France in eighteen hundred and two

In 1793 a visit to the Pantheon in the Rue St. Jacques was considered a duty for every patriot, who thus made a pilgrimage to the shrines of the departed saints of Liberty. It was an affecting sight to behold the regenerated children of freedom besmeared with blood and their feverish heads covered with bonnets rouges, descending into the vaults where the remains of their Satanic hierarchs reposed, and invoking, by the glimmering light of funeral torches, the shades of Marat and le Pelletier,[1] St. Fargeon.

In the more rational and early part of the Revolution this place was consecrated to the memory of those who by their genius, their discoveries, or their civil and military services, had contributed to raise the prosperity of their country. France, in St. Denis, possessed a Royal Mausoleum, but she was destitute of a cemetery for her national benefactors, and nothing could therefore be more laudable than the appropriation of the vaults (for this purpose) of one of the finest churches in Christendom, and accordingly this church of St. Geneviève was selected for this purpose. But this Christian temple was soon converted into a temple of Paganism, and its name changed to a heathen one, while instead of becoming an offertory to genius, its vaults became the receptacle of the bodies of bloody-minded maniacs.

I remember to have seen the tombs of Voltaire[1] and Mirabeau at the extremity of these caverns, and they were the only great men who, in 1792, were judged worthy of being pantheonised. The remains of the latter were soon disturbed, for after the deposition of the King, he was suspected of being a Royalist and therefore a traitor to that Republic which, at the time of his death, was nonexistent. The relics of the Man of the People were therefore removed and flung into the Seine. But the ashes of Voltaire, the economist of monarchical government, the flatterer of kings, a determined aristocrat and a man who entertained as hearty a contempt for republican institutions as does Bonaparte himself, were left to moulder undisturbed.

If I am not mistaken, Voltaire would, I am persuaded, had he lived in these times, have been the panegyrist of Bonaparte. Such a man as the First Consul would have captured the senses of the Philosopher of Fernay, and the declarations of this affected Mussulman delighted the eulogist of Mahomet.

Whoever is acquainted with the writings of Voltaire must perceive that the vivacity of his imagination carries him beyond himself. Acute, penetrating and ingeniously sceptical, no man was more easily deceived by appearances. A successful usurper and a great man were, in his mind, identical; with him goodness and greatness were correlative terms. The vilest scoundrel on earth, if possessed of Imperial power, is a great man. Hence we find Voltaire calumniating Constantine because he was a convert to Christianity and complimenting the most perfidious, cruel and barbarous conquerors because they were not Christians; extolling the licentious despotism of a puny tyrant of France, because infidelity flourished in his court and camp and publicly avowing that no conqueror existed without being at the same time a man of good understanding.

The legislators of modern France, I am convinced, never read with any attention the works of Voltaire, much less penetrated the spirit and object of his compositions. They denominated him a Republican simply because Condorcet[1] commented on Voltaire’s atheistical doctrines from the tribune of the Convention, and because they were not able to distinguish a desire to sap the foundations of Christian belief from a love of anarchy and misrule. Voltaire was the champion of kings, but the implacable enemy of priests.

From the private correspondence of Voltaire, it is evident he held in utter contempt the applause of the multitude. He aspired to obtain the suffrages of the great and to make proselytes of kings, countries, statesmen, women who possessed an influence over public men, and these personages he flattered unceasingly. The kind of revolution he wanted to establish was as distinct from Jacobinism as true liberty from licentiousness. I do not wish it to be understood from this remark that I approve of the work of Voltaire, nor do I deny that he planted the seeds of that irreligious movement which in France has proved a powerful auxiliary to political disorder. Voltaire neither loved nor understood liberty, he treated with contempt the Parliaments and States-General of France; he apostrophised civil despotism wherever it despises religion, and criticised Montesquieu without understanding him.

Such was the man whose bones were unmolested, while the great advocate of Public Freedom was committed to the muddy waters of the Seine. I have had many conversations with Mirabeau, and I am certain that although no Republican, he did not detest a Republican system of government. The portals of the Pantheon, after the removal of the body of Mirabeau, were opened to receive the corrupt carcase of that miserable little demoniac, Marat, and a multitude of other sages, who had rendered themselves, by their villainies, their buffooneries and their insanities, worthy of immortality. Later on Marat was unpantheonised and tossed into the public sewer, and I apprehend the greater number of the men whom their grateful country has canonised in this polluted Temple have been served a similar trick; for upon inquiring on our visit there we learnt that there were no immortals at present in preservation.

There is nothing, therefore, now (1802) to be seen in Ste. Geneviève but ruins; it has sunk considerably, and fresh supports have been placed to the foundations. The edifice, commenced thirty years ago, is not finished. We were warned it was not safe to traverse the interior; we did, however, cross two of the naves, though repeatedly warned to desist. Behind the church is the cloister, in which there is a library of 30,000 volumes open all day for the use of the public. It is kept in great order and decorated with a multitude of busts of the literati of France, and at the extremity is a glass case containing a model of the city of Rome.

Dannon, an ex-legislator, is the principal librarian.

The next object we visited was the Halle au Bled, or corn market. This is a very interesting place—both on account of the different species of corn offered for sale and of the vast cupola which covers the whole of the market. This cupola is the largest in France, and its diameter is 120 feet—only 13 feet less than that of the Pantheon at Rome, considered the greatest in the world. The vast Doric column employed the genius of Catherine de Medici, who believed in both astrology and magic. There are several allegorical figures upon it which denote the Queen’s widowhood. The world cannot produce such another extraordinary spectacle. The dome is constructed with finely ornamented wood, and so contrived that each partition is supported by another; there are no pillars used to uphold the fabric.

The word Sorbonne recalls to my mind that of the Inquisition. In the hall of these controversialists, it has solemnly been discussed whether black was not white, assassination has been alternately extolled and condemned. The same doctrines have been deemed heretical and orthodox, according to the circumstances of the times. I have no other word to say respecting the Sorbonne, except that it exhibits nothing now but bare walls and ruins, and is scarcely worth the trouble of a visit.

The National Observatory is situated near the Rue S. Jacques; it was erected by Perrault, who was a better architect than an astronomer. The meridian line is traced along the great hall of the first storey. Under the edifice are subterranean caves or catacombs, which form a labyrinth from which no stranger can hope to extricate himself without the services of a guide.

The rooms are bare and destitute of furniture or accommodation for those who ought to assemble in them.

Cassini, the able director under the Royal Government, was driven away by the Revolution. No leading astronomers go to this Observatory.

From the top of the building we had a magnificent view of Paris and its environs.

The astronomical instruments are stationed in the great hall, but on account of the absence of the officials connected with the building we were unable to examine them or to see the immense telescope. Upon the whole this edifice is, like all French public buildings, superior in architecture to anything of the kind in England, but greatly inferior in utility, and far less calculated to answer its object than that at the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, was under the direction of Dr. Maskelyne.[1]