsieur le Conducteur, oubliez vous les craipes?” “O ho! es tu lÀ, mon enfant?” and he rapidly scrambled down the accustomed break-neck steps, made the postillion stop, and disappeared in the house. After a few minutes he came out with a packet, seated himself with an air of great satisfaction by me, and unfolded a prodigious store of hot smoking German Plinzen, a dish which, as he told me, he had learned to like so much in Germany, that he had imported it into his own country. Conquests are, you see, productive of some good. With French politeness he immediately begged me to partake of his ‘goÛtÉ,’ as he called it; and patriotism alone would have led me to accept his offer with pleasure. I must however admit that no farmer in Germany could have prepared his national dish better.

He was greatly troubled and distressed by a strange machine, nearly in the form of a pump, placed near his seat, with which he was incessantly busied; now pumping at it with all his might, then putting it in order, screwing it round or turning it backwards and forwards. On inquiry, I learned that this was a most admirable newly-invented piece of machinery, for the purpose of retarding the diligence without the aid of a drag-shoe. The conducteur was amazingly proud of this contrivance, never called it by any other name than ‘sa mÉchanique,’ and treated it with equal tenderness and reverence. Unhappily this prodigy broke the first day; and as we were forced in consequence to creep more slowly than before, the poor hero had to endure a good many jokes from the passengers, on the frailty of his ‘mÉchanique,’ as well as on the name of his huge vehicle, ‘l’Hirondelle,’ a name which truly seemed to have been given it in the bitterest irony.

It was irresistibly droll to hear the poor devil, at every relay, regularly advertise the postillion of the misfortune which had happened. The following dialogue, with few variations, always ensued: “Mon enfant, il faut que tu saches que je n’ai plus de mÉchanique.” “Comment, s—— d——, plus de mÉchanique?” “Ma mÉchanique fait encore un peu, vois-tu, mais c’est trÈs peu de chose, le principal brancheron est au diable.” “Ah, diable!”

It was impossible to be worse seated, or to travel more uncomfortably or tediously than I in my lofty cabriolet: and indeed I had now been for some time deprived of my most familiar comforts: yet never were my health or my spirits better than during this whole journey: I felt uninterrupted cheerfulness and content, because I was completely free. Oh! inestimable blessing of freedom, never do we value thee enough! If every man would but clearly ascertain what were actually necessary to his individual happiness and content, and would unconditionally choose what best promised to secure that end, and heartily reject all the rest (for we cannot have everything at once in this world), how many mistakes were avoided, how much petty ambition crushed, how much true joy and pleasure promoted! All would find a great over-proportion of happiness in life, instead of torturing themselves to the very brink of the grave to obtain what gives them neither tranquillity nor enjoyment.

I will not weary you with any further details of so uninteresting a journey. It was like the melo-drame “One o’clock,” and as tiresome. The day we left Calais we stopped at one to dine; at one in the morning we supped: the next day at one we had breakfast or dinner at Beauvais, where a pretty girl who waited on us, and a friend of Bolivar’s, who told us a great deal about the disinterestedness of the Liberator, made us regret our quick departure; and again, at one in the morning, we had to fight for our luggage at the Custom-house at Paris. My servant put mine upon a ‘charrette’ which a man crowded before us through the dark and dirty streets to the Hotel St. Maurice, where I am now writing to you in a little room in which the cold wind whistles through all the doors and windows, so that the blazing fire in the chimney warms me only on one side. The silken hangings, as well as the quantity of dirt they cover; the number of looking-glasses; the large blocks of wood on the fire; the tile parquet,—all recall vividly to my mind that I am in France, and not in England.

I shall rest here a few days and make my purchases, and then hasten to you, without, if possible, seeing one acquaintance; ‘car celÀ m’entrainerait trop,’ Do not, therefore, expect to hear anything new from old Paris. A few detached remarks are all that I shall have to offer you.

January 6th.

