A SCATTERING VIEW OF PARIS.
When an enlightened public sentiment drove the pirates from the high
seas, and compelled them to seek other methods of supplying themselves
with means for the enjoyment of luxury, I am convinced that every one of
them came to Europe, and went into the hotel business. A few of them
might have got hotels in America, but the vast majority came here. I did
come across one at the Gorge de Triente, in Switzerland, who might not
have been a pirate, or, if he was, he was either a mild one, or, being
now very old, is endeavoring to patch up his old body for heaven. I am
inclined to the belief that he was a pirate, but not of the sentimental
order who shed human gore for the love of it; that when his schooner,
the "Mary Jane," captured a prize, he only killed such of her crew as
were necessary, in the action, and after the vessel had surrendered he
did not make the survivors walk the plank for the amusement of his men,
but mercifully set them adrift in an open boat, without water or
provisions. That's the kind of pirate he was. And since he has been a
landlord, he does not take every dollar you have--he leaves you enough
to get to the next bank, where your letter of credit is available. I
shall always remember this landlord. He is an ornament to his sex.
But the first hotel we encountered in Paris had for a landlord one who
must have commanded the long, low, black schooner, "The Terror of the
Seas," who never spared a prisoner, or gave quarter to anybody, but who
hove overboard for the sharks every human being he captured, without
reference to age, sex, or previous condition of servitude. Indeed, I
think that after he was driven from the seas, he took a shy at highway
robbery before taking his hotel in Paris, thus fitting himself
thoroughly for his profession.
"Ze room will be ten francs, messieurs," was the remark of the polite
villain who showed us our apartments.
"_We_, _we_," we cheerfully replied, for the room was worth it. We said
"_we_, _we_," that the gentleman might know that we understood French,
and that he need not unnecessarily strand himself upon the rocks of the
English language.
But the next morning! The bill was made out, and as we glanced at it we
forgave the English landlords--every one of them. Apartment ten francs,
candles, or "bougies," as the barbarous French call them, two and
one-half francs; attendance (we had not seen a servant), two and a half
francs each, five francs. Then there were charges for liquors enough for
Bloss, the American showman, not a particle of which had been ordered or
had been brought to our room, and so on.
We expostulated, but when we commenced that, the clerk began to talk in
French, and as all the French we had between us was "_we_, _we_," he had
rather the advantage. In reply to some question he appeared to be
asking, we said, "_we_, _we_," whereupon he dropped back into English
promptly, and said that inasmuch as we admitted that the bill was right,
why didn't we pay it? That "_we_, _we_" was our ruin.
"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring."
Were we over with it? By no means. As we were ready to file down the
stairs there came to our various rooms more porters than we ever
supposed lived, each of whom seized a piece of baggage, when one might
well have carried it all. We discovered, finally, what that meant. Those
who did not carry baggage stood grinning in the passages, with their
hands extended, and those who did expected each a franc. As we had
passed the concierge, who had certainly been no earthly use to us, his
hand was extended, and to crown the whole and have it lack nothing, a
chambermaid came running to me with a handkerchief which "Monsieur had
left in his room," and out went her hand. The brazen hussy had
abstracted it from my valise, and held it till the last moment, that she
might have some excuse for a gratuity.
[Sidenote: THE USES OF SPECTACLES.]
Tibbitts and the others shed silver freely, but the Professor did not.
Entrenched behind his spectacles he did not catch the eye of one of
them, and he stalked majestically through the lot, turning neither to
the right nor the left till he was safely ensconced in his fiacre. That
pair of spectacles saved him at least their cost that day. I shall wear
them hereafter. They are good for this purpose, and then one behind this
wall of glass can look another man in the eye steadily when he is
enlarging on facts. Spectacles have uses beside aiding the vision.
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR'S SPECTACLES.]
We paid everybody and everything, and departed sadly. No matter how
joyously you enter a French hotel, you walk out to the music, mentally,
of the Dead March in Saul. But what are you going to do about it? You
cannot sleep in the streets, and you must eat, and the pirates have you
in an iron grip, and they realize the strength and impregnability of
their position.
