BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Antiquarian AND PICTURESQUE TOUR IN FRANCE AND GERMANY
BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN
A
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL
_Antiquarian_
AND
PICTURESQUE TOUR
IN
FRANCE AND GERMANY.
BY THE REVEREND
THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN, D.D.
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY AT ROUEN, AND OF THE
ACADEMY OF UTRECHT.
SECOND EDITION.
VOLUME II.
DEI OMNIA PLENA.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY ROBERT JENNINGS,
AND JOHN MAJOR.
1829.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
CONTENTS.
VOLUME II.
LETTER I.
PARIS. _The Boulevards. Public Buildings. Street Scenery.
Fountains_. 1
LETTER II.
_General Description of the Bibliothèque du Roi. The
Librarians_. 42
LETTER III.
_The same subject continued_. 64
LETTER IV.
_The same subject continued_. 82
LETTER V.
PARIS. _Some Account of the early printed and rare
Books in the Royal Library_. 101
LETTER VI.
_Conclusion of the Account of the Royal Library. The
Library of the Arsenal_. 144
LETTER VII.
_Library of Ste. Geneviève. The Abbé Mercier St.
Léger. Library of the Mazarine College, or Institute.
Private Library of the King. Mons. Barbier,
Librarian_. 169
_Introduction to Letter VIII_. 209
LETTER VIII.
_Some Account of the late Abbé Rive. Booksellers.
Printers. Book Binders_. 214
LETTER IX.
_Men of Letters. Dom Brial. The Abbé Bétencourt.
Messrs. Gail, Millin, and Langlès. A Roxburghe
Banquet_. 251
LETTER X.
_The Collections of Denon, Quintin Craufurd, and the
Marquis de Sommariva_. 279
LETTER XI.
_Notice of M. Willemin's Monumens Français inédits.
Miscellaneous Antiquities. Present State of the
Fine Arts. General Observations upon the National
Character_. 317
LETTER XII.
_Paris to Strasbourg. Nancy_. 343
LETTER XIII.
STRASBOURG. _Establishment of the Protestant Religion.
The Cathedral. The Public Library_. 374
LETTER XIV.
_Society. Environs of Strasbourg. Domestic Architecture.
Manners and Customs. Literature. Language_. 413
[Illustration]
_LETTER I._
PARIS. THE BOULEVARDS. PUBLIC BUILDINGS. STREET SCENERY. FOUNTAINS.[1]
_Paris, June 18, 1818_.
You are probably beginning to wonder at the tardiness of my promised
Despatch, in which the architectural minutiæ of this City were to be
somewhat systematically described. But, as I have told you towards the
conclusion of my previous letter, it would be to very little purpose to
conduct you over every inch of ground which had been trodden and described
by a host of Tourists, and from which little of interest or of novelty
could be imparted. Yet it seems to be absolutely incumbent upon me to say
_something_ by way of local description.
Perhaps the BOULEVARDS form the most interesting feature about Paris. I
speak here of the _principal_ Boulevards:--of those, extending from _Ste.
Madelaine_ to _St. Antoine_; which encircle nearly one half the capital.
Either on foot, or in a carriage, they afford you singular gratification. A
very broad road way, flanked by two rows of trees on each side, within
which the population of Paris seems to be in incessant agitation--lofty
houses, splendid shops, occasionally a retired mansion, with a parterre of
blooming flowers in front--all manner of merchandize exposed in the open
air--prints, muslins, _kaleidoscopes_, (they have just introduced them[2])
trinkets, and especially watch chains and strings of beads, spread in gay
colours upon the ground--the undulations of the chaussée--and a bright blue
sky above the green trees--all these things irresistibly rivet the
attention and extort the admiration of a stranger. You may have your boots
cleaned, and your breakfast prepared, upon these same boulevards.
Felicitous junction of conveniences!
This however is only a hasty sketch of what may be called a morning scene.