To make some defence against the extreme cold, which I have always found most insufferable in France and Italy, from the want of all provision against it, I was obliged to-day to have all the chinks in my little lodging stuffed with ‘bourlets.’ When this was done, I sallied forth to take the customary first walk of strangers,—to the Boulevards, the Palais Royal, Tuilleries, &c. for I was curious to see what alterations had taken place in the course of seven years. On the Boulevards I found all just as it was: in the Palais Royal, the Duke of Orleans has begun to substitute new stone buildings and an elegant covered way for the narrow old wooden galleries, and other holes and corners. When it is finished, this palace will certainly be one of the most magnificent, as it has always been one of the most singular and striking, in the world. Perhaps there is no other instance of a royal prince inhabiting the same house with several hundred shopkeepers, and as many inmates of a less reputable description, and deriving from them a revenue much more than sufficient for his ‘mÊnus plaisirs.’ In England a nobleman would think the existence of such a society under his roof impossible; but could it by any means find admittance, he would at least take care to have it cleaner.

In the palace of the Tuilleries and the Rue Rivoli all the improvements which Napoleon began were in much the same state as he left them. In this point of view Paris has lost much in the Imperial dynasty, which would have rendered it a truly magnificent city, and the luxury of decoration must soon have been followed by that of cleanliness. One is tempted to wish that the Pont de Louis Seize were among the unfinished things; for the ludicrously theatrical statues, at least twice too big in proportion to the bridge, and seeming to crush the pillars they stand upon, have much more the air of bad ‘acteurs de province’ than of the heroes they are meant to represent.

As cooks are to be numbered among the heroes of France, first on account of their unequalled skill, and secondly of their sense of honour, (remember Vatel,) I come naturally in this place to the restaurateurs. Judging by the most eminent whom I visited to-day, I think they have somewhat degenerated. They have, to be sure, exchanged their inconveniently long ‘carte’ for an elegantly bound book; but the quality of the dishes and wines seems to have deteriorated in proportion to the increase of luxury in the announcement of them. After coming to this melancholy conviction, I hastened to the once celebrated ‘Rocher de Cancale.’ But Baleine has launched into the sea of eternity; and the traveller who now trusts to the rock of Cancale, builds upon the sand: ‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’

On the other hand I must give all praise to the Theatre de Madame, where I spent my evening. LÉontine Fay is a most delightful actress, and a better ‘ensemble’ it would be difficult to find. Coming directly from England, I was particularly struck with the consummate truth and nature with which LÉontine Fay represented the French girl educated in England, yet without suffering this nuance to break in any degree the harmony and keeping of the character. It is impossible to discover in her admirable acting the slightest imitation of Mademoiselle Mars; and yet it presents as true, as tender, as pathetic a copy of nature, in a totally different manner.—The second piece, a farce, was given with that genuine ease and comic expression which make these French ‘Riens’ so delightful and amusing in Paris, while they appear so vapid and absurd in a German translation. The story is this:—A provincial uncle secretly leaves his little country town, in which he has just been chosen a member of a ‘SociÉtÉ de la Vertu,’ in order to reclaim his nephew, of whom he has received the most discouraging accounts, from his wild courses. Instead of which his nephew’s companions get hold of him, and draw him into all sorts of scrapes and excesses.

