_Dear Jane:_--
Not a question, I pray you! about the journey from Rouen hither. I can
only tell you that we chose the lower route; that the prospects were
lovely, and the diligence rolled rapidly along the banks of the Seine;
that we stopped only to swallow our meals as quickly as possible, and
had not time to examine any thing. We entered Paris by the Porte de
Neuilly and Champs Elysées, at dusk, and witnessed the beautiful sight
the latter presents, when illuminated by its numerous lamps, which
instead of being fixed on posts, were suspended high above our heads
from ropes swung across the road. The resemblance of these lamps when
lighted, to a range of brilliant stars, occasions the gate by which we
entered to be called the "barriére de l'étoile." We found rooms ready
for us, papa having written to request Mr. Dorval to engage a suite in
the pleasantest quarter of the city.
Here there are four modes of living customary among visiters. First,
boarding in a hotel by the day, week, or month: second, boarding at a
lodging house by the week, month or year: third, hiring furnished
apartments and eating at a restaurateur's, or being supplied thence:
fourth, furnishing rooms yourself, and having your own cook. The first
of these plans, being the least troublesome, we have preferred. It is,
however, more expensive than either of the others. Our hotel is
delightfully situated, and commands a view of the Italian Boulevard and
of the Rue de la Paix, at the corner of which it stands; the latter,
one of the widest and handsomest streets in the metropolis. From our
windows we can also see the "Place Vendome," with its superb and
stately bronze column, erected by Napoleon, in imitation of that of
Trajan at Rome. It is made of the cannons taken by him at the battle of
Austerlitz; the principal events of that campaign are represented in a
_bas-relief_, which is carried spirally around the whole shaft, the
figure of the Emperor being prominent in each compartment. His statue
formerly crowned the summit of the column; but since his downfall it
has been removed, and the vacancy is now supplied by a simple
banner.[1]
[Footnote 1: The statue of Napoleon has been replaced since the last
revolution; the dress is the great coat and three cornered cocked hat
in which he is so frequently represented, and he holds in his hand a
short telescope, or rather opera glass.]
Beyond the Place Vendome is the Rue Castiglione, with its fine shops
and arcades; and at the end of this street is the garden of the
Tuileries, where we repair before breakfast every morning, to enjoy its
shades, and contemplate its statues, flowers and fountains. In flowers
it always abounds, for they are planted in pots concealed in the
ground, and as soon as one set goes out of season, it is replaced by
another in bloom.
From eleven until four o'clock we study the pictures in the magnificent
gallery of the Louvre, whose halls are open for the benefit of
strangers and students on every day of the week, except _Monday_. On
Sunday they are open to _every body_, and consequently on Monday
require the operations of the broom and brush. The halls appropriated
to sculpture are on the ground floor, and the ceilings of several are
superbly painted. It was from the window of one of these apartments
that Charles the Ninth fired upon his persecuted subjects during the
massacre of St. Bartholomews. (August 24, 1572)
Our usual evening resort is the Boulevard, where we listen to music,
and observe the motley crowds around us; and when tired, refresh
ourselves with ices or lemonade in a café.
Dear me! how tastefully the French ladies dress! What beautiful robes,
and hats, and gloves, and shoes and boots they wear! and how well each
article corresponds with another. If they have on different colors,
they take care that they shall contrast agreeably, and not be an
uncouth mixture, displeasing to the eye. In the morning their toilette
is remarkably neat and appropriate. You'll probably find them when you
call, in a simple gingham dress, with pelerine to suit, and a black
silk apron; their hair arranged in puffs, and quite unadorned. Now is
this not more rational than to be furbelowed, and curled, and richly
clad, as if they were expecting company, instead of being usefully
employed? At entertainments and in the public promenades, they display
their fine clothes. We have already received and returned the visits of
several of the French families to whom we brought letters; but much to
our regret, the venerable Count Ségur is out of town, and Baron
Hottinguer, his lady and son, are at their country seat. The Minister
of the Marine (Mr. Hyde de Neuville) and Madame his spouse, are
extremely pleasing and amiable. They still have their regular soirées,
notwithstanding the advanced season, and we intend to avail ourselves
of their polite invitation to attend them. By the by, I should tell you
(what M. Dorval told _me_,) that in Paris many persons have an
appointed evening for receiving their acquaintances, once a week,
fortnight, or month, (as suits their convenience,) and on this evening
they illuminate their rooms for the reception of their guests. The
greater number of these remain only a half hour, and then repair to the
opera, or to some other _soirée_, as such an assembly is termed. It is
usual to go to three or four on the same night. There is seldom any
refreshment offered, and the amusements are conversation and,
écarte--_sometimes_ billiards; and when the soirée is social and small,
they even introduce childish plays, such as "Colin, Maillard," "Le
Mouchoir," "Tierce," &c. in which elderly people frequently join with
all the vivacity of youth.
Monsieur and Madame de Neuville reside in a superb mansion, that was
formerly the "Garde meuble," or royal wardrobe. It is now called the
"Admiralty," and appropriated to the use of the Minister of the Marine
and Colonies. On its roof is a telegraph, and its front is embellished
with sculpture, and columns, which support a portico as long as the
building itself.
A few nights since we were at the Theatre Francais, and saw
Mademoiselle Mars perform the part of the Duchesse de Guise in "Henri
Trois." To the astonishment of every body she excels in this character,
although it is a difficult one to play, and her first attempt at
tragedy. Her talents hitherto, you know, have been devoted to comedy.
She is the most lovely and youthful looking woman of her age I ever
beheld. What do you think of her being passed fifty, and yet not
appearing as old as twenty-five? She is so graceful too! and then her
voice is melody itself! But I must cease my encomiums, or I shall not
have space to assure you that I am your affectionate sister,