RESTAURANTS--A WALK AND GOSSIP.
[Illustration: Boulevard du Temple.]
RESTAURANTS, CAFES, ETC.
The first thing the stranger does in Paris, is of course to find
temporary lodging, and the next is to select a good _restaurant_. Paris
without its _restaurants, cafes, estaminets_, and _cercles_, would be
shorn of half its glory. They are one of its most distinguished and
peculiar features. Between the hours of five and eight, in the evening
of course, all Paris is in those _restaurants_. The scene at such times
is enlivening in the highest degree. The Boulevards contain the finest
in the city, for there nearly all the first-class saloons are kept.
There are retired streets in which are kept houses on the same plan, but
with prices moderate in the extreme. You can go on the Boulevards and
pay for a breakfast, if you choose, fifty or even sixty francs, or you
can retire to some quiet spot and pay one franc for your frugal meal. It
is of course not common for any one to pay the largest sum named, but
there are persons in Paris who do it, young men who with us are vulgarly
denominated "swells," and who like to astonish their friends by their
extravagance.
[Illustration: PARIS & ARCH OF TRIUMPH.]
Out of curiosity I went one day with a friend to one of the most
gorgeous of the _restaurants_ on the Boulevards. Notwithstanding the
descriptions I had read and listened to from the lips of friends, I was
surprised at the splendor and style of the place. We sat down before a
fine window which was raised, looking into the street. Indeed, so close
sat we to it that the fashionable promenaders could each, if he liked,
have peeped into our dishes. But Parisians never trouble strangers with
their inquisitiveness. We sat down before a table of exquisite marble,
and a waiter dressed as neatly, and indeed gracefully, as a gentleman,
handed us a bill of fare. It was long enough in itself to make a man a
dinner, if the material were only palatable. Including dessert and
wines, there were one hundred specifications! There were ten kinds of
meat, and fourteen varieties of poultry. Of course there were many
varieties of game, and there were eight kinds of pastry. Of fish there
were fourteen kinds, there were ten side dishes, a dozen sweet dishes,
and a dozen kinds of wine.
The elegance of the apartment can scarcely be imagined, and the savory
smell which arose from neighboring tables occupied by fashionable men
and women, invited us to a repast. We called, however, but for a dish or
two, and after we had eaten them, we had coffee, and over our cups
gazed out upon the gay scene before us. It was novel, indeed, to the
American eye, and we sat long and discussed it. In this _restaurant_
there were private rooms, called _Cabinets de Societe_, and into them go
men and women at all hours, by day and night. It is also a common sight
to see the public apartments of the _restaurants_ filled with people of
both sexes. Ladies sit down even in the street with gentlemen, to sup
chocolate or lemonade. There is not much eaves-dropping in Paris, and
you can do as you please, nor fear curious eyes nor scandal-loving
tongues. This is very different from London. There, if you do any thing
out of the common way, you will be stared at and talked about. _There_,
if you take a lady into a public eating-house, _her_ position, at least,
will not be a very pleasant one.
There are many places in the Palais Royal, the basement floor of which,
fronting upon the court of the palace, is given up to shops, where for
two or three francs a dinner can be purchased which will consist of
soup, two dishes from a large list at choice, a dessert, and bread and
wine. There are places, indeed, where for twenty-five sous a dinner
sufficient to satisfy one's hunger can be purchased, but I must confess
that while in Paris I could never yet make up my mind to patronize a
cheap _restaurant_. I knew too well, by the tales of more experienced
Parisians, the shifts to which the cook of one of these cheap
establishments is sometimes reduced to produce an attractive dish. The
material sometimes would not bear a close examination--much less the
_cuisine_.
[Illustration: JARDIN DU PALAIS ROYAL.]