Paris is another octopus, differing from London only in the quality and
style of its feelers. London has been built up by main strength, that
being its characteristic. Paris has as many feelers as London, and they
are perhaps as strong and far-reaching; but they are wrapped in velvet.
It is a rather pleasant thing to be devoured by the French octopus. He
does not rend you limb from limb, like the English one, but he holds you
just as firmly, and sucks your life blood in so delightful a way, that
you rather like the operation.
Paris is the city of luxury. No matter where you go, nor among what
class of people, you see but two things--a vast population catering to
sensualism, and another vast population paying the price for it.
The difference between London and Paris is shown even in its proprietary
medicines. In London the walls groan, or would if they could, under
announcements of liver medicines; in Paris the walls of corresponding
conspicuousness are covered with advertisements of articles for the hair
and complexion. A French woman will get on with almost any kind of a
liver, but she must have hair to her heels, and a complexion that is
faultless. No matter what kind of underclothing she has on, or no matter
if she hasn't any, the outside must be dressed in elegance and taste.
Paris lives largely for the eye.
[Illustration: OLD PARIS.]
[Sidenote: OLD AND NEW PARIS.]
The city is made up of two distinct parts--the old and new. Old Paris,
the Paris of Sue, and Dumas, and Victor Hugo, still exists, and its
people are precisely the same as when these authors wrote of them. You
leave the most splendid streets in the world, wide, and paved like
floors, with enormous rows of palatial structures on either hand, as
modern as modern can be, and in fifteen minutes you are in narrow,
crooked alleys, with the quaint old houses on either hand, six and seven
stories in height, with all sorts of gables, all sorts of deformities in
the matter of walls; with the quaintest and most curious passages, and
paved with the boulders which the Parisian of twenty or thirty years
since found so useful in constructing barricades when they had their
regular monthly revolution. And you see the same men and women who
fought behind these barricades, and who will do it again--the wine shop
politicians, who believe in "liberty, fraternity and equality" to-day,
and accept an empire to-morrow for a change. A Parisian cannot endure
monotony, even in a government.
Possibly he accepts imperialism, now and then, just for the pleasure of
overturning it.
[Illustration: "LIBERTY, FRATERNITY, EQUALITY."]
But the new Paris is quite another thing. All Paris was, not many years
ago, like the portions of the Latin Quarter and the Faubourg St.
Antoine, but the Third Napoleon intended to be Emperor all his life, and
these crooked streets were not good for Imperial artillery, and the
pavements were easily torn up for barricades. So he called to himself
Baron Haussman, the prefect of the Seine, and said, "We will reconstruct
Paris." The Baron, thoroughly devoted to the Emperor, and himself,
called about him the best talent in the world, and the work was begun.
[Illustration: NEW PARIS--BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS.]
[Sidenote: HOW THE NEW PARIS WAS MADE.]
But be it understood that the Baron and the Emperor did not go about
this work carelessly. The Baron, whose ancestors were Israelites, had
all the thrift of that remarkable race, and Napoleon was not much behind
him. Whenever they decided upon tearing down the whole quarter and a
score of crooked streets, and constructing a boulevard wider than the
widest street in New York, they had an agent who, before the design was
made public, went and purchased the entire property at the market rate.
Then came the necessary legal steps for the condemnation of the
property, and the payment therefor by the city. The new owner was
allowed twenty or thirty times for it above what he paid, and vast sums
were by this simple process turned into the Emperor's private exchequer
and added to the already vast estate of the astute Baron.
The Emperor used his share of the plunder in amusing the Parisians, but
the Baron's share is still in his family.
There are Tweeds in every country, but these were greater than our great
peculator. The Emperor Napoleon and Baron Haussman were just as much
greater than Tweed as France is greater than the single city of New
York. But then their opportunities were greater. Had Tweed had a chance
he might have risen to the front rank.
It is perhaps as well for Paris that it had an Emperor, and possibly it
would have been better for the United States had she had a King in her
earlier days. For a republic will never do toward the beautifying a city
or country what an Emperor will. I helped to elect a member of Congress
once, who, finding that a single door in the Capitol at Washington cost
twenty thousand dollars, exclaimed against the extravagance of the
country. "Why," said he, "a good two inch pine plank door, painted
white, with three coats of paint, can be had in Upper Sandusky for eight
dollars, and it would do just as well as this infernal bronze thing
covered all over with figures."