Mademoiselle Minette brings, by her coquetry, old Martin to give her a kiss, at which moment her lover, the waiter, comes in with a pig’s head, stands speechless with amazement, and at length letting the head slide slowly off the dish, cries out, “N’y a’t-il pas de quoi perdre la tÊte?” This certainly is a silly jest enough, yet one must be very stoically inclined not to laugh heartily at the admirable drollery of the acting. The rest is as diverting: Martin, alarmed at having been caught in such an adventure, at length consoles himself with the thought that he is not known here; and in the midst of his ‘embarras,’ accepts an invitation to a ‘dÉjeuner’ from Dorval, who has just come in. The ‘dÉjeuner’ is given at the theatre. Martin at first is very temperate; but at length the truffles and dainties tempt him, ‘et puis il faut absolument les arroser d’un peu de Champagne.’ After much pressing on the part of his hosts, and much moralizing on his own, he consents to drink one glass ‘À la vertu.’ ‘HÉlas, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coute.’ A second glass follows, ‘À la piÉtÉ;’—a third, ‘À la misÉricorde;’ and before the guests depart, we hear Martin, drunk and joyous, join in the toast, ‘Vivent les femmes et le vin!’ Play follows:—at first he will only join in a game of piquet; from piquet he is led on to ÉcartÉ, and from ÉcartÉ to hazard; loses a large sum, and at last learns, ‘pour le combler de confusion,’ that he and his plan were betrayed from the first, and that his nephew had put him to the trial instead of being tried by him, and had unfortunately found him very frail. He gladly agrees to all that is required of him, ‘pourvu qu’on lui garde le secret;’ and the piece concludes with the arrival of his old friend, who comes by extra post to announce to him that he (Martin) was yesterday elected by acclamation president of the ‘SociÉtÉ de la Vertu’ in his native town.

Jan. 7th.

In spite of the ‘bourlets’ and a burning pile of wood in my chimney, I continue to be almost frozen in my ‘entresol.’ There prevails moreover a constant ‘clair-obscur,’ so that I see the writing implements before me as if behind a veil. The small windows and high opposite houses render this irremediable; you must forgive me, therefore, if my writing is more unintelligible than usual. You must have remarked that the preposterously high rate of postage in England taught me to write more carefully, and especially smaller; so that a Lavater of handwritings might study my character in the mere aspect of my letters to you. It is in this, as in life; we are often led by good motives to begin to contract in various ways: soon however the lines involuntarily expand; and before we are conscious of it, the unfelt but irresistible power of habit leads us back to our old latitude.

An English officer, whom I found to-day in the CafÉ Anglais, repeatedly asked the astonished ‘garÇon’ for ‘la charte,’ concluding I suppose, that in liberal France it formed a part of the furniture of every cafÉ. Although the French seldom take any notice of the ‘qui pro quos’ of foreigners, this was too remarkable not to draw forth a smile from several. I thought, however,—how willingly would some reverse the Englishman’s blunder, and give the French people ‘cartes’ instead of ‘chartes.’

I was greatly surprised in the evening at the OpÉra FranÇais, which I had left a kind of bedlam, where a few maniacs screamed with agony as if on the rack, and where I now found sweet singing in the best Italian style, united to very good acting. Rossini, who, like a second Orpheus, has tamed even this savage opera, is a real musical benefactor; and natives as well as foreigners have reason to bless him for the salvation of their ears. I prefer this now, though it is not the fashion to do so, to the Italian Opera. It combines nearly all that one can desire in a theatre;—the good singing and acting I have mentioned, with magnificent decorations, and the best ballet in the world. If the text of the operas were fine poetry, I know not what further could be wished; but even as they are, one may be very well content; for instance, with the ‘Muette de Portici,’ which I saw to-day. Mademoiselle Noblet’s acting is full of grace and animation, without the least exaggeration. The elder Nourrit is an admirable Massaniello, though he, and he alone, sometimes screamed too loud. The costumi were models; but Vesuvius did not explode and flame properly, and the clouds of smoke which sunk into the earth instead of ascending from it, were a phenomenon which I had not the good fortune to witness when I ‘assistai’ at a real eruption of that mountain.

Jan. 8th.

A French writer somewhere says, “L’on dit que nous sommes des enfans;—oui, pour les faiblesses, mais pas pour le bonheur.” This, thank God! I can by no means say of myself. ‘Je le suis pour l’un et pour l’autre,’ in spite of my three dozen years. I amuse myself here in the solitude of this great city uncommonly well, and can fancy myself a young man just entering the world, and everything new to me. In the mornings I see sights, saunter from one museum to another, or go ‘shopping.’ (This word signifies to go from shop to shop buying trifles, such as luxury is always inventing in Paris and London.) I have already collected a hundred little presents for you, so that my small apartment can hardly contain them, and yet I have scarcely spent eighty pounds sterling for them. In England it is the dearness, but here the cheapness, that is expensive. I am often constrained to laugh when I see that a cunning French shopkeeper thinks he has cheated a stiff islander admirably, while the latter goes off in astonishment at having bought things for a sixth part of what he had given for the very same in London.

