Any person who has paid a visit to our General Post Office in Lombard Street, and is acquainted with the extraordinary bustle united to the utmost precision visible there, would think, should he happen to alight on a sudden in the Rue Coqueron without knowing in what part of the world he was, that the Post Office therein was that of some small trading town, instead of the capital of the greatest nation on earth.
Should he judge of the population by the revenue of each place, he would conclude Great Britain contained some 100,000,000 souls and France not above 3,000,000.
It does not require much skill in political economy to discover the causes of this disparity.
Commercial nations have a greater number of artificial wants and a most extensive circle of correspondents. To them the expense of postage is no burthen, it is a source of profit. A merchant therefore exults in the number of his letters. Hence the duties of postage are never paid with reluctance. You would never see in the General Post Office of such countries, piles of returned letters sufficient to supply a bonfire. Amsterdam, at the period of its commercial prosperity, received more letters in one day than the citizens of Paris in a week. I will now compare the London and Paris Post Offices, and this comparison is really an entertaining one.
I wrote to the Mayor of Chatillon in La Vendée an important letter, requiring a reply. Consequently I was obliged to go frequently to the General Post Office in order to make inquiries for it.
Upon the first time I presented myself at the office, I inquired whether the post had arrived? “No.” “When do you expect it?” “To-day.” “But you desired me to be here at one o’clock.” “Eh, monsieur! one cannot be so precise.” “When shall I call again?” “To-morrow.” On the next day I returned. “Now, what say you?” “The post is not arrived.” “When will it come?” “To-night or perhaps to-morrow.” “How do you account for this irregularity?” “Who knows? the courier may have broken his neck, one cannot be particular.” “But the post from England is regular enough!” “C’est une autre affaire, les routes de Calais à Paris sont superbes.”
The next evening the post did arrive. I asked the reason for delay, and was coolly replied: “there was none.”
If I had been a merchant what fatal consequences might have ensued from this delay had I been under the necessity of making a considerable payment!
I will relate another circumstance, sufficiently ludicrous, though a general and useful deduction may be drawn from it. My valet de chambre, who fortunately for me cannot read, brought me one afternoon a letter which, after a hundred apologies for the liberty he was taking, he begged I would read to him. It came from his father, who is a well-to-do farmer near Besançon. The style of the letter was good, but the writing difficult to decypher. After the usual expressions between a parent and a son, he proceeded in the letter to ask four distinct questions, every one of which required an explicit answer. One of them, upon which he laid the greatest stress, was to inform him by its reply whether his daughter had been safely delivered. The letter, however, had a postscript: “Au Nom de Dieu ne réponds pas à cette lettre, le prix des facteurs est trop cher!”
Now without any invidious allusion to Ireland I may be permitted to observe that no so-called Irish bull was ever so simple as this remark.
No English labourer whose daughter was in a similar condition would have grudged a few sous upon such occasion, and the expense of internal postage in France is cheaper than with us.
Disinclination to correspond extends to men in better circumstances. Amidst the most sumptuous festivities and the Oriental style of living peculiar to the Consular Satrap, there is throughout the mass of the Parisians a chilling penury that would excite compassion, if we could forget that they had been the voluntary authors of their own wretchedness.
The extensive operations carried on, the numerous armies maintained on the Continent by the Republic, have rendered it extremely difficult for persons to know the destination and circumstances of their relatives.
Hence a new species of egoism has been introduced into society. The social claim is dissolved and every one lives on conjecture or only for himself. The charms and joys of friendship cannot exist in such a state.
It must be observed that trade is at a standstill; not on account of want of opportunities but for want of means. Property has not yet made its appearance from out the holes where the spirits of fraud, rapine and fear have deposited it. Concealment of spoil is the universal adage; for with all the fulsome panegyrics on the Central Government, which originate with its subaltern agents, and are despatched by the Prefects of the Departments, doubt and anxiety are pictured on every countenance, except the military and the immediate counsellors of the consulate authority. If a merchant be disposed to make a venture, the next moment his fears deter him. He hesitates to trust, and least of all is he inclined to trust his Government. Under such circumstances it is little wonder the General Post Office does so little business.