Had Paris been governed by a Congress, the honorable gentlemen from
Normandy, and Savoy, and other out-lying districts, would never have
paid for the wonderfully beautiful boulevards that make Paris the most
beautiful city in the world. The old alleys were good enough for their
fathers, and why not for the present generation?
But the will of a single man did it, and the memory of that man is still
worshiped in Paris. Dead though he be, he wields power in Paris to-day,
and had not his son been so reckless in Africa, the chances are a
hundred to one that he would to-day be occupying his father's throne.
New Paris is made up of beautiful wide boulevards, some of them two
hundred feet wide, with sidewalks at least thirty feet wide on either
side, and lined with shops and cafés, the shops devoted almost entirely
to the sale of articles of luxury.
The cafés are very peculiar. Paris lives, as much as possible, out of
doors, for Paris desires to see and be seen. Therefore, in front of
every café, under tasteful awnings, are chairs and little white sheet
iron tables; there sits Paris, drinking its drinks and eating its light
repasts, from early morning till very late at night.
To an American it is a most peculiar sight. No matter where you go, in
old Paris or new, it is the same, except in the grade of the people. In
old Paris you see blue blouses and calico dresses at these tables, and
in new Paris broadcloth and silk, but the tables are there on the
sidewalk, and the people sitting by them, the same in one as in the
other, and very jolly they are.
[Illustration: THE LOUVRE FROM THE RUE DE RIVOLI.]
[Sidenote: DRINKING IN PARIS.]
Paris is the most temperate city on the globe. There is as great a
quantity of liquids consumed as in London, and perhaps more, but it is a
different kind. The Frenchman drinks the light wines of the country, or
curious compounds of stuff that are as innocent as milk, so far as
intoxication goes. He has syrups something like those the American
druggist uses in his alleged soda water, and he either mixes that with
pure water and makes his heart glad, or, if he is particular about it,
he mixes it with Seltzer water from the gushing syphon. There are vast
varieties of these syrups, but they are all alike except in the matter
of flavor.
Occasionally one rushes to the extreme of dissipation and stupefies
himself with German lager beer, but as a rule it is either wine or these
syrups.
Of course there are French drunkards. The brain-annihilating absinthe
obtains here, and a seductive fluid it is. It is the most innocent
tasting stuff in the world, and does not affect one immediately. And so
the ignorant stranger, on his first introduction to it, takes dose after
dose of it, and goes home wondering why people are so mortally in dread
of absinthe. In the still watches of the night he becomes convinced that
he has been taking something, and the next morning he, or his friends,
are entirely sure of it. For in the morning he is drunk, drunk clear
through, and he generally manages to stay so for some days. Tibbitts,
whose experience I am relating, said it was much cheaper than Oshkosh
whisky, for one night's sitting at absinthe lasted him a week. There is
a vast quantity of absinthe consumed in Paris, but it is done quietly
and in great moderation. An American or foreigner who likes it drinks it
immoderately, and pays the penalty of his folly. The Frenchman knows
exactly how much is safe for him, and very rarely exceeds his limit.
I have seen but one drunken man in Paris, and he was either an
Englishman, or an American who had been long enough in London to get
spoiled. He spoke English, and from the style of his clothes I should
take him for an Englishman, but there was an especial wobble in his step
that proclaimed the American. I have seen the same a great many times in
my beloved country.
Drunkenness is impossible on these innocent liquids. The wine of the
country is consumed everywhere and in large quantities, and its use by
all ages and sexes is unrestricted.
It is on every table for breakfast and dinner, and is everywhere the
substitute for tea and coffee. Containing as it does a very small
proportion of alcohol, and as that is diluted fully a half with water,
it cannot be a very dangerous beverage. At all events, the French--men,
women, and children,--drink
[Illustration: A BOULEVARD CAFÉ--OUTSIDE.]
[Sidenote: WINE AND WHISKY.]
it in great quantities at all hours, and intoxication does not ensue.
