France in eighteen hundred and two

At the time we arrived at the inn, the people of the town were just leaving the theatre, which overflowed on account of a new piece having been represented that night. A Frenchman would rather be called a knave than be accused of a want of goût. Hence the theatres are always crowded at the representation of a new piece (whatever may be the celebrity of the author, or even if he enjoy no celebrity at all).

In England, at a first representation, the house is seldom half filled, except by friends of the author, who is either bowing to the manager or quaking in the green room, waiting for the sentence of the critics in the pit.

In France, every man fancies himself a born critic, and makes a point of attending the theatre to form part of the general tribunal.

The author generally stations himself in the most distinguished part of the theatre, where, with all the assurance of certain success, he bows to the pit, gallery, and the ladies. If the piece succeeds he carries himself high, and confesses that his countrymen are the only men of taste in the world. But should the play unhappily be damned (a not unfrequent circumstance) his deportment changes, he clenches his fists, gives a horrible and ghastly smile, and swears the audience are a gang of f— canaille, scélérats, bandits, and to crown all, “Des gens de mauvais goût.” When he has reached this climax of epithets he rushes furiously from the theatre.

It happened that on the night of our arrival at Amiens a very good piece had been presented to the public. But my inclinations (a proof of mauvais goût) were directed to a good supper.

In order to give a proper notion of the dexterity of Madame Pollet, hostess of the “Lion d’Or,” I must describe our mode of living in her house.

We were shown into a large room, containing four chairs, a small round table, and a chest of drawers. In a corner stood a dome bedstead, prettily hung with blue silk curtains, the bed covered by a blue silk counterpane. It is a nasty custom in France to eat and drink in one’s bedroom at an inn. I ordered supper for two persons.

In a quarter of an hour the following dishes were served in succession. A jowl of salmon (the largest and fattest I ever saw), two of the finest soles I ever beheld, a partridge, a pigeon, a hashed hare, a fowl, bouillie beef, spinach, and other vegetables—a bottle of Picardy beer, a bottle of champagne, and one bottle of Volnay wine. The unceasing procession of viands surpassed the scene at Barataria.

My wife ate scarcely anything, but I was hungry and took courage. No sooner had I despatched my quota of a dish when another followed, and another and another.

I do believe it would have continued all night if nature, being entirely exhausted, had not obliged me to cry mercy.

Having successfully begged for quarter and forbidden any dessert, I retired for the night, having desired to see the Cathedral in the morning. It must not be imagined that I attacked every dish as it advanced—I made a hearty supper on a bit of salmon, part of a sole and some hashed hare; the rest of the feast went down untouched.

In the morning we went to see the Cathedral—one of the finest monuments of the piety of ancient days. It has escaped in some measure the onslaughts of Revolutionaries, though its decorations have been grievously mutilated. At the principal portal all the heads of the saints have been struck off, and the sculptured groups representing Scripture history have been so disfigured as to be rendered ridiculous. The admirable marble statue of the weeping child has received considerable injury, but the beautiful chapels on each side of the choir are in an excellent state of preservation, as well as the marble statues over the altars.

Nothing is missing from them but the gold and silver candlesticks and the rich ornaments of the church; even the bones of the tutelary saint have been unmolested, although the immense box of silver in which they were deposited has been seized. The grand altar-piece of the Cathedral, which spreads across the whole breadth of the church and rises majestically towards the top, has outlived the fury which threatened its destruction; a circumstance which must be ascribed solely to the spirit and good sense of the citizens of Amiens. For when the Revolutionary army from Paris had commenced a general sack of the Cathedral and were demolishing its ornaments, the National Guard of Amiens arrived with its drums beating; a pitched battle ensued in the aisles, which did not finish till the sans culottes were driven out of the Cathedral; the citizens afterwards mounted guard over the minster and saved it from the common ruin a ruffianly horde had involved S. Denys and half of the finest churches in France.

Bishop Evrard began to build this edifice in the year 1220, during the reign of Philip Augustus. Three architects superintended the work—Robert de Luzarche, Thomas de Cormont, and Maître Renoult. In three years the foundations were laid, a marvellously rapid work when their solidity and extent are considered. The Cathedral is built on irregular ground, and required very deep foundations.

Upon the death of Evrard, his successor, Godfroi d’Eu, continued the building, and during the fourteen years he held the episcopal see piles were raised and the Cathedral completed as far as the arched roof.

Arnold d’Amiens succeeded Godfroi, and he was followed by Gerard of Couchy and Alexander of Neuilly; and under their successor, Bernard of Abbeville, the work was completed in 1260, forty years after the foundation stone was laid. This last ecclesiastic adorned the Cathedral with an immense pointed window, which now ornaments the central part of the choir. Beneath it may still be read the following inscription: “Bernardus Epis. me dedit anno MCCLIX.”

Nothing can now exceed the gloomy appearance of this church, shorn of all its former decorations. When we entered there were not more than six old women and a veteran soldier of artillery at their matins, all shivering with cold and hunger. When we associated this circumstance with the absence and former persecution of all ministers of religion, it gave a chilly aspect to the whole scene and damped all those emotions of the soul which arise from contemplating a vast edifice formerly consecrated to piety.