I have stood for hours in the courtyard in order to see the arrivals of the different couriers.
Nothing can be more ridiculous than the contrast between the English and French mail coaches. The French post waggons are huge unwieldy machines, drawn by cart horses, harnessed with ropes and moving at a slow pace, their arrival is nevertheless always announced by tremendous cracks of whips.
When this is compared with the smart dress and cheerful horns of our coachmen and guards, the elegant neatness and convenience of our mail coaches, the beauty of our horses, and the expedition with which they are received and despatched to pursue their different routes almost to a minute, it is impossible not to feel a proud opinion of the “little nation of shopkeepers” as the Master of the Earth is pleased to call the inhabitants of our islands. I shall conclude this account of the Post Office with observing first, from official documents on my table, that I could sail with a light wind to Jamaica before a letter in France would arrive at some of the cross posts in the Interior.
For instance, between Bourges and Sancerre, in the Department of Cher, there is at present no communication. Between Orleans and Montargis, in the Department du Loiret, there is no established mode of correspondence. But the Prefect hopes later to accomplish the matter by putting a tax on all the inhabitants.
There is no communication between Langagne and Genvielhac, in the Department of Lozère; none between Roquefort and Bordeaux, in the Lower Pyrenees, although the merchants of Pau have proved it would be a shorter route than through Toulouse.
In the Eastern Pyrenees the correspondence of the Department with that of the Department of Aude takes up five days; it should be done in one.
The most egregious villainies having been perpetrated in the Department of the Haut Rhin, it has been thought wise, prudent, and politic to suspend the postal arrangements there altogether.
Unless letters addressed to Ministers and officers of the Government are prepaid, they will never reach their destination. The Ministers make an annual charge of postage, and cabbage the difference. At first sight this perquisite may seem trivial for the fingers of an officer of State. But these officers are Ministers who have their fortunes to make.
Hence every little helps.
It should seem that circumstances, times, places, persons, things are of more importance in France than elsewhere. This was a common mania under the old Government, but it had the great resources of commerce, arts, and the wants of a great number of rich proprietors, who, unhappily, have now, with arts and commerce, been destroyed. Nevertheless, the opinion still prevails that the Government can command the harvest, and compel persons to sell and buy.
The business, however, of the Government is to correct itself by experience, to secure itself against the mistakes and bad measures of commercial administration. For no private industry, no knowledge of commercial affairs, can secure individuals against the folly of a bad Minister, or the pernicious effects of his administrative regulations. This reasoning has no influence in France; Government is required to invent, to build, to manufacture—in short, to do everything but consume; and yet this latter is the precise article in which the present Government excels and takes the greatest delight.
The perquisites of postage must be immense, as whenever despatch is required, a solicitation, to be successful, must be accompanied by a very considerable pecuniary compliment. Therefore, the Minister who holds the portfolio of the Postes amasses a considerable sum during his Ministry.
This Tribunate meets in those departments of the Palais Royale which are opposite the Rue St. Thomas. A few shabby-looking individuals compose what is called their Guard of Honour. I had the honour and privilege of being admitted to one of these meetings, and I will try to describe what passed on this occasion. Having obtained an order of admittance at the door in exchange for our cards, we were ushered into a seat appropriated for the friends of the members, and just opposite to the Presidential chair. Immediately behind us were the reporters, and beyond them the place reserved for the public, who on that particular day consisted of eight persons. The room itself is small and mean, furnished with benches covered with blue cloth. After we had waited about twenty minutes, during which time two or three individuals peeped through the folding doors opposite to us, much in the same way as a head is sometimes seen through the green curtain at Drury Lane, in the act of exploring the house, a sudden crash of drums as a signal was heard, and the folding-door vanished as if touched by the wand of Harlequin. The drums then beat a salute, and the scene that opened presented us with a very fine perspective of soldiers presenting arms. In a minute or two the procession commenced, with six men in fancy dresses, whose appearance was a burlesque upon French legislation.
They were dressed in grey coats and pantaloons, with scarlet waistcoats and red half-boots. Upon their heads a round hat turned up in front with a blue feather, a red sash round the waist, and a good-sized stick in their hands.
