In my last I conducted you, among the intricacies of Gothic architecture, to Paris. I have now to tell you what I have seen in this city, and in two or three places, at no great distance, which I have visited; but before I plunge again into the uncertainties of dates, and the mysteries of round and pointed arches, zigzag ornaments, and trefoils, I am disposed to send you some general observations on Paris and its vicinity, at the risk of repeating what you have heard or read twenty times before; and I will begin by a little of the internal domestic architecture, exemplified in my own bedroom, which I have had plenty of time and opportunity to examine, and which I find to correspond with what I have generally observed elsewhere. In the first place, the rooms are usually papered; and it is very rarely that one sees the lower part of wainscot, or with a dado. It is indeed sometimes papered in a different manner, and with horizontal stripes about three feet from the floor, to indicate surbase mouldings. The floors are of hexagonal tiles, waxed and rubbed, in order to give them a sort of polished surface. We see no lofty double chests of drawers, but all are of a height to serve also as tables, and they are almost universally covered with a marble slab. This is a very handsome arrangement, as the polished stone always looks neat and clean, and it is not injured by a little water accidentally spilt upon it. There is frequently a column at each front angle, and the upper drawer advancing a little before the others, forms an architrave, the whole face of which draws out. The bed I have before described to you. There is no shelf over the chimney, but generally a looking-glass, and frequently a picture. The chamber which I occupy has an open fireplace for burning wood, but a more usual arrangement is to have a large stove, cased with glazed tiles, within the room, which communicates a moderate but lasting warmth at a small expense of fuel. My window looks out into a little garden, and I am almost close to the Boulevards on the one hand, and to the garden of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées, on the other. The plan of these boulevards is a noble conception, and one of the proudest monuments of useful magnificence that Paris has to boast. They form a wide street, or rather avenue, lined with trees, round the oldest and most thickly inhabited parts of the town, introducing the country into the city, and providing both for the health and pleasure of its inhabitants. They seem to have been originally planned to surround, and not to divide the city. Those on the north side were cleared and planted in 1660; on the south, not till 1760. They form a pleasant promenade, though not every where equally so, and they are within the reach of a short walk for all the inhabitants of Paris. Places of public entertainment abound, as you may suppose, in this circuit; theatres, coffee-houses, restaurateurs, hotels; indeed, such places are very numerous throughout Paris. The guide books tell you that it contains 3,000 hotels, 2,000 restaurateurs, 4,000 coffee-houses. The estaminets (pot-houses) are very frequent, and wine and spirit shops almost without number. Add to these the traiteurs, patissiers, confiseurs, and epiciers, and you may imagine that Paris is not a place to starve in. In one of my rambles I amused myself, for some distance, with counting the number of houses appropriated to these purposes, and found more than every other applied to one or the other of them.

The garden of the Tuilleries consists of straight walks, in avenues of lime and horsechesnut trees, cut into regular forms. There are beds of flowers near the palace, and in the summer it is further ornamented with rows of fine orange trees. The Champs Elysées is a less ornamented continuation of the same system. Between the two is a large open space called, originally, the Place of Louis Quinze, afterwards of Concord, and of the Revolution; to the south of this one may see, over the Seine, the magnificent portico of the Chamber of Deputies, and to the north, the beginnings of an edifice which was to have been the Temple of Glory, but what its future name will be is very uncertain. Nearer is the Garde Meuble, a building intended to surpass the celebrated façade of the Louvre. It is very beautiful, but why the architect has not fully succeeded I shall endeavour to explain at a future time. A fine avenue, bounded by a double range of trees, continues from the Elysian Fields to the Barrière de Neuilly, and thus we have a straight line from this barrière (begun on a magnificent scale, but not yet completed) to the front of the Tuilleries, which, if mere length could produce the impression, would certainly be very magnificent. To a certain degree it is so, and the elevation of the ground, towards the barrière, is very favourable to it, but the grandeur is not in proportion to the apparent effort.

However pretty the winding walks of our English gardens may be, they are not at all suited for a place of public resort, where any impression of magnificence is intended. They never show the people, which is a point of great consequence. The disposition of the objects in straight lines, has in itself an imposing, or to use a term more English, an impressive effect, but this has its limits, and I suspect not very extended ones. The too great length of the line makes the individual parts appear little, and the mind is not satisfied with the general impression of sublimity, unless it find the character supported by the objects in its immediate neighbourhood. Beyond a certain point almost any additional length is nearly lost, and, in proceeding along it, we feel its want of variety, without any compensation. I am persuaded that, if a man were placed at the point where two narrow avenues meet, one of them a mile in length, and the other two, he would not readily distinguish the difference. By extending the line too much, also, in places of public resort, it becomes impossible to fill it with people, and this deficiency is more sensible than the length of the avenue.