AFTERNOON approaches: then, the innumerable chairs, which have been a long
time unoccupied, are put into immediate requisition: then commences the
"high exchange" of the loungers. One man hires two chairs, for which he
pays two sous: he places his legs upon one of them; while his body, in a
slanting position, occupies the other. The places, where these chairs are
found, are usually flanked by coffee houses. Incessant reports from drawing
the corks of beer bottles resound on all sides. The ordinary people are
fond of this beverage; and for four or six sous they get a bottle of
pleasant, refreshing, small beer. The draught is usually succeeded by a
doze--in the open air. What is common, excites no surprise; and the stream
of population rushes on without stopping one instant to notice these
somniferous indulgences. Or, if they are not disposed to sleep, they sit
and look about them: abstractedly gazing upon the multitude around, or at
the heavens above. Pure, idle, unproductive listlessness is the necessary
cause of such enjoyment.
Evening approaches: when the Boulevards put on their gayest and most
fascinating livery. Then commences the bustle of the _Ice Mart_: in other
words, then commences the general demand for ices: while the rival and
neighbouring _caffés_ of TORTONI and RICHE have their porches of entrance
choked by the incessant ingress and egress of customers. The full moon
shines beautifully above the foliage of the trees; and an equal number of
customers, occupying chairs, sit without, and call for ices to be brought
to them. Meanwhile, between these loungers, and the entrances to the
caffés, move on, closely wedged, and yet scarcely in perceptible motion,
the mass of human beings who come only to exercise their eyes, by turning
them to the right or to the left: while, on the outside, upon the chaussée,
are drawn up the carriages of visitors (chiefly English ladies) who prefer
taking their ice within their closed morocco quarters. The varieties of ice
are endless, but that of the _Vanille_ is justly a general favourite: not
but that you may have coffee, chocolate, punch, peach, almond, and in short
every species of gratification of this kind; while the glasses are filled
to a great height, in a pyramidal shape, and some of them with layers of
strawberry, gooseberry, and other coloured ice--looking like pieces of a
Harlequin's jacket--are seen moving to and fro, to be silently and
certainly devoured by those who bespeak them. Add to this, every one has
his tumbler and small water-bottle by the side of him: in the centre of the
bottle is a large piece of ice, and with a tumbler of water, poured out
from it, the visitor usually concludes his repast. The most luxurious of
these ices scarcely exceeds a shilling of our money; and the quantity is at
least half as much again as you get at a certain well-known confectioner's
in Piccadilly.
It is getting towards MIDNIGHT; but the bustle and activity of the
Boulevards have not yet much abated. Groups of musicians, ballad-singers,
tumblers, actors, conjurors, slight-of-hand professors, and raree-shew men,
have each their distinct audiences. You advance. A little girl with a
raised turban (as usual, tastefully put on) seems to have no mercy either
upon her own voice or upon the hurdy-gurdy on which she plays: her father
shews his skill upon a violin, and the mother is equally active with the
organ; after "a flourish"--not of "trumpets"--but of these instruments--the
tumblers commence their operations. But a great crowd is collected to the
right. What may this mean? All are silent; a ring is made, of which the
boundaries are marked by small lighted candles stuck in pieces of clay.
Within this circle stands a man--apparently strangled: both arms are
extended, and his eyes are stretched to their utmost limits. You look more
closely--and the hilt of a dagger is seen in his mouth, of which the blade
is introduced into his stomach! He is almost breathless, and ready to
faint--but he approaches, with the crown of a hat in one hand, into which
he expects you should drop a sous. Having made his collection, he draws
forth the dagger from its carnal sheath, and, making his bow, seems to
anticipate the plaudits which invariably follow.[3] Or, he changes his plan
of operations on the following evening. Instead of the dagger put down his
throat, he introduces a piece of wire up one nostril, to descend by the
other--and, thus self-tortured, demands the remuneration and the applause
of his audience. In short, from one end of the Boulevards to the other, for
nearly two English miles, there is nought but animation, good humour, and,
it is right to add, good order;--while, having strolled as far as the
Boulevards _de Bondy_, and watched the moon-beams sparkling in the waters
which play there within the beautiful fountain so called,--I retread my
steps, and seek the quiet quarters in which this epistle is penned.
The next out-of-door sources of gratification, of importance, are the
_Gardens of the Thuileries_, the _Champs Elysées_, and the promenade within
the _Palais Royal_; in which latter plays a small, but, in my humble
opinion, the most beautifully constructed fountain which Paris can boast
of. Of this, presently. The former of these spots is rather pretty than
picturesque: rather limited than extensive: a raised terrace
