University of Virginia Library

12. LETTER XII.

I have spent the day in a long stroll. The wind
blew warm and delicious from the south this morning,
and the temptation to abandon lessons and lectures
was irresistible. Taking the Arc de l'Etoile as my
extreme point, I yielded to all the leisurely hinder
ances of shop-windows, beggars, book-stalls, and views
by the way. Among the specimen-cards in an engraver's
window I was amused at finding, in the latest
Parisian fashion, “Hussein-Pacha, Dey d'Algiers.”

These delightful Tuileries! We rambled through
them (I had met a friend and countryman, and enticed
him into my idle plans for the day), and amused ourselves
with the never-failing beauty and grace of the
French children for an hour. On the inner terrace
we stopped to look at the beautiful hotel of Prince
Polignac, facing the Tuileries, on the opposite bank.
By the side of this exquisite little model of a palace
stands the superb commencement of Napoleon's ministerial
hotel, breathing of his glorious conception in
every line of its ruins. It is astonishing what a god-like
impress that man left upon all he touched.

Every third or fourth child in the gardens was
dressed in the full uniform of the National Guard—
helmet, sword, epaulets, and all. They are ludicrous
little caricatures, of course, but it inoculates
them with love of the corps, and it would be better if
that were synonymous with a love of liberal principles.
The Garde Nationale are supposed to be more than
half “Carlists” at this moment.

We passed out by the guarded gate of the Tuileries
to the Place Louis XV. This square is a most beautiful
spot, as a centre of unequalled views, and yet a
piece of earth so foully polluted with human blood
probably does not exist on the face of the globe. It
divides the Tuileries from the Champs Elysées, and
ranges, of course, in the long broad avenue of two
miles, stretching between the king's palace and the
Arc de l'Etoile. It is but a list of names to write down
the particular objects to be seen in such a view,
but it commands, at the extremities of its radii, the
most princely edifices, seen hence with the most advantageous
foregrounds of space and avenue, and
softened by distance into the misty and unbroken surface
of engraving. The king's palace is on one hand,
Napoleon's Arch at a distance of nearly two miles on
the other, Prince Talleyrand's regal dwelling behind,
with the church of Madeline seen through the Rue
Royale, while before you, to the south, lies a picture
of profuse splendor: the broad Seine, spanned by
bridges that are the admiration of Europe, and crowded
by specimens of architectural magnificence; the
chamber of deputies; and the Palais Bourbon, approached
by the Pont Louis XVI. with its gigantic
statues and simple majesty of structure; and, rising
over all, the grand dome of the “Invalides,” which
Napoleon gilded, to divert the minds of his subjects
from his lost battle, and which Peter the Great admired
more than all Paris beside. What a spot for a
man to stand upon, with but one bosom to feel and
one tongue to express his wonder!

And yet, of what, that should make a spot of earth
sink to perdition, has it not been the theatre? Here
were beheaded the unfortunate Louis XVI.—his wife,
Marie Antoinette—his kinsman, Philip duke of Orleans,
and his sister Elizabeth; and here were guillotined
the intrepid Charlotte Corday, the deputy Brissot, and
twenty of his colleagues, and all the victims of the
revolution of 1793, to the amount of two thousand
eight hundred; and here Robespierre and his cursed
crew met at last with their insufficient retribution;
and, as if it were destined to be the very blood-spot
of the earth, here the fireworks, which were celebrating
the marriage of the same Louis that was afterward
brought hither to the scaffold, exploded and
killed fourteen hundred persons. It has been the
scene, also, of several minor tragedies not worth mentioning
in such a connexion. Were I a Bourbon, and
as unpopular as King Philippe I. at this moment, the
view of the Place Louis XV. from my palace windows
would very much disturb the beauty of the perspective.
Without an equivoque, I should look with a very

ominous dissatisfaction on the “Elysian fields” that
lie beyond.

We loitered slowly on to the Barrier Neuilly, just
outside of which, and right before the city gates,
stands the Trimphal Arch. It has the stamp of
Napoleon—simple grandeur. The broad avenue from
the Tuileries swells slowly up to it for two miles, and
the view of Paris at its foot, even, is superb. We
ascended to the unfinished roof, a hundred and thirty-five
feet from the ground, and saw the whole of the
mighty capital of France at a coup d'œil—churches,
palaces, gardens; buildings heaped upon buildings
clear over the edge of the horizon, where the spires
of the city in which you stand are scarcely visible for
the distance.

