The Gardens of the Tuileries.--Legitimatist.--Republican.--
Doctrinaire.--Children.--Dress of the Ladies.--Of the
Gentlemen.--Black Hair.--Unrestricted Admission.--Anecdote.
Is there anything in the world that can be fairly said to resemble the
Gardens of the Tuileries? I should think not. It is a whole made up of
so many strongly-marked and peculiar features, that it is not probable
any other place should be found like it. To my fancy, it seems one of
the most delightful scenes in the world; and I never enter there,
though it is long since the enchantment of novelty made any part of
the charm, without a fresh feeling of enjoyment.
The _locale_ itself, independent of the moving throng which for ever
seems to dwell within it, is greatly to my taste: I love all the
detail of its embellishment, and I dearly love the bright and happy
aspect of the whole. But on this subject I know there are various
opinions: many talk with distaste of the straight lines, the clipped
trees, the formal flower-beds, the ugly roofs,--nay, some will even
abuse the venerable orange-trees themselves, because they grow in
square boxes, and do not wave their boughs in the breeze like so many
ragged willow-trees.
But I agree not with any one of these objections; and should think it
as reasonable, and in as good taste, to quarrel with Westminster Abbey
because it did not look like a Grecian temple, as to find fault with
the Gardens of the Tuileries because they are arranged like French
pleasure-grounds, and not like an English park. For my own part, I
profess that I would not, if I had the power, change even in the least
degree a single feature in this pleasant spot: enter it at what hour
or at what point I will, it ever seems to receive me with smiles and
gladness.
We seldom suffer a day to pass without refreshing our spirits by
sitting for a while amidst its shade and its flowers. From the part of
the town where we are now dwelling, the gate opposite the Place
Vendôme is our nearest entrance; and perhaps from no point does the
lively beauty of the whole scene show itself better than from beneath
the green roof of the terrace-walk, to which this gate admits us.
To the right, the dark mass of unshorn trees, now rich with the flowers
of the horse-chesnut, and growing as boldly and as loftily as the most
English-hearted gardener could desire, leads the eye through a very
delicious "continuity of shade" to the magnificent gate that opens
upon the Place Louis-Quinze. To the left is the widely-spreading
façade of the Tuileries Palace, the ungraceful elevation of the
pavilion roofs, well nigh forgotten, and quite atoned for by the
beauty of the gardens at their feet. Then, just where the shade of the
high trees ceases, and the bright blaze of sunshine begins, what
multitudes of sweet flowers are seen blushing in its beams! An
universal lilac bloom seems at this season to spread itself over the
whole space; and every breeze that passes by, comes to us laden with
perfume. My daily walk is almost always the same,--I love it so well
that I do not like to change it. Following the shady terrace by which
we enter to the point where it sinks down to the level of the
magnificent esplanade in front of the palace, we turn to the right,
and endure the splendid brightness till we reach the noble walk
leading from the gateway of the centre pavilion, through flowers,
statues, orange-trees, and chesnut-groves, as far as the eye can
reach, till it reposes at last upon the lofty arch of the Barrière de
l'Etoile.
This _coup-d'oeil_ is so beautiful, that I constantly feel renewed
pleasure when I look upon it. I do indeed confess myself to be one of
those "who in trim gardens take their pleasure." I love the studied
elegance, the carefully-selected grace of every object permitted to
meet the pampered eye in such a spot as this. I love these
fondly-nurtured princely exotics, the old orange-trees, ranged in
their long stately rows; and better still do I love the marble groups,
that stand so nobly, sometimes against the bright blue sky, and
sometimes half concealed in the dark setting of the trees. Everything
seems to speak of taste, luxury, and elegance.
Having indulged in a lingering walk from the palace to the point at
which the sunshine ceases and the shade begins, a new species of
interest and amusement awaits us. Thousands of chairs scattered just
within the shelter of this inviting covert are occupied by an
interminable variety of pretty groups.