I continue my scientific researches among the restaurateurs, which occupy me till evening, when I go to the theatre, though I have not time to complete the course either of the one or the other.

During my ‘shopping’ to-day in the Palais Royal, I observed an affiche announcing the wonderful exhibition of the death of Prince Poniatowski at Leipsic. I am loath to omit anything of this national kind, so that I ascended a miserable dirty staircase, where I found a shabbily dressed man sitting near a half-extinguished lamp, in a dark room without a window. A large table standing before him was covered with a dirty table-cloth. As soon as I entered he arose and hastened to light three other lamps, which however would not burn, whereupon he began to declaim vehemently. I thought the explanation was beginning, and asked what he had said, as I had not given proper attention. “Oh rien,” was the reply, “je parle seulement À mes lampes qui ne brÛlent pas clair.” After this conversation with the lamps had accomplished its end, the cloth was removed, and discovered a work of art which very much resembled a NÜremberg toy, with little moving figures, but on the assurance of the owner was well worth the entrance money. In a nasal singing tone he began as follows: “VoilÀ le fameux Prince Poniatowski, se tournant avec grace vers les officiers de son corps en s’ecriant, Quand on a tout perdu et qu’on n’a plus d’espoir, la vie est un opprobre et la mort un devoir.

“Remarquez bien, Messieurs, (he always addressed me in the plural,) comme le cheval blanc du prince se tourne aussi lestement qu’un cheval vÉritable. Voyez, pan À droite—pan À gauche,—mais le voilÀ qui s’Élance, se cabre, se prÉcipite dans la riviÈre, et disparait.” All this took place; the figure was drawn by a thread first to the right, then to the left, then forward; and at last, by pulling away a slide painted to represent water, fell into a wheelbarrow that stood under the table. “Ah!—bien!—voilÀ le prince Poniatowski noyÉ! Il est mort!—C’est la premiÈre partie. Maintenant, Messieurs, vous allez voir tout À l’heure la chose la plus surprÉnante qui ait jamais Éte montrÉe en France. Tous ces petits soldats innombrables que vous appercevez devant vous (there were somewhere about sixty or seventy), sont tous vraiment habillÉs; habits, gibernes, armes, tout peut s’Ôter et se remettre À volontÉ! Les canons servent commes les canons vÉritables, et sont admirÉs par tous les officiers de gÉnie qui viennent ici.” In order to give ocular demonstration of this, he took the little cannon off the carriage, and the sword-belt off the soldier, nearest to him, which was to serve as sufficient proof of his assertion. “Ah,—bien! vous allez maintenant, Messieurs, voir manoeuvrer cette petite armÉe comme sur le champ de bataille. Chaque soldat et chaque cheval feront sÉparÉment les mouvements propres, voyez!” Hereupon the whole body of puppets, who had not moved during the first act, (probably out of respect for Prince Poniatowski,) now made two simultaneous movements to the sound of a drum which a little boy beat under the table: the soldiers shouldered their arms, and set them down again; the horses reared and kicked. While this was going on, the expositor recounted the French bulletin of the affair with increasing pathos,—and thus closed the second act. I thought there could hardly be anything better to come; and as a few fresh spectators had dropped in, and I found it impossible any longer to endure the horrid stench of two lamps which had gone out, I fled from the field of battle and all its wonders. Tragical enough was it, however, to see that gallant selfdevoting hero so represented.

I was much pleased at the Opera with young Nourrit’s Count Ory. Connoisseurs may exclaim as they like against Rossini;—it is not the less true that in this, as in his other works, streams of melody enchant the ear,—now melting in tones of love, now thundering in tempests; rejoicing, triumphant, at the banquet of the knights, or rising in solemn adoration to heaven. It is curious enough that in this licentious opera, the prayer of the knight, which is represented as merely a piece of hypocrisy, is the very same which Rossini had composed for Charles the Tenth’s coronation. Madame Cinti sung the part of the Countess very well; Mademoiselle Javoureck, as her page, showed very handsome legs, and the bass singer was excellent.