I dined a short time since, with the editors of the
Revue Encyclopedique at their monthly reunion. This
is a sort of club dinner, to which the eminent contributors
of the review invite once a month all the strangers
of distinction who happen to be in Paris. I owed
my invitation probably to the circumstance of my living
with Dr. Howe, who is considered the organ of
American principles here, and whose force of character
has given him a degree of respect and prominence
not often attained by foreigners. It was the most remarkable
party, by far, that I had ever seen. There
were nearly a hundred guests, twenty or thirty of
whom were distinguished Poles, lately arrived from
Warsaw. Generals Romarino and Langermann were
placed beside the president, and another general, whose
name is as difficult to remember as his face is to forget,
and who is famous for having been the last on
the field, sat next to the head seat. Near him were
General Bernard and Dr. Bowring, with Sir Sidney
Smith (covered with orders, from every quarter of the
world), and the President of Colombia. After the
usual courses of a French dinner, the president, Mons.
Julien, a venerable man, with snow-white hair, addressed
the company. He expressed his pleasure at
the meeting, with the usual courtesies of welcome,
and in the fervent manner of the old school of French
politeness; and then, pausing a little, and lowering
his voice, with a very touching cadence, he looked
around to the Poles, and began to speak of their country.
Every movement was instantly hushed about the
table—the guests leaned forward, some of them half
rising in their earnestness to hear; the old man's voice
trembled, and sunk lower; the Poles dropped their
heads upon their bosoms, and the whole company
were strongly affected. His manner suddenly changed
at this moment, in a degree that would have seemed
too dramatic, if the strong excitement had not sustained
him. He spoke indignantly of the Russian barbarity
toward Poland—assured the exiles of the strong
sympathy felt by the great mass of the French people
in their cause, and expressed his confident belief that
the struggle was not yet done, and the time was near
when, with France at her back, Poland would rise and
be free. He closed, amid tumultuous acclamation,
and all the Poles near him kissed the old man, after
the French manner, upon both his cheeks.

This speech was followed by several others, much
to the same effect. Dr. Bowring replied handsomely,
in French, to some compliment paid to his efforts on
the “question of reform,” in England. Cesar Moreau,
the great schemist, and founder of the Academie d'Industrie,
said a few very revolutionary things quite emphatically,
rolling his fine visionary-looking eyes about
as if he saw the “shadows cast before” of coming
events; and then rose a speaker, whom I shall never
forget—he was a young Polish noble, of about nineteen,
whose extreme personal beauty and enthusiastic
expression of countenance had particularly arrested
my attention in the drawing-room, before dinner. His
person was slender and graceful—his eye and mouth
full of beauty and fire, and his manner had a quiet native
superiority, that would have distinguished him
anywhere. He had behaved very gallantly in the
struggle, and some allusion had been made to him in
one of the addresses. He rose modestly, and half unwillingly,
and acknowledged the kind wishes for his
country in language of great elegance. He then went
on to speak of the misfortunes of Poland, and soon
warmed into eloquence of the most vivid earnestness
and power. I never was more moved by a speaker—
he seemed perfectly unconscious of everything but the
recollections of his subject. His eyes swam with
tears and flashed with indignation alternately, and his
refined spirited mouth assumed a play of varied expression,
which, could it have been arrested, would have
made a sculptor immortal. I can hardly write extravagantly
of him, for all present were as much excited
as myself. One ceases to wonder at the desperate
character of the attempt to redeem the liberty of a
land when he sees such specimens of its people. I
have seen hundreds of Poles, of all classes, in Paris,
and I have not yet met with a face of even common
dulness among them.

You have seen by the papers, I presume, that a
body of several thousand Poles fled from Warsaw, after
the defeat, and took refuge in the northern forests of
Prussia. They gave up their arms under an assurance
from the king that they should have all the rights of
Prussian subjects. He found it politic afterward to
recall his protection, and ordered them back to Poland.
They refused to go, and were surrounded by a detachment
of his army, and the orders given to fire upon
them. The soldiers refused, and the Poles, taking
advantage of the sympathy of the army, broke through
the ranks, and escaped to the forest, where, at the last
news, they were armed with clubs, and determined to
defend themselves to the last. The consequence of a
return to Poland would be, of course, an immediate
exile to Siberia. The Polish committee, American
and French, with General Lafayette at their head,
have appropriated a great part of their funds to the relief
of this body, and our countryman, Dr. Howe, has
undertaken the dangerous and difficult task of carrying
it to them. He left Paris for Brussels, with letters
from the Polish generals, and advices from Lafayette
to all Polish committees upon his route, that they
should put all their funds into his hands. He is a gallant
fellow, and will succeed if any one can; but he
certainly runs great hazard. God prosper him!