"Tow'rd Rottingdean who walks the Steyne, Which aims, by spars, and chains, and bars, "See yonder yacht, with paddling trot, "At Hastings, if her frisky cliff Would be more staid and sober, The gods I'd thank to pass, dear Frank, But from her brink new rocks may sink, "Thus, billowy god, my muse has trod A WALK TO VINCENNES. It was in the Spring season, a short time ago, that I walked to the chateau of Vincennes. The day was fine, and the pure cerulean sky, with that vivifying clearness of the atmosphere never seen or experienced in our metropolis, and of which the feeling is understood by most, but which it would be difficult to describe here, gave me more than a common susceptibility of enjoying a walk-it was the exhilaration of incipient inebriety without its deadening effect upon the faculties. The mind wore its keenest edge, and its perceptions were stimulated as forcibly as the fibres of the body were braced. Such a moment is favourable for enjoying the beauties of Nature, and it is then almost an offence against natural feeling not to walk forth and drink in the delight which creation offers us. My resolution was executed sur le champ. I had breakfasted at the Caffe Hardi in the Boulevard des Italiens, when I planned my ramble, and having crowned my déjeuné with a petit verre of brandy, about a good-sized thimble full, (for my breakfast, be it observed, was à la fourchette,) I proceeded along those charming adjuncts to the French cities-the Boulevards, amusing myself with the endless variety of objects in my way, until I reached the Barrier du Trone. All who have been at the eastern end of Paris know this spot of ingress and egress by the two naked columns on each hand. The road from the barrier runs in a straight line to Vincennes and its pleasant neighbourhood, and is planted with a double row of trees the whole way. The ground on the right is level; on the left hand it begins to rise at a little distance off, forming the quadrant of a hill, on the side of which is the celebrated cemetery of Père La Chaise, with its white monuments and plantations. This hill is called Mont Louis. The cemetery is the site of the chateau and grounds of the Père La Chaise, the Jesuit confessor of Louis XIV. and his mistress Madame de Maintenon, who used to visit the Père La Chaise there, as a Frenchman of the Bourbon school would say, from motives of pure piety! The side of the hill without the cemetery, and some of the space intervening between that and the road of Vincennes, was occupied by peach-gardens, then in all their luxuriance of rich blossom. I walked at a slow rate over a road which presented a curious contrast to the busy scene of one situated near the British capital. I met few persons; a diligence with its grotesque accompaniments in pilotage, passengers and lumber, a gens-d'arme patrolling, and a demi-tasse or two, if I might judge from their soldierlike air, threadbare coats, and toil-worn aspects, were the most important in the scale of consequence. There were also a few country people with the produce of their ground, seeking Paris for its sale, and jabbering their patois with the accustomed volubility of their nation. No splendid equipages passed me; Paris seemed to have attracted and retained all; as it retains every idea that a Frenchman can possibly accumulate of beauty, excellence, and grandeur. I must mention that before reaching the Barrier du Trone, I went a little out of the way to visit a spot, the associations with which presented the most painful aspect, and recalled the recollection of scenes which France must for ever blush to find in the records of her history. It is a piece of ground, not forty feet square, in the corner of what was once the garden of some canonesses of St. Augustin, in the Faubourg St. Antoine. It is scarcely credible that between the 24th June, 1793, and 27th July, 1794, nearly one half of all the corpses of unhappy persons decapitated in Paris during the "reign of terror," as the French denominate that period, were crammed into such a little space. This number amounted to 1298. Over each layer of bodies some inches in thickness of quick-lime were deposited. Little indeed is the room that mortals require for their last sojourn at this rate, much less even than our scanty London grave-yards can bestow! Though these remains must have constituted a mass of human putrefaction quite appalling, the lime effectually prevented any bad consequences to the living, and the decomposition was rapid and complete. Among the dead thus inhumed here, was the noted Frederick Baron Trenck, who was decapitated only two days before Robespierre. After this digression, to return to my main object. I pursued my The half-pay officers, or demi-solde, who are supposed to possess only the means of paying for half cups of coffee. route under the delicious green shade of the trees, until I reached the palace built by Catharine and Mary de Medicis; it contains nothing remarkable, and I passed it by to enter the fort or chateau, so celebrated as a state prison, having been in every respect the twin brother of the Bastile. It would