One of my first employments at Paris was to ramble over it and take a general view of the city. I crossed the Seine at the Pont Louis Quinze, and walked along the noble quays as far as the Island, admiring, on the opposite side, the vast extent of the united palaces of the Tuilleries and Louvre, which, whatever may be the defects and incongruities of their architecture, must always, from their long continued lines, communicate to a stranger the idea of great magnificence. The quays themselves are also an object well worthy of attention, they form a wide street on each side of the river, which is embanked in stone throughout its whole course, in Paris; and whether I looked up the river, towards the Pont Neuf and Nôtre Dame, or downwards, to the Chamber of Deputies, the Pont Louis Seize, the Champs Elysées, and Mount Valerian, I had always a noble scene before me. The narrow quays and crowded shores of the Thames, in London, do not permit any scene of this sort. The completion of this design is due to Bonaparte, and it certainly is an honour to him. Some writers have complained of the want of variety, and that the Parisians are thus shut out from the natural banks of the river, but the natural banks of a river, running through a city, are merely mud and rubbish.

I continued my walk to Nôtre Dame, and afterwards, returning to the south shore, proceeded to the Jardin des Plantes, or du Roi, as you please. I then crossed the Pont Austerlitz, one of the new bridges built by Bonaparte. This is of iron, as is also the Pont des Arts, or du Louvre, but the latter is for foot passengers only. The Parisians boast of their bridges, but without great reason; this Pont d’Austerlitz is fine for an iron bridge;^[5] the Pont Neuf has little pretension to beauty; the Pont des Arts is a light, not to say a slight construction of iron, for foot passengers; the Pont Royal is a well-constructed bridge, but hardly a handsome one; the Pont d’Jena is a caricature of flat elliptical arches, and apparent lightness; and its merit is confined to some ingenuity in the construction, in order to obtain this effect; which, nevertheless, is certainly a blemish. Nothing is of more importance in a bridge than an appearance of solidity.

In this tour I did not by any means confine myself to a direct course, but turned off to the right or the left, if I saw any building of more consequence than ordinary, or if the ancient aspect of the houses near gave me reason to consider the general character of the street deserving of notice.

The streets on the south side of the river, within the ancient walls, are, I think, still more narrow and winding than those on the north. But all Paris abounds with crooked dirty lanes. We complain of the obscure situation of many of the principal buildings in London; nothing can be worse placed than some of those in Paris. However detrimental this may be to the appearance of the building, considered individually, I do not know whether it may not, occasionally, heighten the general impression of magnificence. The apparent waste of architecture gives an idea that the means are abundant, and that the objects have been produced without effort; and the notion of painful exertion is always highly prejudicial to the sentiment of sublimity.

The Palais Royal is an immense building, inclosing a large court, or garden, containing not only shops, but splendid coffee-houses and great salles-à-manger. Nothing in London can give you any idea of this place; from its immense extent, the variety and splendour of its exhibitions, and the constant crowd to be met with. “The number of arches is 113; the ground floor of each, in shops and coffee-houses, &c., lets for 3,000 francs per annum, the first floor for 1,200, and the third and fourth for 500 each, thus making the annual produce of each division, comprising one arch, and the parts above it, 6,000 francs, or 240l., and, consequently, that of the whole, to 27,120l., to which an addition is to be made for the Galerie de Bois, the shops of which produce each 1,200 francs per annum, but of their number I am ignorant.”^[6] The architecture is not good, yet the great extent of the garden, and the continuity of the surrounding buildings, decorated with a uniform style of ornament, produce a rich and striking coup d’œil; and it must be observed, that this uniformity consists in the repetition of parts, which, though not perfect, yet when compared with the London rows of brick-houses, or the almshouse Gothic of the House of Lords, may justly be esteemed magnificent.

