Easter-Sunday at Notre Dame.--Archbishop.--View of
Paris.--Victor Hugo.--Hôtel Dieu.--Mr. Jefferson.
It was long ago decided in a committee of the whole house, that on
Easter-Sunday we should attend high mass at Notre Dame. I shall not
soon forget the spectacle that greeted us on entering. Ten thousand
persons, it was said, were on that day assembled in the church; and
its dimensions are so vast, that I have no doubt the statement was
correct, for it was crowded from floor to roof. The effect of the
circular gallery, that at mid-height encompasses the centre aisle,
following as it does the graceful sweep of the chapel behind the
altar, and filled row after row with gaily-dressed company up, as it
seemed, almost to the groining of the roof, was beautiful. The chairs
on this occasion were paid for in proportion to the advantageousness
of the position in which they stood, and by disbursing an extra franc
or two we obtained very good places. The mass was performed with great
splendour. The dresses of the archbishop and his train were
magnificent; and when this splendid, princely-looking personage,
together with his court of dignitaries and priests, paraded the Host
round the church and up the crowded aisle spite of the close-wedged
throng, they looked like a stream of liquid gold, that by its own
weight made way through every obstacle. The archbishop is a mild and
amiable-looking man, and ceased not to scatter blessings from his lips
and sprinkle safety from his fingers'-ends upon the admiring people,
as slowly and gracefully he passed among them.
The latter years of this prelate's life have been signalized by some
remarkable changes. He has seen the glories and the penitences of his
church alike the favourite occupation of his king;--he has seen that
king and his highest nobles walking in holy procession through the
streets of Paris;--he has seen that same king banished from his throne
and his country, a proscribed and melancholy exile, while the pomp and
parade of his cherished faith were forbidden to offend the people's
eyes by any longer pouring forth its gorgeous superstitions into the
streets;--he has seen his own consecrated palace razed to its
foundation, and its very elements scattered to the winds:--and now,
this self-same prelate sees himself again well received at the court
whence Charles Dix was banished; and, stranger still, perhaps, he sees
his startled flock once more assembling round him, quietly and
silently, but steadily and in earnest; while he who, within five
short years, was trembling for his life, now lifts his head again, and
not only in safety, but, with all his former power and pride of place,
is permitted to
"Chanter les _oremus_, faire des processions,
Et répandre à grands flots les bénédictions."
It is true, indeed, that there are no longer any Roman Catholic
processions to be seen in the streets of Paris; but if we look within
the churches, we find that the splendour concentrated there, has lost
nothing of its impressive sumptuousness by thus changing the scene of
its display.
The service of this day, as far as the music was concerned, was in my
opinion infinitely less impressive than that of Good-Friday at St.
Roch. This doubtless arose in a great degree from the style of
composition; but I suspect, moreover, that my imagination was put out
of humour by seeing about fifty fiddlers, with every appearance of
being (what they actually were) the orchestra of the opera, performing
from a space enclosed for them at the entrance of the choir. The
singing men and boys were also stationed in the same unwonted and
unecclesiastical place; and though some of those hired for the
occasion had very fine Italian voices, they had all the air of singing
without "reading the words;" and, on the whole, my ear and my fancy
were disappointed.
Victor Hugo's description of old Paris as seen from the towers of
Notre Dame sent us labouring to their summit. The state of the
atmosphere was very favourable, and I was delighted to find that the
introduction of coal, rapid as its progress has lately been, has not
yet tinged the bright clear air sufficiently to prevent this splendid
panorama from being distinctly seen to its remotest edge. That
impenetrable mass of dun, dull smoke, that we look down upon whenever
a mischievous imp of curiosity lures us to the top of any dome, tower,
or obelisk in London, can hardly fail of making one remember every
weary step which led to the profitless elevation; but one must be
tired indeed to remember fatigue while looking down upon the bright,
warm, moving miniature spread out below the towers of Notre Dame.