I wonder how many months of constant attendance there, it would take
before I should grow weary of studying the whole and every separate
part of this bright picture? It is really matchless in beauty as a
spectacle, and unequalled in interest as a national study. All Paris
may in turn be seen and examined there; and nowhere is it so easy to
distinguish specimens of the various and strongly-marked divisions of
the people.
This morning we took possession of half a dozen chairs under the trees
which front the beautiful group of Pelus and Aria. It was the hour
when all the newspapers are in the greatest requisition; and we had
the satisfaction of watching the studies of three individuals, each of
whom might have sat as a model for an artist who wished to give an
idea of their several peculiarities. We saw, in short, beyond the
possibility of doubt, a royalist, a doctrinaire, and a republican,
during the half-hour we remained there, all soothing their feelings by
indulging in two sous' worth of politics, each in his own line.
A stiff but gentleman-like old man first came, and having taken a
journal from the little octagon stand--which journal we felt quite
sure was either "La France" or "La Quotidienne"--he established
himself at no great distance from us. Why it was that we all felt so
certain of his being a legitimatist I can hardly tell you, but not one
of the party had the least doubt about it. There was a quiet,
half-proud, half-melancholy air of keeping himself apart; an
aristocratical cast of features; a pale care-worn complexion; and a
style of dress which no vulgar man ever wore, but which no rich one
would be likely to wear to-day. This is all I can record of him: but
there was something pervading his whole person too essentially loyal
to be misunderstood, yet too delicate in its tone to be coarsely
painted. Such as it was, however, we felt it quite enough to make the
matter sure; and if I could find out that old gentleman to be either
doctrinaire or republican, I never would look on a human countenance
again in order to discover what was passing within.
The next who approached us we were equally sure was a republican: but
here the discovery did little honour to our discernment; for these
gentry choose to leave no doubt upon the subject of their _clique_,
but contrive that every article contributing to the appearance of the
outward man shall become a symbol and a sign, a token and a stigma, of
the madness that possesses them. He too held a paper in his hand, and
without venturing to approach too nearly to so alarming a personage,
we scrupled not to assure each other that the journal he was so
assiduously perusing was "Le Réformateur."
Just as we had decided what manner of man it was who was stalking so
majestically past us, a comfortable-looking citizen approached in the
uniform of the National Guard, who sat himself down to his daily
allowance of politics with the air of a person expecting to be well
pleased with what he finds, but nevertheless too well contented with
himself and all things about him to care over-much about it. Every
line of this man's jocund face, every curve of his portly figure,
spoke contentment and well-being. He was probably one of that very new
race in France, a tradesman making a rapid fortune. Was it possible to
doubt that the paper in his hand was "Le Journal des Débats?" was it
possible to believe that this man was other than a prosperous
doctrinaire?
[Illustration: Drawn & Etched by A. Hervieu.
MORNING AT THE TUILERIES.
London, Published by Richard Bentley, 1835.]
Thus, on the neutral ground furnished by these delightful gardens,
hostile spirits meet with impunity, and, though they mingle not,
enjoy in common the delicious privileges of cool shade, fresh air,
and the idle luxury of an _al fresco_ newspaper, in the midst of a
crowded and party-split city, with as much certainty of being
unchallenged and uninterrupted as if each were wandering alone in a
princely domain of his own.
Such, too, as are not over splenetic may find a very lively variety of
study in watching the ways of the little dandies and dandiesses who,
at some hours of the day, swarm like so many hummingbirds amidst the
shade and sunshine of the Tuileries. Either these little French
personages are marvellously well-behaved, or there is some
superintending care which prevents screaming; for I certainly never
saw so many young things assembled together who indulged so rarely in
that salutary exercise of the lungs which makes one so often tremble
at the approach of
"Soft infancy, that nothing can, but cry."
The costumes of these pretty creatures contribute not a little to the
amusement; it is often so whimsical as to give them the appearance of
miniature maskers. I have seen little fellows beating a hoop in the
full uniform of a National Guard; others waddling under the mimicry of
kilted Highlanders; and small ladies without number in every possible
variety of un-babylike apparel.