The ballet I thought not so good as usual. Albert and Paul are not grown lighter with years, and, except Noblet and Taglioni, there was no good female dancer.

In the opera, I remarked that the same actor who played one of the principal parts in the ‘Muette,’ sustained a very obscure one to-night in the chorus of knights. Such things often occur here, and are worthy of all imitation. It is only when the best performers are obliged to concur in the ‘ensemble,’ be the part allotted to them great or small, that a truly excellent whole can be produced. For this ‘ensemble’ much more is generally done in France than in Germany, where the illusion is frequently broken by trifles which are sacrificed to the ease and convenience of the manager or actor. Hoffman used to say, that of all incongruities none had ever shocked him more than when, on the Berlin stage, a Geheimerath of Iffland’s, after deporting himself in the most prosaic manner possible, suddenly, instead of going out at the door in a human manner, vanished through the wall like mere air.

Jan. 10.

It is an agreeable surprise to find the Museum, after all that it has restored, still so abundantly rich. DÉnon’s new ‘Salles’ now afford a worthy station to most of the statues. It is only a pity that the old galleries are not arranged in the same style. Much would not be lost by the demolition of the painted ceilings, which have no great merit in themselves, and harmonize so ill with statues. Sculpture and painting should never be mixed. I shall not dwell on the well-known master-pieces; but let me mention to you some which particularly struck me, and which I do not remember to have seen before.

First: A beautiful Venus, discovered a few years since in Milo, and presented to the King by the Duc de RiviÈre. She is represented as victrix; according to the opinion of antiquarians, either showing the apple, or holding the shield of Mars with both hands. Both arms are wanting, so that these are only hypotheses. But how exquisite is the whole person and attitude! What life, what tender softness, and what perfection of form! The proud triumphant expression of the face has the truth and nature of a woman, and the sublimity and power of a deity.

Second: A female figure clothed in full drapery (called in the Catalogue ‘Image de la Providence’);—a noble, idealized woman;—mildness and benignity in her countenance, divine repose in her whole person. The drapery perfect in grace and execution.

Third: Cupid and Psyche, from the Villa Borghese. Psyche, sunk on her knees, is imploring Cupid’s forgiveness, and the sweet smile on his lips shows that her prayer is inwardly accepted. Laymen, at least, can hardly look without rapture on the exquisite beauty of the forms, and the lovely expression of the countenances. The group is in such preservation, that only one hand of the God of Love appears to have been restored.

Fourth: A Sleeping Nymph. The ancients, who understood how to present every object under the most beautiful point of view, frequently adorned their sarcophagi with such figures, as emblems of death. The sleep is evidently deep; but the attitude is almost voluptuous:—the limbs exquisitely turned, and half concealed by drapery. The figure excites the thought rather of the new young life to come, than of the death which must precede it.[162]

Fifth: A Gipsy,—remarkable for the mixture of stone and bronze. The figure is of the latter: the LacedÆmonian mantle, of the former. The head is modern, but has a very charming arch expression, perfectly in character for a Zingarella, such as Italy still contains.

Sixth: A magnificent Statue in an attitude of prayer. The head and neck, of white marble, have the severe ideal beauty of the antique; and the drapery, of the hardest porphyry, could not be more light and flowing in silk or velvet.

Seventh: The colossal Melpomene gives its name to one of the new galleries, and below it an elegant bronze railing encloses some admirably executed imitations of antique mosaic by Professor Belloni. This is a very interesting invention, and I wonder to see it so little encouraged by the rich.

Eighth: The bust of the youthful Augustus. A handsome, mild, and intelligent head; very different in expression, though with the same outline of features, from the statue which represents the emperor at a later period of life, when the power of circumstances and the influence of parties had hurried him into so many acts of tyranny and cruelty, till at length his native gentleness returned with the attainment of uncontested and unlimited power.