Next followed the President, his round hat garnished with three upright tri-coloured feathers; he wore a mazarine-blue coat embroidered in silver, breeches to match, and a white silk waistcoat bound in by a silk tri-colour sash with silver fringes.
Behind followed the secretaries, and a motley group whose appearance provoked great merriment amongst us. Most of them were in full costume, like the President, but some with worsted, others with black silk, stockings. They wore pantaloons and half-boots, and several had whole boots with dirty brown tops.
Except the President and secretaries, there were but three in this crowd who wore a clean pair of shoes and looked like gentlemen. These three were Lucien Bonaparte, the First Consul’s next brother, who was not only in full uniform, but appeared in silk stockings and clean linen, and had in every respect the manners and address of a gentleman, with the countenance of an Italian Jew; Chauvelier,[7] formerly resident for the late unfortunate King of France in our country; and Carnot, the ex-Director, who was dressed in a suit of black worthy of a courtier. He seemed very surly, and during the whole sitting employed himself reading a pamphlet. All the rest looked like blackguards in masquerade. As soon as the President mounted his tribune, he rang a handbell; he then took off his hat, and remarked, “La Séance est ouverte.” The six gentlemen in grey already mentioned began to get up a hissing resembling geese. This was to obtain silence (for they were gentlemen ushers). The order of the day was then read. No debate took place. After each law proposed, every man (as his name was called) advanced to the tribune, and put the ball which recorded his vote into the urn. This ceremony was repeated a number of times, and, indeed, this figuring continued for above three hours. The President then rang his bell again, and declared, “La Séance est levée!” Instantly the folding doors disappeared once more with a crash, and exeunt President, secretaries, and tribunes to their respective dressing-rooms, where they exchanged their fine fancy clothes for their ordinary habiliments.
Having described the nature and object of this body, I shall now endeavour to do the same by that extraordinary assembly of Mutes, which goes by the name of the Legislative Council of France, in which 300 choice spirits are collected together to be dumb by law during four months in ever year. According to the code of “Minos” Bonaparte, article 34, we find: “The legislative body enacts the law by secret scrutiny and without the least discussion on the part of its members, upon the plans of the law debated before it, by the orators of the Tribunate and the Government.”
This is exquisite! Each mute is allowed the sum of £436 sterling per annum, with permission to talk during eight months of the year. Such is the best account I can give of this marvellous assembly. It is called a Legislative Council, but this designation is an improper one. In the French, as well as the English language, the word council, derived from the Latin concilium, signifies a body of men met together for the purpose of consultation. Now, except in “Dean Swift’s Voyage to Laputa,” I have never heard or read of a number of men assembled together only to think, not even at a Quaker meeting.
The hall where these thoughtful meetings take place was constructed during the Directorate; it is now pompously called “The Palace of the Legislative Bodies,” and it merits the name of palace, for it is one of the most elegant and beautiful rooms in Europe. It is semicircular, with benches rising one upon the other, for the convenience of members. Above the uppermost bench, and extending along the semicircle, are a number of arcades of fine marble, the capitals composed of bronze.
Within these persons who have obtained cards of admission are stationed, and considerably above them, nearly at the top of the ceiling is a gallery, for spectators. Opposite to the benches of the members, and in the middle of its diameter, is the chair of the President, a little below him the place of the secretaries and the tribune from which the orators of the Government, viz., the Council of State and those of the Tribunate harangue the assembly. These are all made of solid mahogany, inlaid with gold, and the pedestal of the tribune has a beautiful relief in marble, filched from Italy. On the right of the President there are three niches, within which are the statues of Lycurgus, Demosthenes and Solon, on the left three others, in which Brutus, Cato, and Cicero are fixed.
The floor, which forms the area between the tribune and the benches of the members, is of marble.
We were never present at the opening of the séance, so I cannot say whether the drums beat as at the Tribunate, but I think it likely this assembly has also a guard of honour. There is a semicircular bench on the floor opposite to the President appropriated for those tribunes and orators of the Government who are detached for the purpose of discussing the laws. They are preceded by huissiers at their entrance into the hall, and the doors are always opened as if by magic and with a crash.