I was astonished to see the quantities of bread devoured by the
frequenters of the eating-houses, but I soon equaled my neighbors. Paris
bread is the best in the world, or at least, it is the most palatable I
ever tasted. It is made in rolls six feet long, and sometimes I have
seen it eight feet long. Before now, I have seen a couple dining near
the corner of a room, with their roll of bread thrown like a cane
against the wall, and as often as they wanted a fresh slice, the roll
was very coolly brought over and decapitated. The Frenchman eats little
meat, but enormously of the staff of life. The chocolate and coffee
which are to be had in the French _cafes_, are very delicious, and
though after a fair and long trial I never could like French cookery as
well as the English, yet I would not for a moment pretend that any cooks
in the world equal those of Paris in the art of imparting exquisite
flavor to a dish. It is quite common for the French to use brandy in
their coffee.
People who take apartments in Paris often prefer to have their meals
sent to their private rooms, and by a special bargain this is done by
any of the restaurants, but more especially by a class of houses called
_traiteurs_, whose chief business is to furnish cooked dishes to
families in their own homes. In going to a hotel in Paris, the stranger
never feels in the slightest degree bound to get his meals there. He
hires his room and that is all, and goes where he pleases. The _cafes_
are in the best portions of the town, magnificent places, often
exceeding in splendor the restaurants. They furnish coffee, chocolate,
all manner of ices and fruits, and cigars. At these places one meets
well-dressed ladies, and more than once in them I have seen well-dressed
women smoking cigarettes. Love intrigues are carried on at these places,
for a Paris lady can easily steal from her home to such a place under
cover of the night. A majority, however, of the women to be seen at such
places, are those who have no position in society, the wandering nymphs
of the night, or the poor grisettes. It is not strange that the poor
shop-girl is easily attracted to such gorgeous places by men far above
her in station.
Outside of all the cafes little tables are placed on the pavement, with
chairs around them. These places are delightful in the summer evenings,
and are always crowded. A promenade through some of the best streets of
a summer night is a brilliant spectacle, and more like a promenade
through a drawing-room than through an American street. The proprietors
of those places do not intend to keep restaurants, but quite a variety
of food, hot or cold, is always on hand, and wines of all kinds are
sold.
I well remember my first visit to a French _cafe_. It was when Louis
Napoleon was president, not emperor of France, and when there was more
liberty in Paris than there is now. I dropped into one near the
Boulevards, which, while it contained everything which could add to
one's comfort, still was not one of the first class. Several officers
were dining in it, and in some way I came in contact with one of them in
such a manner that he discovered I was an American. At once his conduct
toward me was of the most cordial kind, and his fellows rose and bade me
welcome to France. The simple fact that I was a republican from America
aroused the enthusiasm of all. I found, afterward, that the regiment to
which these officers belonged was suspected by the president of being
democratic in its sympathies.
The reading-rooms of Paris are one of its best institutions. They are
scattered all over the city, but the best is Galignani's, which contains
over twenty thousand volumes in all languages. The subscription price
for a month is eight francs, for a fortnight five francs, and for a day
ten sous.
There are reading-rooms furnished only with newspapers, where for a
small sum of money one can read the papers. These places are few in
comparison with their numbers in the days of the republic, however.
Under the despotic rule of Louis Napoleon, the newspaper business has
drooped.
An anonymous writer in one of Chambers' publications, tells a good
story, and it is a true one, of Pere Fabrice, who amassed a fortune in
Paris. The story is told as follows:
"He had always a turn for speculation, and being a private soldier he
made money by selling small articles to his fellow soldiers. When his
term of service had expired, he entered the employ of a rag-merchant,
and in a little while proposed a partnership with his master, who
laughed at his impudence. He then set up an opposition shop, and lost
all he had saved in a month. He then became a porter at the _halles_
where turkeys were sold. He noticed that those which remained unsold, in
a day or two lost half their value. He asked the old women how the
customers knew the turkeys were not fresh. They replied that the legs
changed from a bright black to a dingy brown. Fabrice went home, was
absent the next day from the _halles_, and on the third day returned
with a bottle of liquid. Seizing hold of the first brown-legged turkey
he met with, he forthwith painted its legs out of the contents of his
bottle, and placing the thus decorated bird by the side of one just
killed, he asked who now was able to see the difference between the
fresh bird and the stale one? The old women were seized with admiration.