What an intricate world of roofs it is!--and how mystically
incomprehensible are the ins and outs, the bridges and the islands, of
the idle Seine! A raft, caught sight of at intervals, bearing wood or
wine; a floating wash-house, with its line of bending naïads, looking
like a child's toy with figures all of a row; and here and there a
floating-bath,--are all this river shows of its power to aid and
assist the magnificent capital which has so strangely chosen to
stretch herself along its banks. When one thinks of the forest of
masts which we see covering whole miles of extent in London, it seems
utterly unintelligible how that which is found needful for the
necessities of one great city should appear so perfectly unnecessary
for another.
Victor Hugo's picture of the scene he has fancied beneath the towers
of Notre Dame in the days of his Esmeralda is sketched with amazing
spirit; though probably Paris was no more like the pretty panorama he
makes of it than Timbuctoo. I heartily wish, however, that he would
confine himself to the representation of still-life, and let his
characters be all of innocent bricks and mortar: for even though they
do look shadowy and somewhat doubtful in the distance, they have
infinitely more nature and truth than can be found among all his
horrible imaginings concerning his fellow-creatures.
His description of the old church itself, too, is delicious: for
though it has little of architectural reality or strict graphic
fidelity about it, there is such a powerful air of truth in every word
he says respecting it, that one looks out and about upon the rugged
stones, and studies every angle, buttress, and parapet, with the
lively interest of old acquaintance.
I should like to have a legend, as fond and lingering in its
descriptions, attached to some of our glorious and mysterious old
Gothic cathedrals at home. This sort of reading gives a pleasure in
which imagination and reality are very happily blended; and I can
fancy nothing more agreeable than following an able romancer up and
down, through and amongst, in and out, the gloomy, shadowy, fanciful,
unintelligible intricacies of such a structure. How well might
Winchester, for instance, with its solemn crypts, its sturdy Saxon
strength, its quaintly-coffined relics of royal bones, its Gothic
shrines, its monumental splendour, and its stately magnitude, furnish
forth the material for some such spirit-stirring record!
Having spent an hour of first-rate interest and gratification in
wandering inside and outside of this very magnificent church, we
crossed the Place, or _Parvis_, of Notre Dame, to see the celebrated
hospital of the Hôtel Dieu. It is very particularly large, clean,
airy, and well-ordered in every way; and I never saw sick people look
less miserable than some scores of men and women did, tucked snugly up
in their neat little beds, and most of them with a friend or relative
at their side to console or amuse them.
The access to the wards of this building is as free as that into a
public bazaar; but there is one caution used in the admission of
company which, before I understood it, puzzled me greatly. There are
three doors at the top of the fine flight of steps which leads to the
building. The centre one is used only as an exit; at the other two are
placed guards, one a male, the other a female. Through these
side-doors all who enter must pass--the men on one side, the women on
the other; and all must submit to be pretty strictly examined, to see
that they are conveying nothing either to eat or drink that might be
injurious to the invalids.
The covered bridge which opens from the back part of the Hôtel Dieu,
connecting _l'Isle de la Cité_ with the left bank of the Seine, with
its light glass roof, and safe shelter from wind, dust, or annoyance
of any kind, forms a delightful promenade for the convalescent.
The evening of this day we spent at a _soirée_, where we met, among
many other pleasant persons, a very sensible and gentlemanlike
American. I had the pleasure of a long conversation with him, during
which he said many things extremely worth listening to. This gentleman
has held many distinguished diplomatic situations, appears to have
acquired a great deal of general information, and moreover to have
given much attention to the institutions and character of his own
country.
He told me that Jefferson had been the friend of his early life; that
he knew his sentiments and opinions on all subjects intimately well,
and much better than those who were acquainted with them no otherwise
than by his published writings. He assured me most positively that
Jefferson was NOT a democrat in principle, but believed it expedient
to promulgate the doctrine, as the only one which could excite the
general feeling of the people, and make them hang together till they
should have acquired strength sufficient to be reckoned as one among
the nations. He said, that Jefferson's ulterior hope for America was,
that she should, after having acquired this strength, give birth to
men distinguished both by talent and fortune; that when this happened,
an enlightened and powerful aristocracy might be hoped for, without
which HE KNEW that no country could be really great or powerful.
As I am assured that the word of this gentleman may be depended on,
these observations--or rather, I should say, statements--respecting
Jefferson appear to me worth noting.