On our return we viewed the ruins of a building, once the palace of Henry IV., situated at the back of the “Lion d’Or.” It is surprising that the Revolutionary army, in its rage for destruction, left this vestige of royalty untouched. But the fury of the Jacobins seems to have been directed principally against the sculptured heads of saints, for none of the houses in the Close, formerly the Canons’ residences, have been destroyed. They became national property, but they remain until this day without a purchaser. I have been informed that it is the intention of the First Consul to revive the discipline of the Cathedral and restore these houses to the Chapter. A Bishop has been already nominated; but as the Episcopal Palace has been destroyed, a proper house will be provided for him at the expense of the Government.

When a person is travelling in the French Republic, if he arrives at any town which has been a theatre of Revolutionary carnage, he will have no difficulty in collecting anecdotes (should he desire it), some pathetic, some ludicrous, and some horribly jocose, together with many entertaining lies.

France still bleeds at every pore—she is a vast mourning family, clad in sackcloth. It is impossible at this time for a contemplative mind to be gay in France. At every footstep the merciless and sanguinary route of fanatical barbarians disgust the sight and sicken humanity—on all sides ruins obtrude themselves on the eye and compel the question, “For what and for whom are all this havoc and desolation?”

It was in this city that that execrable villain, Joseph Le Bon met his well-earned doom. He was executed among the curses and yells of that very populace who a few weeks previously had received him with shouts of approval and loaded him with caresses.

When he first reached Amiens a poor harmless priest fell under his displeasure. Le Bon issued an order for the arrest of the ecclesiastic, who sought refuge in the woods. This roused the fury of the vindictive tyrant, who wrote instantly to the Committee of Public Safety, declaring he had discovered a great conspiracy, and that an agent of Pitt had fled to the woods, but he was about to adopt vigorous measures to bring the criminal to justice.

The générale was beaten, the tocsin sounded, and all armed citizens were ordered to scour the woods and seize upon the agent of Pitt. On the ensuing day the poor priest, exhausted with fatigue, hunted like a wild beast and utterly famished, returned to the city and surrendered himself to his tormentors. He was at once carried before the Revolutionary Tribunal. He was asked his name, and had no sooner replied than the jury, without hearing indictment or evidence, pronounced him guilty, and he was sentenced to death. Being remanded to the prison he spent the night in prayer. When the Gens d’armes arrived the next morning to take him to the place of execution they found him resigned and courageous. Fortified by his religious sentiments and conscious innocence, he proclaimed that he preferred death to living in a society in which every spark of justice was extinguished. The time was come, he said, when good men should no longer desire to live, and he would show his fellow-citizens in how calm a manner an innocent man could die. He refused to get into the cart, and with a steady step and cheerful countenance, surrounded by the Sbirri of Le Bon and the miscreants who delight in bloodshed, he walked to the scaffold, which he mounted with joy. But even in the moment of death the bloody tyrant continued to torment him, he desired the execution to be delayed until his women appeared at the window of an opposite house; and when these unfeeling wretches, with a ferocity which disgraced their sex, waved their handkerchiefs as a symptom of exultation, the fatal knife was permitted to fall and the victim released from a world which was unworthy of him.

I have described this melancholy event in order to contrast it with Le Bon’s own behaviour at the place of execution. The night before he suffered excruciating agonies of mind. At intervals he attempted to destroy himself, but fear and hope withheld his hand. He was heard to give loud shrieks, yells of rage, disappointment, terror and despair. When he was brought out of the prison to be seated in the cart, the shout that rent the air cannot be described—a person who was present assured me that the howls of cannibals were nothing compared to it. The populace spat upon him; they asked him, as it was a fine day why he did not walk to the guillotine, as the priest had done a few weeks previously, and die like a man? He was goaded with a thousand terrible questions; and as the procession moved women and children danced in the streets, clapping their hands, and reproaching him with a number of bitter recollections.

Le Bon was convulsed with passion, and sometimes he cried; but when he reached the scaffold he gave a horrible cry, which drew peals of laughter from the spectators. He had to be lifted out of the cart, fear had paralysed his strength; during the short period before the knife descended a hundred mocking voices wished him bon voyage and a happy meeting with his friends in hell. Thus amidst curses did this ferocious monster expire.

Amiens exhibits nothing new or interesting since the Revolution. The shag and plush manufactories and the manufactory of woollen stuffs and goats’ hair continue, but have suffered severely by the events of the last ten years. Trade is still dull, but it is hoped it will soon be rendered more brisk by the return of peace.

On our return to the “Lion d’Or” we were charged seven pounds eight shillings sterling money of the Kingdom of Great Britain for a supper in the Republic of France! I ordered horses, resolving never to set foot again in a house where I had been so egregiously cheated. Just before I stepped into the carriage Madame Pollet made her appearance and exclaimed, “Êtes-vous content, monsieur?”

I promised to let my countrymen know what good cheer they might expect at her house, not forgetting the reasonableness of her charges. I have now fulfilled my promises.