The entertainment to be derived from sitting in the Tuileries Gardens
and studying costume is, however, by no means confined to the junior
part of the company. In no country have I ever seen anything
approaching in grotesque habiliments to some of the figures daily and
hourly met lounging about these walks. But such vagaries are confined
wholly to the male part of the population; it is very rare to see a
woman outrageously dressed in any way; and if you do, the chances are
five hundred to one that she is not a Frenchwoman. An air of quiet
elegant neatness is, I think, the most striking characteristic of the
walking costume of the French ladies. All the little minor finishings
of the female toilet appear to be more sedulously cared for than the
weightier matters of the pelisse and gown. Every lady you meet is
_bien chaussée_, _bien gantée_. Her ribbons, if they do not match her
dress, are sure to accord with it; and for all the delicate garniture
that comes under the care of the laundress, it should seem that Paris
alone, of all the earth, knows how to iron.
The whimsical caprices of male attire, on the contrary, defy anything
like general remark; unless, indeed, it be that the air of Paris
appears to have the quality of turning all the _imperials_, _favoris_,
and _moustaches_ which dwell within its walls to jetty blackness. At a
little distance, the young men have really the air of having their
faces tied up with black ribbon as a cure for the mumps; and, handsome
as this dark _chevelure_ is generally allowed to be, the heavy
uniformity of it at present very considerably lessens its striking
effect. When every man has his face half covered with black hair, it
ceases to be a very valuable distinction. Perhaps, too, the frequent
advertisements of compositions infallible in their power of turning
the hair to any colour except "what pleases God," may tend to make one
look with suspicious eyes at these once fascinating southern
decorations; but, at present, I take it to be an undoubted fact, that
a clean, close-shaven, northern-looking gentleman is valued at a high
premium in every _salon_ in Paris.
It is not to be denied that the "glorious and immortal days" have done
some injury to the general appearance of the Tuileries Gardens. Before
this period, no one was permitted to enter them dressed in a _blouse_,
or jacket, or _casquette_; and no one, either male or female, might
carry bundles or baskets through these pretty regions, sacred to
relaxation and holiday enjoyment. But liberty and unseemly sordidness
of attire being somehow or other jumbled together in the minds of the
sovereign mob,--not sovereign either--the mob is only vice-regal in
Paris as yet;--but the mob, however, such as it is, has obtained, as a
mark of peculiar respect and favour to themselves, a new law or
regulation, by which it is enacted that these royal precincts may
become like unto Noah's ark, and that both clean and unclean beasts
may enter here.
Could one wish for a better specimen of the sort of advantage to be
gained by removing the restraint of authority in order to pamper the
popular taste for what they are pleased to call freedom? Not one of
the persons who enter the gardens now, were restricted from entering
them before; only it was required that they should be decently
clad;--that is to say, in such garments as they were accustomed to
wear on Sunday or any other holiday; the only occasions, one should
imagine, on which the working classes could wish to profit by
permission to promenade in a public garden: but the obligation to
appear clean in the garden of the king's palace was an infringement on
their liberty, so that formality is dispensed with; and they have now
obtained the distinguished and ennobling privilege of being as dirty
and ill-dressed as they like.
The power formerly intrusted to the sentinel, wherever there was one
stationed, of refusing the _entrée_ to all persons not properly
dressed, gave occasion once to a saucy outbreaking of French wit in
one of the National Guard, which was amusing enough. This civic
guardian was stationed at the gates of a certain _Mairie_ on some
public occasion, with the usual injunction not to permit any person
"_mal-mise_" to enter. An _incroyable_ presented himself, not dressed
in the fashion, but immoderately beyond it. The sentinel looked at
him, and lowered his piece across the entrance, pronouncing in a
voice of authority--
"You cannot enter."
"Not enter?" exclaimed the astonished beau, looking down at the
exquisite result of his laborious toilet; "not enter?--forbid me to
enter, sir?--impossible! What is it you mean? Let me pass, I say!"
The imperturbable sentinel stood like a rock before the entrance: "My
orders are precise," he said, "and I may not infringe them."
"Precise? Your orders precise to refuse me?"
"Oui, monsieur, précis, de refuser qui que ce soit que je trouve
mal-mis."