They are a curious set of beings, those _dames de la halle_; their
admiration is unbounded for successful adventurers--witness their
enthusiasm for Louis Napoleon. They adopted our friend's idea without
hesitation, made an agreement with him on the principle of the division
of profits; and it immediately became a statistical puzzle with the
curious inquirers on these subjects, how it came to pass that stale
turkeys should have all at once disappeared from the Paris market? It
was set down to the increase of prosperity consequent on the
constitutional _regime_ and the wisdom of the citizen-king. The old
women profited largely; but unfortunately, like the rest of the world,
they in time forgot both their enthusiasm and their benefactor, and Pere
Fabrice found himself involved in a daily succession of squabbles about
his half-profits. Tired out at last, he made an arrangement with the old
dames, and, in military phrase, sold out. Possessed now of about double
the capital with which he entered, he recollected his old friend, the
rag-merchant, and went a second time to propose a partnership. 'I am a
man of capital now,' he said; 'you need not laugh so loud this time.'
The rag-merchant asked the amount of his capital; and when he heard it,
whistled _Ninon dormait_, and turned upon his heel. 'No wonder,' said
Fabrice afterward; 'I little knew then what a rag-merchant was worth.
That man could have bought up two of Louis Philippe's ministers of
finance.' At the time, however, he did not take the matter so
philosophically, and resolved, after the fashion of his class, not to
drown himself, but to make a night of it. He found a friend, and went
with him to dine at a small eating-house. While there, they noticed the
quantity of broken bread thrown under the tables by the reckless and
quarrelsome set that frequented the place; and his friend remarked, that
if all the bread so thrown about were collected, it would feed half the
_quartier_. Fabrice said nothing; but he was in search of an idea, and
he took up his friend's. The next day, he called on the restaurateur,
and asked him for what he would sell the broken bread he was accustomed
to sweep in the dustpan. The bread he wanted, it should be observed, was
a very different thing from the fragments left upon the table; these had
been consecrated to the marrow's soup from time immemorial. He wanted
the dirty bread actually thrown under the table, which even a Parisian
restaurateur of the Quartier Latin, whose business it was to collect
dirt and crumbs, had hitherto thrown away. Our restaurateur caught
eagerly at the offer, made a bargain for a small sum; and Master Fabrice
forthwith proceeded to about a hundred eating-houses of the same kind,
with all of whom he made similar bargains. Upon this he established a
bakery, extending his operations till there was scarcely a restaurant in
Paris of which the sweepings did not find their way to the oven of Pere
Fabrice. Hence it is that the fourpenny restaurants are supplied; hence
it is that the itinerant venders of gingerbread find their first
material. Let any man who eats bread at any very cheap place in the
capital take warning, if his stomach goes against the idea of a
_rechauffe_ of bread from the dust-hole. Fabrice, notwithstanding some
extravagances with the fair sex, became a millionaire; and the greatest
glory of his life was--that he lived to eclipse his old master, the
rag-merchant."