Outdoor sitting is made possible by the harmlessness of their accustomed
drinks. The climate of New York is well adapted to this sort of thing,
but were Broadway lined with these cafés, with the public sitting at
the small tables, how long would it be before a gang of ruffians, filled
with the frightful whisky of the country, would swoop down upon them and
scatter tables and people. A gang from the Bowery, filled with the
fighting whisky of America, or the soul-searing brandy of the British
land, turned loose upon the Boulevard des Italiens, or any other
boulevard in Paris, would occasion as much terror as a Communist
insurrection. But with the light wines of France, and the quiet
pleasure-seeking and pleasure-enjoying disposition of the Parisian,
everything is as quiet and orderly as could be desired.
[Illustration: A COSTUME BY WORTH--THAT COSTS.]
There cannot be in city life any sight so bewilderingly gorgeous or so
delightful as the boulevards, either by day or night. The streets are
lined with beautiful trees, and then the shops and cafés are exquisitely
beautiful, as are their contents. As I said, the shops are almost
entirely devoted to the sale of articles of luxury, for the Frenchman,
acute being that he is, discovered thousands of years ago, that a profit
of five hundred per cent. may be made upon articles of fancy; while the
dealer in things essential, which may not be dispensed with--articles of
prime necessity--obtains a beggarly ten or twenty. He learned centuries
since that Madame will pay any price for a hat that pleases her taste,
and do it without question, while she will haggle an hour over the price
of twenty pounds of sugar or a cut of beef. He who deals in necessities
must find his reward in the consciousness of honesty. His customers will
not let him be anything else.
[Illustration: A MAGAZINE ON THE BOULEVARD.]
[Sidenote: THOMPSON, OF TERRE HAUTE.]
You shall see shop windows filled with jewels that might well hang about
the neck of royalty--indeed, so costly that only he or she who has an
empire to tax can afford them--shops devoted to the sale of pipes, the
price of which, some of them, go up into thousands of francs; galleries
of pictures, magazines of bronzes, and all kinds and descriptions of
statuary, and the thousands upon thousands of costly nothings with
which rich people adorn their homes. Artistic paper hangings, ornamental
work in leathers, and every other material; shops for the sale of
everything that is ornamental in women's wear, and, in a word,
everything that delights the eye, but which humanity, but for its vanity
and longing for the beautiful, could do without as well as not.
And an enormous trade these caterers to the non-useful carry on. The
whole world comes to Paris for these things, and they bring their money
with them for this purpose and expect to spend it.
Woe to the American, man or woman, who ventures into these shops. The
shopman knows the moment he enters that the coming victim who is rushing
upon his doom is an American; he knows that he has so much money to
leave with him, and no matter how much knowledge he affects, that he is
as ignorant of the real value of his wares as a babe unborn.
What should the citizen of Terre Haute, Ind., know of the value of
bronzes? Nothing, whatever. But he has just made a good speculation in
pork, and he has built him a two-story house, with a Mansard roof on it,
and has furnished it gorgeously with upholstered chairs, and on his
floors he has laid Brussels carpets, and his wife and he are taking
their first visit "abroad." Mrs. Thompson is determined to astonish her
female friends and excite their envy with some "statoos" from "Paree,"
and she is going to do it. The pair look critically through the
assortment. They object to the Venus of Milo, because the arms are
lacking, and are surprised that an imperfect sort of second-hand work of
art of that kind can't be had at a reduced price. The price of a picture
takes their breath away, and Mr. Thompson suggests that a few pairs of
chromos can be had a great deal cheaper, and he thinks they will make a
better show than the paintings that are shown them. Perhaps he is right,
when the paintings that are shown him are critically considered. But
Mrs. T. will have none of the chromo business. She will have some works
of art from "Paree," and Mr. T., fired with ambition, assents, and the
"works of art" are bought and paid for at anywhere from four to ten
times their value, and they retire with them grieved and yet
satisfied--grieved at the hole the purchase has made in their
pocket-book, and satisfied to think what a sensation the purchase will
make when they are displayed in their home in the West. Thompson
anticipates the pleasure of calling the attention of his guests to these
wonders, and remarking casually, as though he were a regular patron of
art, "Oh, them! They are a few little things I bought in Paree, the last
time I was over. They are nothing. I only paid four thousand francs for
the pair. I shall buy more when I go over again. I really hadn't time to
look around."