have shared the same fate as that edifice, had not the patriotic La Fayette preserved it by calling out the National Guard. A young officer of gens-d'armerie, with whom I had been long acquainted, accompanied me. He wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honour given him by Napoleon, and therefore it is fair to suppose he merited it by his services. Yet he told me that having served the Emperor faithfully, he had now transferred his allegiance to Louis, and would equally devote his life for him, adding with all a Frenchman's levity and vehemence, upon my smiling at his pliancy of principle, "he would rather serve Louis than his God, for he had seen one but he never saw the other." This is too true a picture of modern political Frenchmen, and of numerous politicians in every country. Even erroneous principle may command respect, if it be inflexibly true to its pretensions, but who can respect those who studiously subject their principles to their interests! We crossed the drawbridges and entered the inner court. All seemed adapted to the purposes of arbitrary power, -moats and walls precluding any chance of escape; a gloom falling from the dark masses of stone the whole height of the keep, that flung over the mind, together with its dark shadows, a sadness weighing down every other sensation. The recollection of the mass of human suffering endured and enduring there, must have inflicted a death of hope in the mind of every newly-arrived victim. A lettre de cachet and a warrant for execution could have produced in him feelings very little dissimilar. No question was allowed to be asked by the prisoner on his introduction; c'est ici, he was told, la maison de silence. As I entered the door of the donjon, the walls of which are sixteen feet in thickness, I thought of the inscription over hell-gate in Dante, Lasciate ogni speranza, voi, che 'ntrate! What a picture was before me of the old regime of France! From the palace to the dungeon was here indeed but a step. The groans and misery of the captives must often, from their vicinity to it, have been echoed back in return for the music and revelry of courtiers. Thus the pains of captivity were rendered more cutting, and a torture inflicted on the mind even more bitter than Louis XI. caused on the bodies of the unfortunate Princes of Armagnac, at Vincennes or in the Bastile. They were placed in holes in the masonry shaped like inverted cones, to prevent their feet having an easy resting-place, scourged twice a week, and a tooth was drawn from them every three months! The donjon is a square building, having round towers at the angles; it is surrounded by an inner ditch. The first door being passed, it was formerly necessary to open three more before entering the first apartment, though these are at present dispensed with. The cells of the prisoners surrounded this room, small and lofty, with very little light, owing to the enormous thickness of the walls. The lowest floor was of old used as a place of torture. The stone elevations still remain on which the prisoners were seated, with the places of the rings over them by which they were confined while they suffered. A staircase in one of the circular turrets led to the summit of the building; I ascended, and was charmed with the prospect. On one side me lay what remains of the wood of Vincennes, riant, as the French say, in the rich luxuriance of spring; at a little distance was the pleasant village of Saint Mandé, and in another direction the city of Paris, with the domes of the Pantheon and Invalids clear and minutely seen, under the lovely blue heaven; no black dinginess obscured the buildings; every thing was defined, and stood out in its minutest details. The soft air bore with it a spirit of voluptuousness that seemed to afford fresh excitation to enjoyment on every inhalement. It almost made me forget where I was standing, that beneath my feet was a place of sighs and groans, and woe, or rather had been such, and perhaps might soon be such again; and that, amidst the luxuriance of earth, air, and skies, man had even there erected a habitation for his crimes, deforming, as usual, the face of Nature with monuments of his iniquities. How painful must the feelings of a favoured prisoner have been, who was permitted to walk on the leads for an hour with his turnkey on such a charming day, and then forced to return to his dark cell amid solitude and heart-rending desolation! I descended the narrow stairs, which once had several iron-plated doors on them for additional security, more in love with freedom than ever, and with a greater detestation of the despotic will of "a little brief authority." My guide told me that there were many inscriptions on the walls, the labour of different captives, and wished me to view some dungeons below, but I was glad to hasten out of the horrible den. Such, however, is the happy nature of some temperaments, that calamity cannot depress them, nor danger alarm. Among numberless persons incarcerated at Vincennes by Cardinal Mazarine, was the great Condé, who sung, laughed, danced, and played the violin; being