The same writer also gives a graphic description of one class of
restaurants in Paris--the pot-luck shops:
"Pot-luck, or the _fortune de pot_, is on the whole the most curious
feeding spectacle in Europe. There are more than a dozen shops in Paris
where this mode of procuring a dinner is practiced, chiefly in the back
streets abutting on the Pantheon. About two o'clock, a parcel of men in
dirty blouses, with sallow faces, and an indescribable mixture of
recklessness, jollity, and misery--strange as the juxtaposition of terms
may seem--lurking about their eyes and the corners of their mouths, take
their seats in a room where there is not the slightest appearance of any
preparation for food, nothing but half-a-dozen old deal-tables, with
forms beside them, on the side of the room, and one large table in the
middle. They pass away the time in vehement gesticulation, and talking
in a loud tone; so much of what they say is in _argot_, that the
stranger will not find it easy to comprehend them. He would think they
were talking crime or politics--not a bit of it; their talk is
altogether about their mistresses. Love and feeding make up the
existence of these beings; and we may judge of the quality of the former
by what we are about to see of the latter. A huge bowl is at last
introduced, and placed on the table in the middle of the room. At the
same time a set of basins, corresponding to the number of the guests,
are placed on the side-tables. A woman, with her nose on one side, good
eyes, and the thinnest of all possible lips, opening every now and then
to disclose the white teeth which garnish an enormous mouth, takes her
place before it. She is the presiding deity of the temple; and there is
not a man present to whom it would not be the crowning felicity of the
moment to obtain a smile from features so little used to the business of
smiling, that one wonders how they would set about it if the necessity
should ever arise. Every cap is doffed with a grim politeness peculiar
to that class of humanity, and a series of compliments fly into the face
of Madame Michel, part leveled at her eyes, and part at the laced cap,
in perfect taste, by which those eyes are shrouded. Mere Michel,
however, says nothing in return, but proceeds to stir with a thick
ladle, looking much larger than it really is, the contents of the bowl
before her. These contents are an enormous quantity of thick brown
liquid, in the midst of which swim numerous islands of vegetable matter
and a few pieces of meat. Meanwhile, a damsel, hideously ugly--but whose
ugliness is in part concealed by a neat, trim cap--makes the tour of the
room with a box of tickets, grown black by use, and numbered from one to
whatever number may be that of the company. Each of them gives four sous
to this Hebe of the place, accompanying the action with an amorous look,
which is both the habit and the duty of every Frenchman when he has
anything to do with the opposite sex, and which is not always a matter
of course, for Marie has her admirers, and has been the cause of more
than one _rixe_ in the Rue des Anglais. The tickets distributed, up
rises number one--with a joke got ready for the occasion, and a look of
earnest anxiety, as if he were going to throw for a kingdom--takes the
ladle, plunges it into the bowl, and transfers whatever it brings up to
his basin. It is contrary to the rules for any man to hesitate when he
has once made his plunge, though he has a perfect right to take his time
in a previous survey of the _ocean_--a privilege of which he always
avails himself. If he brings up one of the pieces of meat, the glisten
of his eye and the applauding murmur which goes round the assembly give
him a momentary exultation, which it is difficult to conceive by those
who have not witnessed it. In this the spirit of successful gambling is,
beyond all doubt, the uppermost feeling; it mixes itself up with
everything done by that class of society, and is the main reason of the
popularity of these places with their _habitues_; for when the customers
have once acquired the habit, they rarely go anywhere else."
[Illustration: Omnibus.]
A WALK AND GOSSIP.
One of my first days in Paris I sauntered out to find some American
newspapers, that I might know something of what had transpired in
America for weeks previous. I directed my steps to the office of Messrs.
Livingston, Wells & Co., where I had been informed a reading-room was
always kept open for the use of American strangers in Paris. The morning
was a delightful one, and I could but contrast it with the usual weather
of London. During months of residence in the English metropolis I had
seen no atmosphere like this, and my spirits, like the sky, were clear
and bright.
On my way I saw a novel sight, and to me the first intimation that the
people of Paris, so widely famed for their politeness, refinement, and
civilization, are yet addicted to certain practices for which the
wildest barbarian in the far west would blush. I saw men in open day, in
the open walk, which was crowded with women as well as men, commit
nuisances of a kind I need not particularize but which seemed to excite
neither wonder nor disgust in the by-passers. Indeed I saw they were
quite accustomed to such sights, and their nonchalance was only equaled
by that of the well-dressed gentlemen who were the guilty parties. I
very soon learned more of Paris, and found that not in this matter alone
were its citizens deficient in refinement, but in still weightier
matters.