The mutes wear the same uniforms as the tribunes, except that their clothing is embroidered with gold; they are by no means so slovenly in their appearance as the gentlemen of the lower chamber. A great many general officers are among their number.
The palace to which this hall is attached is the Palace Bourbon, formerly the Parisian residence of the Prince de Condé. It is situate on the other side of the Seine, opposite to the place once Place Louis XV., now Place de la Concorde, on the middle of which the unfortunate monarch of France and innumerable numbers of his former subjects were put to death.
The beautiful bridge, Pont de la Concorde, which leads to the palace, and the triumphant portal between two noble pavilions, to which it is connected by a double row of lofty columns of the Corinthian order, add to the splendour of its appearance. We must not forget while admiring so many noble specimens of architecture that not one of them is the work of the genius of Republican France; on the contrary, they were raised and embellished by the liberality of Princes, whose descendants an ungrateful people have driven into exile.
The only pieces of architecture produced by the Republic are several wooden houses erected upon barges on the river for shows and bagnios where the lascivious and polluted may at any hour of the day or night regale themselves with girls, liqueurs, coffee, dainties of all kinds and hot and cold baths.
In the interior of the Palais du Corps Législatif there are several halls dedicated to peace and victory, and to those funny divinities, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.
I will now describe the Palais de Justice.
This is another magnificent edifice. It is enclosed within a gate 120 feet in length, which forms the boundary of a large area. The façade presents a very dignified appearance, at the middle of which, after ascending a flight of steps, the people enter through a vast opening.
Among the different courts there is one which can never fail to attract a foreigner—the hall where the Revolutionary Tribunal assembled to murder innocents by wholesale. It is now called the Chamber of the Court of Appeal, and is completely altered since I last saw it in 1793, when a set of drunken cannibals, selected from the filthiest styes of the Metropolis, with red caps upon their heads, made human nature tremble, inundated France with blood, and caused every honest man to envy the days of Nero and Caracalla. The person who was with me gave me a very minute account of the trials of the Queen and Princess Elizabeth, where they were stationed, and how calm and dignified was their behaviour.
In the Criminal Court four young men were being tried for their lives. The room, the seats of the judges, advocates, jury and spectators, made me think I was in one of the circuit courts of our own country. Every person was uncovered. The judge politely invited us to sit within the tribunal, so we saw and heard all that passed distinctly.
There were three judges, who wore the same gowns as our Masters of Arts. The prisoners were seated on their left, attended by two gens d’armes and their counsel on a seat below them; to the right the jury and public prosecutor were stationed. This latter official was habited like the judges.
One of the prisoners completely established an alibi, the others succeeded so far as to render the evidence against them all ambiguous, so in consequence they were acquitted.
The Revolution caused such havoc among the corps of lawyers that the profession is scarcely deemed reputable. Every advocate of the old Monarchy, who entered into the spirit of the times, is now either a member of the Tribunate or the Conservative Senate.
The most lamentable circumstance in the interests of justice is the mean salaries granted to the judges, the principal of whom do not receive more than £400 sterling a year; and when the importance of their functions and their relative rank in society are contrasted with their pay, one cannot avoid thinking that there is a deliberate intention to degrade the name of Justice in this country, by rendering it infinitely below the scale of military authority.
This opinion is corroborated by what took place a short time ago at the Tuileries, when the Civil Code was under discussion. Cambacères, the Second Consul, had actually persuaded Bonaparte that in England there were no juries in civil causes. Upon further inquiry St. Jean d’ Angely assured him of the contrary. “How is this, Cambacères,” said the First Consul, “I am now told that the English always have juries in civil as well as criminal causes?” The latter still persisting, Blackstone was appealed to, but as no one present understood enough English to read this law book, Bonaparte extricated himself from the dilemma by saying: “Oh! as to these matters, one says one thing and another another; there appears to be no certainty at all about what is the practice in England, nor is it of any consequence whatever, but I decide there shall be no juries in France in civil causes!” Ainsi soit-il!
With this stupendous effort of human judgment I finish my account of the mode in which justice is administered in this enlightened Republic.