And then Mrs. T. must have a Parisian watch, and some jewelry, and the
dealer sells them to her at a very large advance over what a Parisian
would pay, and when they are gone, loaded with their absurd purchases,
he falls upon his knees and prays for good crops in America, and a more
plentiful rush of visitors. They are his wheat fields.
[Illustration: MR. THOMPSON'S ART PURCHASES.]
The difference between the English and French is admirably illustrated
by two incidents somewhat similar in nature. It was our fortune to be in
London on the occasion of the celebration of the Queen's birthday, a
time that is always made a general holiday by all classes. Business was
suspended, and every one gave himself up to pleasure--the kind of
amusement that the Londoner considers pleasure. The bands were out, the
military paraded, and all the parks were filled with people in holiday
attire.
[Sidenote: A HOLIDAY IN LONDON.]
As the afternoon wore on it became apparent that there was some agency
at work aside from devotion to royalty. There was a boisterousness that
savored of strong beer and still stronger gin. The crowd of men and
women who thronged the Strand and Regent street, and Piccadilly, laughed
and shouted, not with the merry ring of pure pleasure, but with the
maudlin utterances of semi-drunkenness.
In the evening there was a grand illumination of the government
buildings, the clubs and the prominent business houses. The streets were
thronged with people--men, women, and children--all elbowing their way
along, eager to see all that was to be seen, and willing to give no one
an opportunity they themselves could not enjoy. It was a motley crowd,
composed of all classes. The well-dressed shopman was jostled by the
ragpicker; and ragged, homeless girls, arm in arm, shoved aside the
elderly matron, who had come out with her children to see the
illuminations. There were all classes and conditions of people, and they
raved and tore about more like escaped lunatics than the staid, sober
Britons they pride themselves upon being.
A walk down Pall Mall was almost worth one's life. On this thoroughfare
are located the principal clubs of London, and as they were rather
brilliantly lighted with gas jets arranged in fanciful designs, the
crowd flocked there to see them. The street was actually packed from
curb to curb, so that locomotion was difficult. The illuminations were
not on a scale grand enough to merit all this outpouring of people, this
great hubbub, this drunkenness and gin-incited hilarity. For the most
part the designs were simply the English coat of arms, with the letters
"V. R." on each side, the whole being done in plain gas jets.
Occasionally some thriving shop-keeper, who had made a little something
from the Royal family, would branch out a little more extensively, and
use tiny glass shades of different colors, over his gas. But it was
dreary beyond measure. The streets were dark and gloomy, the air was
close, and the so-called illuminations were so very, very meager that
they made the general effect only more dismal.
Yet the people surged up and down the streets, hurrahing and shouting
for the Queen, for the Prince of Wales, for the Royal family, for
themselves, for anybody they could think of. The public houses were open
long after other places of business were closed, and there was a
constant stream of thirsty people gliding from behind the half-closed
doors out upon the street to yell until another dram became necessary.
The customers were not limited to the sterner sex by any manner of
means. There were crowds of young girls ranging from fourteen to twenty,
poor working girls, who had saved all of their scant earnings they could
in anticipation of this holiday, who boldly pushed their way with a
coarse laugh, through the crowd of men and, standing at the bar, would
call for and drink their bitter beer, or ale, or stout, or gin, even,
with all the effrontery of an old toper. And old women there were too,
who would quietly glide into the compartments marked "private bar," and
there drink their brandy or Irish whisky. Throughout it all there seemed
to be a dogged determination to become intoxicated, just as though there
could be no pleasure, the Queen's birthday could not be celebrated
properly, unless every one filled himself up with ardent spirits.
As it grew later, the crowds increased both in size and disorder.
Notwithstanding the fact that most of the illuminations had been
extinguished, the masses had had a taste, and they wanted more. They
became momentarily ruder and more boisterous. As the time approached for
the closing of the publics, the crowd received fresh installments of the
worse class of women, and then drunken women tried to do worse than the
drunken men, and they succeeded. A woman thoroughly under the influence
of liquor is something simply terrible to see, and here we saw it. On
that night the air rang with their ribald jokes and coarse songs, as
they jostled each other in their unsteady walk.