I soon reached the American reading-room, and walked in. My first act
was to look at the register where all persons who call inscribe their
names, and I was surprised to notice the number of Americans present in
Paris. It only proved what I long had heard, that Americans take more
naturally to the French than to the sturdy, self-sufficient Englishman.
As it is in the matter of fashions, so it is regarding almost everything
else, save morals, and I doubt if the tone of fashionable society in New
York is any better than in Paris.
I was heartily rejoiced to take an American newspaper in my hand again.
There were the clear open face of the plain-spoken _Tribune_, the
sprightly columns of the _Times_, and the more dignified columns of the
Washington journals. There were also many other familiar papers on the
table, and they were all touched before I left. It was like a cool
spring in the wide desert. For I confess that I love the newspaper, if
it only be of the right sort. From early habit, I cannot live without
it. Let any man pursue the vocation of an editor for a few years, and he
will find it difficult, after, to live without a good supply of
newspapers, and they must be of the old-fashioned home kind.
I did not easily accustom myself to the Paris journals. Cheap enough
some of them were, but still the strange language was an obstacle. They
are worse printed than ours, and are by no means equal to such journals
as the _Times_ and _Tribune_. They publish continued stories, or novels,
and racy criticisms of music, art, and literature. The political
department of the French newspaper at the present day is the weakest
part of the sheet. It is lifeless. A few meager facts are recorded, and
there is a little tame comment, and that is all. There was a time when
the political department of a French newspaper was its most brilliant
feature. During the exciting times which presaged the downfall of Louis
Philippe, and also during the early days of the republic, the Paris
press was in the full tide of success, and was exceedingly brilliant.
The daily journals abounded, and their subscription lists were enormous.
Where there is freedom, men and women _will_ read--and where there is
unmitigated despotism, the people care little to read the sickly
journals which are permitted to drag out an existence.
There is one journal published in Paris in the English language,
"_Galignani's Messenger_." It is old, and in its way is very useful, but
it is principally made up of extracts from the English journals. It has
no editorial ability or originality, and of course never advances any
opinion upon a political question.
On my return home I passed through a street often mentioned by Eugene
Sue in his Mysteries of Paris--a street formerly noted for the vile
character of its inhabitants. It was formerly filled with robbers and
cut-throats, and even now I should not care to risk my life in this
street after midnight, with no policemen near. It is exceedingly narrow,
for I stood in the center and touched with the tips of my fingers the
walls of both sides of the street. It is very dark and gloomy, and
queer-looking passages run up on either side from the street. Some of
them were frightful enough in their appearance. To be lost in such a
place in the dead of night, even now, would be no pleasant fate, for
desperate characters still haunt the spot. Possibly the next morning, or
a few mornings after, the stranger's body might be seen at _La Morgue._
That is the place where all dead bodies found in the river or streets
are exhibited--suicides and murdered men and women.
Talking of this street and its reputation in Eugene Sue's novels,
reminds me of the man. When I first saw it he had just been elected to
the Chamber of Deputies by an overwhelming majority. It was not because
Sue was the favorite candidate of the republicans, but he stood in such
a position that his defeat would have been considered a government
victory, and consequently he was elected. I was glad to find the man
unpopular among democrats of Paris, for his life, like his books, has
many pages in it that were better not read. At that time he was living
very quietly in a village just out of Paris, and though surrounded with
voluptuous luxuries, he was in his life strictly virtuous. He was the
same afterward, and being very wealthy, gave a great deal to the poor.
His novels are everywhere read in France.
I was not a little surprised during my first days in Paris to see the
popularity of Cooper as a novelist. His stories are for sale at every
book-stall, and are in all the libraries. They are sold with
illustrations at a cheap rate, and I think I may say with safety that he
is as widely read in France as any foreign novelist. This is a little
singular when it is remembered how difficult it is to convey the broken
Indian language to a French reader. This is one of the best features of
Cooper's novels--the striking manner in which he portrays the language
of the North American Indian and his idiomatic expressions. Yet such is
the charm of his stories that they have found their way over Europe. The
translations into the French language must be good.