a prisoner of rank, he received indulgences unknown to plebeian offenders. Abandoned by his friends, he never gave way to sadness or anger, except when speaking of Mazarine, "Le vieux renard qui jusqu'à présent a trompé Dieu et le diable, et ne se lassera jamais d'outrager les bons serviteurs de l'état, à moins que le parlement ne congédie ou ne punisse sévèrement cet illustrissime faquin de piscina." He studied much, being allowed books, and wrote epigrams upon his persecutors. The Abbé Fresnoy was many times incarcerated in the Bastile and Vincennes for his writings, at which latter place he terminated his days in 1755, at the age of eighty-two. So gay was he on going to his cell, and so accustomed to be sent there, that when the officer came with the king's order he did not allow him to speak first, but began himself. "Ah Monsieur! Bon jour !" and turning to his housekeeper, "Mon petit paquet, du linge, du tabac," and set off laughing. Such are happy dispositions. Goldsmith thinks it best to oppose the calamities of life by dissipation rather than reason. Alas! neither is a specific for all, since our constitutions, before the receipt will do, must be remoulded alike. When we consider the limited duration of human existence, nothing man can bestow on his fellow can atone for the loss of liberty to an individual for the comparatively short space of two or three years. By the lettres de cachet many were imprisoned at Vincennes for twenty and thirty years. Latude, whose story has been long published, was incarcerated thirty-five years for only affronting Madame Pompadour. Many a son of literature had languished away his days there in sorrow, and brave spirits, little deserving to be " kept in such a cage," as Prince Henry said of Raleigh, have worn out life in unmerited forgetfulness within its iron precincts. Madame Guyot, the enthusiastic and good, Crebillon, Diderot, Mirabeau, Morillet, and a long list of great names, were among the captives at Vincennes. Their captivity however took place openly in latter days, when public opinion began to have some sway. One half of the victims of regal vengeance, more to be pitied than these, were never known to the world by name or by their fate. Under Louis XIII. XIV. and XV. people were frequently taken from their dwellings in the night, and seen by their friends no more; for no one was ever permitted to enter the chateau, even the priests and physicians were inmates; secresy being an essential point in all these state imprisonments. I felt great pleasure on coming from this monument of suffering to the open air in the court of the donjon, round which I walked. Heavy cannon were mounted on the platforms, which had thundered on the allied armies advancing upon the same side of Paris in 1814, and kept them effectually in check on that point until the capitulation was signed. I then visited the part of the ditch where the Duke d'Enghein was executed for his conspiracy against the French government. The revived regime erects expiatory altars and chapels at every spot which has been marked by any outrage against itself; and here some superstitious ceremonies had been lately performed over the remains of the prince on their removal to St. Denis. It is astonishing how little wisdom was displayed in thus going back to ceremonies which could never again be regarded with reverence by an enlightened people. A peaceable removal and interment would have answered every purpose. No impartial Frenchmen ever denied the participation of the duke in the plots carrying on: it was the violation of a neutral territory by Bonaparte that was chiefly blamed, and the violence with which his object was effected. I thought there was something strange and retributive in the duke's execution on the very spot where his ancestors had immolated so many innocent persons: it was almost the visitation of the sins of the fathers upon the children. One instance of this kind of oppression under Louis the Fourteenth I will give, curiously involving, too, a violation of neutral territory. A young man named Desvalons fought a duel at Paris, and fled to Manheim; he was received kindly by one Cardel, a Protestant resident there, and soon made love to Cardel's sister, or rather to her fortune, but was unsuccessful, chiefly by the brother's interference. He determined on revenge, and sent a communication to Paris, that a person at Manheim, named Cardel, intended to kill Louis the Fourteenth. The French envoy was desired to aid in getting possession of his person. He was attracted to a village out of the city, carried off by a hundred dragoons of the garrison of Laudau, and finally conducted in chains to the donjon of Vincennes. He suffered most cruel treatment, and died in the Bastile after a confinement of thirty years, and after being claimed by all the European powers in vain. Even the family of this unfortunate man was thrown into a horrible prison, and endured the most terrible sufferings, having been unhappily in France at the time of his unjust caption. I must mention another anecdote relative to Vincennes, as it records the faith |