[Sidenote: A HOLIDAY IN PARIS.]
This, it must be remembered, is not a scene that occurred down in
Cheapside, or in the Seven Dials, or the streets down near the river.
No, indeed. Pall Mall, one of the most aristocratic streets in London,
Regent street, the Broadway of London, Piccadilly, the Haymarket, these
were the scenes of this frightful display, and evidently nothing was
thought of it. The police made no arrests, and did not seem to know that
there was anything occurring that was not perfectly allowable and
justifiable. So the wild debauch went on all night, and it was not until
the gray light made its appearance in the east that the city quieted
down and the streets no longer echoed with the maudlin cries of the host
of people who celebrated in their own peculiar style the anniversary of
their Queen's birthday.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN PARTY OUTSIDE A CAFÉ ON THE BOULEVARD.]
How entirely different was the grand National fête of France on the 14th
of July. This, too, is made a day for general rejoicing and
merry-making, and the French people get out of it all that is to be
had. For days before, active preparations for the event are made, flags
and streamers of the colored bunting are put up all over the city,
elaborate designs in gas jets are prepared; fountains erected; electric
lights put up; in a word, everything is done that can in the slightest
way add to the brilliancy of the beautiful city, whose white buildings
make it bright and cheerful at all times.
On the night of the 13th it was apparent that something was about to
occur, for the streets, the broad, brilliantly lighted boulevards, were
crowded with people, all of them full of life and animation. The great
stores, with their glass fronts, were literally ablaze with lights; the
gaily decorated cafés with their inviting tables on the broad sidewalks,
were filled with people sipping wine, or coffee, and discussing with the
animation and vivacity that a Frenchman only possesses, the attractions
of the morrow. All along the principal boulevards electric lights were
suspended high in the air, while in the Place de Concorde, and out the
Champs Elysées, were thousands of brilliant clusters of gas jets, making
the night seem day. The crowds swayed hither and thither with one
impulse, to see everything, yet there was no departure from decorum.
Everybody was happy. But it was the happiness that comes of a sense of
pleasure, from bright and beautiful surroundings, and the knowledge that
every one else is happy. There was no sign of drunkenness; there was no
rowdyism; there was nothing suggestive even of offensiveness. Everybody
was gay and merry. There were songs and hearty peals of laughter, but it
was pure and wholesome, something that one could participate in with all
his heart.
[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL FÊTE.]
The morning of the 14th dawned with a bright, clear sky, and the sun
came up with a serenity that augured well for the fête. During the
night, while all Paris slept, busy workmen put the finishing touches on
the decorations, and when all business suspended, Paris turned out to
see itself, there was a general murmur of approval at the beautiful
sights displayed everywhere. The houses along the streets were almost
hidden by flags and banners and streamers; the statues were decorated;
high staffs that were not visible the day before, now floated long
streamers; the parks and gardens were in holiday attire. Paris was
arrayed in gorgeous dress, and every one went in for a day of rare
pleasure.
At all the theaters, including the Grand Opera, free performances were
given during the afternoon, and there were all sorts of entertainments
provided by the government for the amusement of the populace. In various
quarters of the city platforms were erected, and all during that warm
afternoon the working classes danced to the music of superb orchestras,
which were furnished to them without money and without cost.
[Illustration: THE AVENUE DE L'OPÉRA
From the Loggia of the Opera House.]
But when evening came the fête was seen to its best advantage. As it
grew dark the whole city blazed with light. There were millions of
lanterns of every possible color, hanging from every point that could
hold a support. Electric lights flashed from every corner, and gas jets
blazed everywhere. The Boulevard des Italiens, from the Madelaine to the
Bastille, was as light as though a noonday sun were pouring down upon
it. And so with the other large thoroughfares, while the different
_quartiers_ had illuminations of their own, each of which was
wonderfully brilliant.
The one particular place that eclipsed all others was the two mile
stretch from the Tuileries to the Arch of Triumph, and then on to the
Bois de Boulogne. The straight promenade through the Tuileries garden
was lined on either side with a high trestle work, literally covered
with fanciful designs wrought in gas, while high arches of brilliant
flame intersected it at regular intervals.