Another author read widely in Paris, as she is all over Europe, is Mrs.
Stowe. _Uncle Tom_ is a familiar name in the brilliant capital of
France, and even yet his ideal portraits hang in many shop windows, and
the face of Mrs. Stowe peeps forth beside it. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was
wonderfully popular among all classes, and to very many--what a
fact!--it brought their first idea of Jesus Christ as he is delineated
in the New Testament. But Mrs. Stowe's _Sunny Memories_ was very
severely criticised and generally laughed at--especially her criticisms
upon art.
Walking one evening in the Champs Elysees, I found a little family of
singers from the Alps, underneath one of the large trees. You should
have heard them sing their native songs, so plaintive and yet so mild.
Father and mother, two little sisters and a brother, were begging their
bread in that way. They were dressed very neatly, although evidently
extremely poor. The father had a violin which he played very sweetly,
the mother sang, the two little girls danced, and the boy put in a soft
and melancholy tenor. I hardly ever listened to sadder music. It seemed
as if their hearts were in it, saddened at the thought of exile from
their native mountains. After singing for a long time, they stopped and
looked up appealingly to the crowd--but not a sou fell to the ground.
Once more they essayed to sing, with a heavier sorrow upon their faces,
for they were hungry and had no bread. They stopped again--not a
solitary sou was given to them. A large tear rolled down the cheek of
the father--you should have seen the answering impulse of the crowd--how
the sous rattled upon the ground. They saw instantly that it was no
common beggar before them, but one who deserved their alms. At once, as
if a heaven full of clouds had divided and the sunshine flashed full
upon their faces, the band of singers grew radiant and happy. Such is
life--a compound of sorrow and gayety.
The Parisian omnibus system is the best in the world, and I found it
very useful and agreeable always while wandering over the city. The
vehicles are large and clean, and each passenger has a chair fastened
firmly to the sides of the carriage. Six sous will carry a person
anywhere in Paris, and if two lines are necessary to reach the desired
place, a ticket is given by the conductor of the first omnibus, which
entitles the holder to another ride in the new line. The omnibus system
is worked to perfection only in Paris, and is there a great blessing to
people who cannot afford to drive their own carriages.
THE BOURSE--GALIGNANI'S, ETC., ETC.
The Paris Exchange is on the Rue Vivienne, and is approached from the
Tuileries from that street or _via_ the Palais National, and a
succession of the most beautiful arcade-shops in Paris or the world. If
the day be rainy, the stranger can thread his way to it under the long
arcades as dry as if in his own room at the hotel. I confess to a
fondness for wandering though such places as these arcades, where the
riches of the shops are displayed in their large windows. In America it
is not usual to fill the windows of stores full of articles with the
price of each attached, but it is always so in London and Paris. A
jewelry store will exhibit a hundred kinds of watches with their
different prices attached, and the different shops will display what
they contain in like manner. There are, too, in Paris and London places
called "Curiosity shop". The first time I ever saw one of these shops
with its green windows and name over the door, memory instantly recalled
a man never to be forgotten. Will any one who has read Charles Dickens
ever forget his "Curiosity Shop," the old grandfather and little Nell?
When I entered the shop--the windows filled with old swords, pistols,
and stilettos--it seemed to me that I must meet the old gray-haired man,
or gentle Nell, or the ugly Quilp and Dick Swiveller. But they were not
there.
[Illustration: Palais de la Bourse]
But I have been stopping in a curiosity shop when I should be on my way
to the Bourse. The Paris Bourse, or Exchange, is perhaps the finest
building of its kind on the continent. Its magnificence is very properly
of the most solid and substantial kind. For should not the exchange for
the greatest merchants of Paris be built in a stable rather than in a
slight and beautiful manner? The form of the structure is that of a
parallelogram, and it is two hundred and twelve by one hundred and
twenty-six feet. It is surrounded by sixty-six Corinthian columns, which
support an entablature and a worked attic. It is approached by a flight
of steps which extend across the whole western front. Over the western
entrance is the following inscription--BOURSE ET TRIBUNAL DE COMMERCE.