Ninth: His great general, Agrippa. Never did I behold a more characteristic physiognomy, with a nobler outline. It is curious that the forehead and the upper part of the region of the eye have a strong resemblance to a man, who, though in a different sphere of activity, must be numbered among the great,—I mean Alexander von Humboldt. In the other part of the face the resemblance wholly disappears. The more I looked at this iron head, the more I was convinced that exactly such an one was necessary to enable the soft Augustus to become and to remain lord of the world.

Tenth: The last, and at the same time most interesting to me, was a bust of Alexander, the only authentic one, as DÉnon affirms, in existence; a perfect study for physiognomists and craniologists: for the fidelity of the artists of antiquity represented all the parts with equal care after the model of nature. This head has indeed all the truth of a portrait, not in the slightest degree idealized,[163]—not even remarkably beautiful in feature; but, in the extraordinary proportions and expression, distinctly telling the history of the great original. The ‘abandon’ of the character, sometimes amounting to levity, is clearly betrayed by the graceful inclination of the neck and the voluptuous beauty of the mouth. The forehead and jaw are strikingly like those of Napoleon, as is also the entire form of the skull, both behind and before (animal and intellectual.) The forehead is not too high,—it bespeaks no ideologist—but compact, and of iron strength. The features are generally regular and well turned, though, as I have already remarked, they have no pretensions to ideal beauty. Around the eye and nose reigns acuteness of mind, united with determined courage and a singular elevated astuteness, and at the same time with that disposition towards sensual pleasures, which combine to render Alexander such as he stands alone in history,—a youthful hero, no less invincible than amiable,—a hero realizing all the dreams of poetry and fiction. Gifted with the same combination of qualities, neither Charles the Twelfth of Sweden nor Napoleon would have met their overthrow in Russia; nor would the one now be regarded as a mere Don Quixote, nor the other as a man who employed his powers only as a calculating tyrant. The whole forms a being whose aspect is in the highest degree attractive, and, though imposing, awakens in the spectator courage, love, and confidence. He feels himself happy and secure within the reflection of this wondrous countenance; and sees that such a man, in any condition of life, must have excited admiration and enthusiasm, and have exercised boundless influence.

I must mention one lovely bas-relief, and a singularly beautiful altar. The Bas-relief, for which, like so many others, France is indebted to Napoleon, is from the Borghese collection. It represents Vulcan forging the shield for Æneas: Cyclops around him, all with genuine Silenus’ and fauns’ faces, are delightfully represented. But the most delightful figure of the group is a lovely little Cupid, half hiding himself behind the door with the cap of one of the Cyclops. All in this elegant composition is full of life, humour, and motion, and the truth of the forms and correctness of the outlines are masterly.

The Altar, dedicated to twelve Deities, is in form like a Christian font. The twelve busts in alto-relievo surround it like a beautiful wreath. The workmanship is exquisite, and the preservation nearly perfect. The gods are placed in the following order: Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo, Juno, Neptune, Vulcan, Mercury, Vesta, Ceres, Diana, all separate; lastly, Mars and Venus united by Cupid. I wonder that this graceful design has never been executed on a small scale in alabaster, porcelain or glass, for ladies’ bazaars, as the well-known doves and other antique subjects are. Nothing could be better adapted for the purpose; and yet there was not even a plaster cast of it to be found at Jaquet’s (the successor to Getti, ‘mouleur du MusÉe;’) nor had he any of the subjects I have mentioned, merely because they are not among the most celebrated; though some that are, are certainly not of a very attractive character. Men are terribly like ‘les moutons de Panurge:’ they implicitly follow authority, and suffer that to prescribe to them what they shall like.

