Although this triumphal arch cannot be compared to the preceding in
magnificence, it was nevertheless executed by the same artists,
having been erected in 1674. It is pierced with three openings, the
centre one of which is eighteen feet wide, and the two others nine.
The whole structure, which is fifty-four feet both in height and
breadth, is rusticated, and in the spandles of the arch are four
bas-reliefs; the two towards the city represent the capture of
Besançon, and the rupture of the triple alliance; and those towards
the faubourg, the capture of Lomberg, and the defeat of the Germans
under the emblem of an eagle repulsed by the god of war. These
bas-reliefs are crowned by an entablature of the Doric order,
surmounted by an attic. The _Porte St. Martin_ is the grand
entrance into Paris from all parts of Flanders.
At the west extremity of this _North_ Boulevard, facing the _Rue de
la Concorde_, stands an unfinished church, called _La Magdeleine_,
whose cemetery received not only the bodies of Lewis XVI, his
consort, and his sister, but of the greater part of the victims that
perished by guillotine.
In the space comprised between _La Magdeleine_ and the _Vieille Rue
du Temple_, I speak within compass when I say that there are
sometimes to be seen fifty ambulating conjurers of both sexes. They
all vary the form of their art. Some have tables, surmounted by
flags, bearing mysterious devices; some have wheels, with
compartments adapted to every age and profession--One has a robe
charged with hieroglyphics, and tells you your fortune through a long
tube which conveys the sound to your ear; the other makes you choose
in a parcel, a square piece of white paper, which becomes covered
with characters at the moment when it is thrown into a jug that
appears empty. The secret of this is as follows:
The jug contains a little sulphuret of potash, and the words are
written with acetite of lead. The action of the exterior air, on, the
sulphuret of potash, disengages from it sulphurated hydrogen gas,
which, acting on the oxyd of lead, brings to view the characters that
before were invislble.
Here, the philosophic Parisians stop before the movable stall of an
astrologer, who has surmounted it with an owl, as an emblem of his
magic wisdom. Many of them take this animal for a curiosity imported
from foreign countries; for they are seldom able to distinguish a bat
from a swallow.
"Does that bird come from China, my dear?" says a lusty dame to her
elderly husband, a shopkeeper of the _Rue St. Denis_.--"I don't know,
my love," replies the other.--"What eyes it has got," continues she;
"it must see a great deal better than we." "No;" cries a countryman
standing by; "though its eyes are so big, it can't, in broad day,
tell a cow from a calf."
The lady continues her survey of the scientific repository; and the
conjurer, with an air of importance, proposes to her to draw, for two
_sous_, a motto from Merlin's wheel. "Take one, my dear," says the
husband; "I wish to know whether you love me." The wife blushes and
hesitates; the husband insists; she refuses, and is desirous of
continuing her walk, saying that it is all foolishness.--"What if it
is?" rejoins the husband, "I've paid, so take a motto to please me."
For this once, the lady is quite at a nonplus; she at last consents,
and, with a trembling hand, draws a card from the magic wheel: the
husband unrolls it with eagerness and confidence, and reads these
words: "_My young lover is and will be constant_."--"What the devil
does this mean?" exclaims the old husband; quite disconcerted.
--"'Tis a mistake," says the conjurer; "the lady put her hand into
the wrong box; she drew the motto from the wheel for _young girls_,
instead of that for _married women_. Let _Madame_ draw again, she
shall pay nothing more."--"No, Mr. Conjurer," replies the shopkeeper,
"that's enough. I've no faith in such nonsense; but another time,
madam, take care that you don't put your hand into the wrong box."
The fat lady, with her face as red as fire, follows her husband, who
walks off grumbling, and it is easy to see, by their gestures, that
the fatal motto has sown discord in the family, and confirmed the
shopkeeper's suspicions.
Independently of these divers into futurity, the corners of streets
and walls of public squares, are covered with hand-bills announcing
books containing secrets, sympathetic calculations of numbers in the
lottery, the explanation of dreams in regard to those numbers,
together with the different manners of telling fortunes, and
interpreting prognostics.
At all times, the marvellous has prevailed over simple truth, and the
Cumæan Sibyl attracted the inquisitive in greater crowds than
Socrates, Plato, or any philosopher, had pupils in the whole course
of their existence.
In Paris, the sciences are really making a rapid progress,
notwithstanding the fooleries of the pseudo-philosophers, who parade
the streets, and here, on the _Boulevards_, as well as in other parts
of the town, exhibit lessons of physics.
One has an electrifying machine, and phials filled with phosphorus:
for two _sous_, he gives you a slight shock, and makes you a present
of a small phial.
Farther on, you meet with a _camera obscura_, whose effect surprises
the spectators the more, as the objects represented within it have
the motion which they do not find in common optics.
There, you see a double refracting telescope: for two _sous_, you
enjoy its effect. At either end, you place any object whatever, and
though a hat, a board, or a child be introduced between the two
glasses, the object placed appears not, on that account, the less
clear and distinct to the eye of the person looking through the
opposite glass. _Pierre_ has seen, and cannot believe his eyes:
_Jacques_ wishes to see, and, on seeing, is in ecstacy: next comes
_Fanchon_, who remains stupified. Enthusiasm becomes general, and the
witnesses of their delirium are ready to go mad at not having two
_sous_ in their pocket.
Another fellow, in short, has a microscope, of which he extols the
beauty, and, above all, the effects: he will not describe the causes
which produce them, because he is unacquainted with them; but,
provided he adapts his lessons to the understanding of those who
listen to him, this is all he wants. Sometimes he may be heard to say
to the people about him: "Gentlemen, give me a creeping insect, and
for one _sou_, I will shew it to you as big as my fist." Sometimes
too, unfortunately for him, the insect which he requires is more
easily found among part of his auditors, than the money.
P.S. For the preceding account of the Parisian conjurers I am
indebted to M. Pujoulx.