The Place de Concorde was a marvel of beauty. All around the immense
square were hung festoons of gas jets, while all the statues of the
different cities of France that ornament each corner, were thrown into
bold relief by brilliant lights on the limpid water of the fountain in
the center; different colored lights were thrown during the evening, the
effect being wondrously beautiful.
[Illustration: CAFÉ CONCERTS--CHAMPS ELYSÉES.]
[Sidenote: JOLLITY AND PATRIOTISM.]
Standing in the center of the place, and looking towards the arch, the
sight was simply marvelous. Nowhere in the world but in Paris could such
a thing be seen. The broad avenue, Champs Elysées, rising with a gentle
slope, was lined its whole distance on both sides with a stream of
light, that drooped gracefully from cluster to cluster, all the way
out, as far as the eye could reach. Then the concert cafés which abound
on either side, made unusual displays, swinging lines of light from tree
to tree and café to café, till the effect was dazzling, and one really
had to stop to realize that he was here on earth and not in some fairy
land.
The Bois de Boulogne, always beautiful, with its charming lakes, long
winding drives, its parks, tiny brooks and picturesque café, was
unusually brilliant that night. On the shores of the lake large set
pieces of fire works were displayed, while bands of music in odd looking
gondolas blazing with colored fires, furnished exquisite music. The
paths and carriage-ways were lined with small set pieces, which,
together with the constantly burning colored fires, produced an effect
that was grandly weird. All Paris was one blaze of light. And all night
long the people of Paris and all France were on the streets enjoying the
rare sight. After nine o'clock carriages were compelled to keep off the
principal boulevards and streets, so densely were they packed with
people. The Champs Elysées from ten o'clock was one surging mass of
people--men, women and children--returning from the Bois. From curb to
curb was one solid mass of humanity, and such a jolly good-natured crowd
was never seen before. They sang patriotic songs, and laughed and joked,
and had a good time generally. Now and then there would come down the
street a small procession of students, wearing grotesque caps, each
student bearing a Chinese lantern. They sang funny songs, and chaffed
those that passed. But there was not a single display of temper.
Everybody took everything in good part, and every one was superlatively
happy.
During all that long day and still longer night, not a single case of
drunkenness did I see, and during that time I was in a great many
different places, and would have seen it had there been any. There was
fun and frolic on every side. But it was the overflow of exuberant
spirits, and not the outgrowth of too much wine and beer and liquor. In
no city in England, nor, I am afraid, in America, could there be so
gigantic a celebration, so much fun and hilarity, with so little
drunkenness and so few disturbances. Verily, the French, insincere and
superficial as they are, know how to get the most enjoyment out of
life. They have all the fun the Anglo-Saxon has, without the subsequent
horror.
Foreign travel is of a vast amount of use to a great many people. Coming
from Dieppe to Paris there were seated in our compartment two ladies
with their husbands, who were in New York, bankers, one regular and the
other faro, and both with loads of money. The wife of the faro banker
was arrayed in the most gorgeous and fearfully expensive apparel, with a
No. 6 foot in a No. 4 shoe. The other lady _was_ a lady, and she really
desired to see something of the country she was traveling through. The
faro bankeress talked to her from Dieppe to St. Lazarre station, and
this was about what she said:--
"You never saw anything so perfectly lovely as the children's ball last
year at the Academy of Music. My little girl, Lulu, you saw her at the
school--she goes to the same school with your Minnie, only Lulu isn't
studying anything but French and geography now. I want her to get to be
perfect in French, because it will be such a comfort to travel with her,
and see things, and not be entirely dependent upon your maid--we have a
maid with us, but, of course, we have her travel third-class--not for
the difference in the expense, for we don't have to economize--but you
know it won't do to have your servants too close to you; they get to
presuming upon their privileges, and you must make them know their
place. Oh, how I wish we had a monarchy or something of the kind in
America, so that we could be divided up into classes, and not be
compelled to mix with the lower orders."
[I may as well remark here that this fine lady was originally a
McFadden; that she came to America in the steerage, and was a
chambermaid in a boarding-house, where she first met her husband, who
was a brisk young bar-tender, who finally got a bar of his own, which
gradually blossomed into a faro bank. The maid was a thoroughly educated
and refined young lady, who was compelled by poverty to take a position
of this kind.]