In the picture-galleries, the forced restitutions would be considerably less remarked, if the places were not filled by so many pictures of the modern French school, which I confess, with very few exceptions, produce somewhat the effect of caricatures upon me. The theatrical attitudes, the stage dignity, which even David’s pictures frequently exhibit, and the continual exaggeration of passion, appear like the work of learners, compared with the noble fidelity to nature of the Italian masters, and even make us regret the charming truth and reality of the German and Flemish schools. Of all these famous moderns, Girodet displeased me the most: no healthy taste can look at his Deluge without disgust. GÉrard’s entry of Henry the Fourth appears to me a picture whose fame will endure. The number of Rubens’ and Lesueur’s pictures which have been brought from the Luxemburg, but ill replace the Raphaels, Leonardo da Vincis, and Vandykes, which have disappeared. In short, all that had been brought here since the Restoration, whether new or old, makes but an unfavourable impression. This is not lessened by the bad busts of painters which have been placed at regular intervals, and which, even were they better as specimens of sculpture, are wholly out of place in a collection of paintings. The magnificent long gallery affords, however, as before, the most agreeable winter walk; and the liberality which leaves it constantly accessible to strangers cannot be sufficiently praised.

When I think how still more deplorable is the state of painting in England, how little Italy and Germany now merit their former fame, I am tempted to fear that this art will share the fate of painting on glass; nay, that its most precious secrets are already irrecoverably lost. The breadth, power, truth and life of the old masters, their technical knowledge of colouring,—where are they now to be found? Thorwaldson, Rauch, Danneker, Canova, rival the antique;[164] but where is the painter who can be placed by the side of the second-rate artists of the golden age of painting?

In a side court of the Museum stands the colossal Sphinx from Drovetti’s collection, destined for the court of the Louvre. It is of pale-red granite, and the sculpture is as grand as the mass is stupendous. It is perfectly intact, except the nose; this had just been replaced by one of plaster of Paris, which had not received its last coat of colouring. The sight of it made me involuntarily laugh; and, thinking of the strange chain of events which had brought this giant hither, I internally exclaimed, “What do you here, you huge Ægyptian, after a lapse of three thousand years,—in this new Babylon, where no sphinx can keep a secret, and where silence never found a home?”

In the evening I went to the ThÉatre Porte St. Martin to see Faust, which was performed for the eightieth or ninetieth time. The culminating point of this melodrame is a waltz which Mephistopheles dances with Martha; and in truth it is impossible to dance more diabolically. It never fails to call forth thunders of applause,—and in one sense deserves it; for the pantomime is extremely expressive, and affects one in the same manner as jests intermingled with ghost stories. Mephistopheles, though ugly, has the air of a gentleman, which is more than can be said for our German devils.

The most remarkable part of the scenery is the Blocksberg, with all its horrors, which leave those of the Wolf’s Glen far behind. Illumined by lurid lights of all colours, gleaming from behind dark pines and clefts in the rock, it swarmed with living skeletons, glittering snakes, horrible monsters of deformity, headless or bleeding bodies, hideous witches, huge fiery giants’ eyes glaring out of bushes, toads as big as men, and many other agreeable images of the like kind. In the last act, the scene-painter had gone rather too far, having represented heaven and hell at the same time. Heaven, which of course occupied the upper part of the scene, shone with a very beautiful pale-blue radiance; but this was so unbecoming to the complexion of Gretchen’s soul, as well as to that of the angels who pirouetted round her, that they looked more like the corpses on the Blocksberg than the blessed in heaven.—The devils, who danced immediately under the wooden floor of heaven, had a much more advantageous tone of colour, which they certainly deserved for the zeal with which they tore the effigy of Faust into pieces till the curtain fell.

The theatre itself is tastefully decorated with gay paintings and gold on a ground of white satin. The many-coloured flowers, birds and butterflies, have a very lively agreeable effect. The interior of the boxes is light blue, and the lining an imitation of red velvet. Besides the annoying cry of the limonadiers, who, to a German ear, make such singular abbreviations of the words ‘orgeat, limonade, glace,’ there was a Jew who wandered about with ‘lorgnettes,’ which he let at ten sous for the evening;—a trade which I don’t remember to have observed before, and which is very convenient to the public.

This letter will probably travel to you by sledges, for we have a truly Russian climate, though unhappily no Russian stoves. Heaven send you a better temperature in B——!

Your L——