The Café des Mille Colonnes is in the Palais Royal, and is perhaps the most celebrated in Paris. It is a large room, surrounded with half columns against the walls, and all the spaces not occupied by the doors and windows are filled up with looking-glass. But its celebrity has been less owing to its architectural splendor than to its beautiful mistress. The lady was seated at the bar in a very handsome chair, dressed in a gown of crimson satin, and the bar itself, and all about her, was highly ornamented. This is usually the most finished and decorated part of a French coffee-house, and this heightening of enrichment, in the principal point of the apartment, is certainly well judged, and tends much to enhance the splendor of the whole. It is the same in principle, as far as architecture is concerned, with the highly finished altar of a church, and those who possess the poetry of the art will feel the importance of these accessories. You see I am considering the lady merely as an ornament to architecture, but unfortunately, this highest enrichment is not at the command of the artist. After satisfying my curiosity with a general view of the city, the next object was to acquire some knowledge of its inhabitants, and on the 18th I began to deliver my letters of introduction. I do not mean to give an account of all the visits I paid, but merely a sketch of such as I think may interest you. One was to Mr. Du Fourny, professor of architecture. On the pavement, at the entrance of his apartment, is the word salve, copied from a mosaic at Pompei, and his rooms are ornamented with various fragments of antiquity. He was very angry with the Duke of Wellington for having assisted in stripping the museum, and attributed the whole to the English government, but a little further conversation served to explain his idea, which was, that the English might have hindered it if they would, and that they ought to have done so. This is a very frequent ground of complaint amongst the French, but I know not what claim they can imagine themselves to have had to our interference in their favour. That the union of these objects was not for the general advantage of art, seems to be acknowledged by almost all those who have the best opportunities of observing its progress, and Mr. Du Fourny was one of upwards of eighty French artists, who, much to their honour, petitioned that the spoils of Italy might not be brought to Paris. It has been imagined that this request proceeded from an idea, that the Louvre being thus filled, no employment would remain for the native artists, and that in fact the market would be overstocked. But it is sufficiently obvious that these objects are not brought into the market, and that without them no one would have thought of filling the Louvre with paintings, while the existence of such a gallery excites the taste for collections, and multiplies the employment of the painter. The ill effect of such an immense collection is, that it gives a certain sort of familiarity with a degree of excellence, beyond what artists of these degenerate days are capable of attaining, and forces them to seek distinction in extravagance and manner. This consequence would be less to be dreaded if the union of second-rate artists in academies did not give them a degree of consequence and influence beyond that to which they are naturally entitled. It has been considered as a very extraordinary reproach to the French school, that its members did not improve in point of taste by the habitual acquaintance with these glorious productions; but no school would have improved. The artist who hunts them out in different places fixes them in his memory and his heart, he makes use of them without fear, or at least he is not afraid of showing, in his productions, what he has been studying; and it is perhaps an advantage, that at last he has not the original painting at hand to render him ashamed of his own effort. The artist to whom they are constantly accessible has before his eyes the incessant reproach of want of originality, and is obliged to shun an imitation of style, painful in so many ways to his feelings and his reputation.

On another occasion I called on Denon, who received me in the most friendly manner, and shewed me his Egyptian drawings. The spirit and life that he puts into every thing is delightful. He has a very good museum, containing, as might be expected, a large collection of Egyptian antiquities. He possesses also some very fine paintings, and a most valuable collection of drawings of the Italian masters.^[7] I noticed a bust of Napoleon, and observed to him that it seemed to be a prohibited figure in Paris. He replied, that it was the bust of his benefactor, and that political events could not discharge the obligations of private gratitude. Amongst the slavish flattery which on both sides has lately so disgraced the French character, how noble does this sentiment appear!

On the 22d, M. De Bure, the well known bookseller, took me to the royal library. It occupies two floors, surrounding a court above 300 feet long, and 75 feet wide, the rooms at one end being double. The printed books are said to form 350,000 volumes, and there are more manuscripts than would fill the shelves of the London Institution. The whole extent of surface for books must, I conceive, exceed 25,000 feet. Here is a large library of large paper copies, and a series of rooms for books of prints, maps, drawings, &c. The height of the bookcases is about 11 feet, and over them is a gallery. The books are frequently in a double range, the larger behind, and the smaller in front, so that you see the former over the latter. Among other things is an immense collection of what they call topography, which contains the plans and details of a great number of buildings, some of which are Gothic. I took some pains to see what there was; but the want of any arrangement which would lead me to the different subjects, made it a difficult task, and the drawings, when found, appeared for the most part, to be very poor and inaccurate. There are several drawings on a large scale, made for the purpose of explaining some alterations in the choir of Nôtre Dame. These exhibited particularities, principally in the vaulting of the bas chœur, which appeared to me very remarkable, while others were quite incomprehensible. On referring to the building I found both the one and the other totally false; a gross inaccuracy, so immediately within reach of correction, gives ground to suspect similar defects in many others.