[Sidenote: THE TALK OF THE FARO BANKERESS.]
"Well, Monsieur Bigwig, the dancing teacher, you know of him. He was a
Russian or a Prussian, or one of them people. Why, he has taught the
children of all the kings in Europe--the little princesses; but he came
to America and has three schools in New York and one in Brooklyn, and he
is perfectly splendid. Dodworth isn't nothing beside him for giving
dancing lessons. Monsieur was a great friend of Lulu's, and showed her a
great deal of attention, and paid her a great many compliments. When a
new pupil came in he used to take Lulu and dance with her to show the
new one the step, Lulu danced so prettily, and was altogether too sweet
for anything. And at his ball he had one tableau of four little girls
representing Spring, Autumn, Summer, and Winter, and he came to my house
and gave me the choice of characters for dear Lulu. I remember he came
to the house to do it, because he took dinner with us that day, and my
husband lent him fifty dollars. Well, I selected 'Winter' for Lulu, for
I could dress her warmer in that character than in any of the others,
and the dear child is delicate; she is so spirituelle, and I had for her
a costume which was altogether too sweet for anything. She had on a
dress--"
"Oh heavens! do look at that beautiful valley," exclaimed the unwilling
listener.
There was a valley spread out before us, so entirely perfect in its soft
loveliness that it was worth a voyage across the Atlantic to see it. The
faro bankeress glanced out of the window, and with the remark, "It's
altogether too lovely for anything," went on without a moment's pause:--
"I had a dress made of a white material that represented ice, with
little balls of white down to represent snow balls all over it, and
furs, the edges trimmed with down, and a little crown upon her head,
with points like icicles, and the same things tacked onto the bottom of
her outer skirt, and her hair powdered so as to be like snow, and she
was the Ice Queen, and had a retinoo of ice men, twelve little boys with
ice axes, and she was drawn in on a sled by two boys dressed like
reindeers, and in front of the reindeers was two little boys dressed
like bears, and it was altogether too sweet for anything. I don't know
how the other little girls were dressed, but everybody looked at Lulu;
and then, after they four had made the circuit of the Academy (it was
all floored over), they formed in the center and danced a dance which
Monsieur had arranged for them, and Lulu danced too sweet for anything.
Everybody said to me that she was the sweetest little girl in the ball.
Where did you get that lace? I got some in Paris last year; we go abroad
every year; we are tired of Saratoga; we have been going there so long
that it is an old story, and then you have to meet all sorts of people
there, and I don't like it. I don't suppose it is just right, but I do
wish we could have a monarchy, so that the better classes could be more
select. That lace was altogether the sweetest thing I ever saw, and it
cost less than half it would in New York, and then--"
[Illustration: THE FARO BANKERESS ADMIRING THE VILLAGE.]
"What a delightful village this is, and how quaint! Do look at it!" This
from the actual lady.
There was the same quick sweep of the head by the lady of laces, with
the regular remark: "Yes; it's altogether too sweet for anything," and
she resumed:--
[Sidenote: TRAVEL AND DRY GOODS.]
"Now when we get to Paris I do so want you to go with me. I can show you
where you can get laces and everything for half you pay in New York. And
hosiery! Well now. I always buy five dozen pairs of silk stockings in
Paris. And gloves! You can get kid gloves in Paris for almost nothing,
and all you have to do not to pay duties is to put them on once and
swear they have been worn. I always spend my last day in Paris putting
on and off gloves. And children's clothes! Let me see; you have a little
boy, and so have I. Is yours in pants yet, or is he in kilts? Mine is in
pants, but I hated to take him out of kilts; he was altogether too
sweet for anything in them. With a broad white collar, and lace about
his wrists, and little black shoes, and red stockings, with a Highland
cap and feather in it, just like a Highland chieftain and--"
At this point the train stopped at a station, and our party got into
another compartment. I pitied the lady who had to stay, but
self-preservation is the first law of nature. I should not like to be
with her on a steamboat, where escape would be impossible. Travel does
her a power of good. But heavens! how many like her are strewing their
gabble all over the continent!
[Illustration]