The roof is made of copper and iron. The hall in the center of the
building where the merchants meet is very large--one hundred and sixteen
feet long and seventy-six feet broad. Just below the cornice are
inscribed the names of the principal cities in the world, and over the
middle arch there is a clock, which on an opposite dial-plate marks the
direction of the wind out of doors.
The hall is lighted from the roof--the ceiling is covered with fine
paintings, or as they are styled "monochrane drawings." Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America are represented in groups. In one, the city of Paris
is represented as delivering her keys to the God of Commerce, and
inviting Commercial Justice to enter the walls prepared for her.
The hall is paved with a fine marble, and two thousand persons can be
accommodated upon the central floor. There is a smaller inclosure at the
east end, where the merchants and stockholders transact their daily
business. The hours are from one o'clock to three for the public stocks,
and till half past five for all others. The public is allowed to visit
the Bourse from nine in the morning till five at night. A very singular
regulation exists in reference to the ladies. No woman is admitted into
the Bourse without a special order from the proper authorities. The
cause for this is the fact that years ago, when ladies were admitted to
the Bourse, they became very much addicted to gambling there, and also
enticed the gentlemen into similar practices. It is not likely that the
old stockholders were tempted into any vicious practices, but the
presence of women was enough to attract another class of men--idlers and
fashionable gamblers--until the exchange was turned into a
gambling-saloon. The matter was soon set to rights when women were shut
out.
Paris was formerly without an Exchange, and the merchants held their
meetings in an old building which John Law, the celebrated financier,
once occupied. They afterward met in the Palais Royal, and still later,
in a comparatively obscure street. The first stone of the Bourse was
laid on the 28th of March, 1808, and the works proceeded with dispatch
till 1814, when they were suspended. It was completed in 1826. The
architect who designed it died when it was half completed, but the plan
was carried out, though by a new architect. It is now a model building
of its kind, and cost nearly nine millions of francs. In comprehensive
magnificence it has no rival in Paris--perhaps not in the world. The
Royal Exchange of London, though a fine building, is a pigmy beside this
massive and colossal structure. The best view can be obtained from the
Rue Vivienne. From this street one has a fine view of the fine marble
steps ascending to it, and which stretch completely across the western
part.
The history of all the great panics which have been experienced on the
Paris Exchange would be an excellent history of the fortunes of France.
The slightest premonition of change is felt at once at the Bourse, and
as each successive revolution has swept over the country, it has
written its history in ineffaceable characters on Change. Panic has
followed panic, and the stocks fly up or down according to the views
outside. The breath of war sets all its interests into a trembling
condition, and an election, before now, has sent the thrill to the very
center of that grand old money-palace.
On my way home from the Bourse, I stopped to go over Galignani's Reading
Room. It is a capital collection of the best books of all countries,
some of them in French, some in English, and others in German. I found
on the shelves many American republications, but Cooper was always first
among these. For a small sum the stranger can subscribe to this library,
either for a month or a year, and supply himself with reading and the
newspapers of the world.
The Messrs. Galignani publish an English journal in Paris. It is a
daily, and has no opinions of its own. Of course, an original and
independent journal could not be allowed to exist in Paris.