After having satisfied my curiosity at the library, I called upon Humboldt. He is a most interesting man, for he talks a great deal, and as he has seen much, and thought much, almost every word he says conveys both pleasure and information. Within a quarter of an hour he led me deep into the Mexican antiquities, shewing me the history of Adam and Eve, and the fall of man, exhibited in the hieroglyphic paintings of the country, and explaining to me all the particulars. He observed, that this coincidence with the traditions of Western Asia was a very wonderful fact: as from their geographical position, and other circumstances, the Mexicans, and other tribes of North America, have been supposed to be derived from the Tartar or Chinese nations of Eastern Asia, where no such history is retained. He talks of visiting the ruins of Babylon. I told him I thought he had travelled enough; he said he had hardly begun; and I replied, he would weep like Alexander, for more worlds to travel in.

After this conversation, M. Humboldt conducted me to the Institute, where he introduced me to Richard, and pointed out to me Jussieu, Latreille, Lacepede, Laborde, and several other of the present distinguished literary characters of France. Nothing could be more kind or attentive than his whole conduct.

Here also is a very fine library, which owes its foundation to Cardinal Mazarine. The small room, for the ordinary meetings of the Institute, is, I suppose, 50 feet long; and the principal room of the library 60 feet. Both are filled with books.

On the 24th I attended a public meeting of the Institute. Of all the dull things resorted to by way of amusement, I think a public meeting of the Institute is the most stupid. The room occupied for the purpose was anciently the church of Les Quatre Nations. Its form is a Greek cross, or perhaps rather an octagon, with four recesses; and the dome, and the recess which anciently formed the choir, are occupied by the members. The auditors, seated in the other three recesses, each of which is divided into two heights, neither see nor hear well; but a favoured portion occupying part of the centre, are better off. This was the first meeting since the Institute had been new modelled, and it was very fully attended. M. de Vaublanc made a long speech. He was followed by the Duc de Richelieu. The third was M. De Fontanes. Choiseul Gouffier, as representative of classical literature, read an essay on Homer. Cuvier, the champion of natural history, produced a report on the progress of science, and if his view of the subject was not very profound, or his mode of reasoning always perfectly accurate, it was the better suited to a public assembly. M. de Campenon was the last I heard. He read an epistle in verse. You will not expect me to tell you much about the subjects; there was little in any of them worthy of being remembered. The burthen of the song was the praise of their wise and good king, ce beau roi, ce grand roi, but what monarch is too poor to buy praise? It seemed indeed rather out of place, if we consider this as a scientific meeting, but in truth, it is merely a public exhibition to please the good people of Paris. The style of speaking is very disagreeable to a stranger. The periods are divided into short portions of a very few syllables, the last of which is dwelt upon longer than the others, and if you repeat the syllables tutitaa, tuttaa, tutitaa, tutiritaa, tutitaa, tuttaa, lengthening out the aa sufficiently, you will have no bad idea of French elocution.

Among the distinguished men whom I saw at Paris, I must not omit to mention M. Visconti, whose modesty and plain good sense in conversation are equal to his vast knowledge of antiquities. I had to take up the cudgels in his apartment in defence of Gothic architecture, but did not succeed at all, and I felt myself very much cramped from the want of a familiar acquaintance with French terms. My opponent was an Italian, and his shoulders touched his ears when I ventured to admire the simplicity of the Gothic, as exhibited in the insides of the finest cathedrals.

The first architect in Paris, in point of taste and knowledge of design, is Percier, and probably the first in Europe. I had a great deal of conversation with him about Gothic, which he does not much admire, but prefers that of the south of France, to that of the north. However he is not so bigotted against it as to wish to exclude it altogether from art, but reserves it for an occasional “bon bouche,” by way of variety; while his really substantial every day food is the Greek architecture, or rather the Roman. M. Percier is not less distinguished for his kind and judicious treatment of the young architects and students in architecture, than for his professional talents. Here is no jealousy, no keeping back information; for every species of assistance and advice they all look up to Percier: such an union is delightful.

The sçavant who is supposed to know most of Gothic architecture in Paris is M. Millin. He is certainly an able antiquary, and a man of general information, but not very profound in any thing, perhaps not even in his favourite pursuit. He has published some works of considerable value on French antiquities; but architecture is not the part in which he is strongest, though his “Antiquités nationales” consists chiefly of architectural subjects. He offered me the use of his library, which is a very excellent one on these subjects, and the permission would be of great value, if my stay at Paris were long enough to enable me to avail myself of it. I have every reason to believe that the offer was perfectly in earnest, and that he would have been gratified by my acceptance of it.