For this reason _Galignani's Messenger_ is a vapid concern. It presents
no thoughts to the reader. It is interesting to the Englishman in Paris,
because it gathers English news, and presents it in the original
language. As there are always a great many Englishmen in Paris, the
journal is tolerably well supported. Then, again, the Paris shop-keepers
and hotel-owners know very well that the English are among their best
customers, and they advertise largely in it. So far as my experience has
gone, I have found the _Messenger_ quite unfair to America. It quotes
from the worst of American journals, and is sure to parade anything that
may be for the disadvantage of American reputation. It also is generally
sure of showing by its quotations its sympathy with "the powers that
be." This may all be natural enough, for it is for their interest to
stand well with the despot who rules France, but to an American, and a
republican, it excites only disgust. At present the _Messenger_ is as
good, or nearly so, as any of the French journals, but when the latter
had liberty to write as they pleased, the contrast between the French
and English press in Paris was ludicrous. In one you had fearless
political writing, wit, and spice. In the other, nothing but selections.
Once, while in Paris, during the days of the republic, I called upon the
editor of one of the prominent French journals. It was a journal which
had again and again paid government fines for the utterance of its
honest sentiments, both under Louis Philippe and the presidency of Louis
Napoleon. Before the revolution it had a very great influence over the
people, and in the days of the so-called republic. The struggle between
it and the government, at that time was continued. Its editor's great
aim was to express as much truth as was possible and escape the
government line, which in the end would suppress the journal.
As I entered the building in which this journal was printed and
published, I felt a kind of awe creeping over me, as if coming into the
presence of a great mind. We entered the editor's office; a little green
baize-covered table by a window, pen and ink, and scissors, indicated
the room. One might indeed tremble in such a place. What greater place
is there in this world than an editor's office, if his journal be one
which sells by tens of thousands and sways a vast number of intelligent
men? A throne-room is nothing in comparison to it. Thrones are
demolished by the journals. Especially in Paris has such been the case.
The liberal press has in past years controlled the French people to a
wonderful extent. Kings and queens have physical power, but here in this
little room was the throne-room of intellect. A door opened out of it
into the printing-room, where the thoughts were stamped upon paper,
afterward to be impressed upon a hundred thousand minds.
The editor sat over his little desk, an earnest, care-worn, yet hopeful
man. His fingers trembled with nervousness, yet his eye was like an
eagle's. He did not stir when we first entered, did not even see us, he
was so deeply absorbed in what lay before him upon his table. I was glad
to watch him for a moment, unobserved. He was no fashionable editor,
made no play of his work. He felt the responsibility of his position,
and endeavored honestly to do his duty. His forehead was high, his eye
black, and his face was very pale. Suddenly he looked up and saw us, and
recognized my friend. It was enough that I was a republican, from
America, and unlike some Americans, abated not a jot of my radicalism
when in foreign countries.
I looked around the room when the first words were spoken, and saw
everywhere files of newspapers, old copy and that which was about to be
given to the printers. It was very much like an editorial apartment in
an American printing office, though in some respects it was different.
It was a gloomy apartment, and it seemed to me that the writings of the
editor must partake somewhat of the character of the room.
We went into the printing-office, where a hundred hands were setting the
"thought-tracks." It seemed as if everyone in the building, from
editor-in-chief down to the devil, was solemn with the thought of his
high and noble avocation. There was a half sadness on every
countenance, for the future was full of gloom. I was struck with the
fact that the office did not seem to me to be a _French_ office. There
was a gravity, a solemnity, not often seen in Paris. The usual
politeness of a Parisian was there, but no gayety, no recklessness.
Anxiety trouble, or fixedness of purpose were written upon almost every
countenance. In one corner lay piled up to the ceilings copies of the
journal, and I half expected to see a band of the police walk in and
seize them. It seemed as if _they_ half expected some such thing, but
they worked on without saying a word. I became at that moment convinced
that a portion of the French people had been wronged by foreigners.
There is a large class who are not only intellectual, but they are
earnest and grave. They do not wish change for the sake of it. They love
liberty and would die for it. Many of this class were murdered in cold
blood by Louis Napoleon. Others were sent to Cayenne, to fall a prey to
a climate cruel as the guillotine, or were sent into strange lands to
beg their bread. These men were the real glory of France, and yet they
were forced to leave it.