From London to Paris. One of the thoughts that comes uppermost in the
mind while one is making preparations for the journey is the passage of
the Channel, about which so much has been said and written--a passage in
which old Neptune, though he may have exempted the traveller on other
occasions, hardly ever fails to exact his tribute. He who can pass the
Channel in rough weather without a qualm, may henceforth consider
himself proof against any attack of the sea god upon his digestion.
A first-class through ticket from London to Paris costs nearly fifteen
dollars in gold; but many cheapen the fare by taking first-class boat
and second-class railroad tickets. The railroad ride to Dover is about
seventy miles, and the close of it carries us through a tunnel that
pierces the celebrated Shakespeare's Cliff; and finally we are landed on
the pier near the little steamer that is to take us over. After a good
long stare at the high, chalky cliffs of old Albion, we disposed
ourselves upon deck, comfortable as possible, and by rare good fortune
had a smooth passage; for of the entire number of passengers, not a
single one suffered from seasickness during the transit; so that the
huge piles of wash-bowls were not even brought into requisition, and the
stewards and boat boys grumbled at the luck that deprived them of so
many sixpences and shillings.
"'Tisn't horfen the Chan'l runs as smooth as this," said an old
weather-beaten sort of sea chambermaid, who stood guard over the bowls.
"She's flat as Dover Pier to-day; but," added he with a grin, "when yer
make hanythink like a smooth parsidge over, yer sure to ketch a horful
'eave comin' back."
And he was right. There is one comfortable anticipation, however; and
that is, that the sea trip occupies only an hour and a quarter. Arrived
at the great railroad station at Calais, we had our first experience of
a French railway buffet, or restaurant, for dinner was ready and the
tables spread, the passengers having ample time afforded them before the
train started.
The neatness of the table linen, the excellence of the French bread, the
bottles of claret, _vin ordinaire_, set at intervals along the table,
the promptness and rapidity of the service, fine flavor of the soup, and
good cooking of the viands, were noticeable features. The waiters spoke
both French and English; they dashed about with Yankee celerity; and
gay, and jolly, and right hearty were the passengers after their
comfortable transit. Now, in getting positions in the cars come trials
of indifferent as well as outrageously bad attempts at the French
language, which the French guards, probably from long experience,
contrive in some way to understand, and not laugh at.
Arrived at Paris after a journey of eleven hours from London, we have
even time, though fatigued, to admire the admirable system that prevails
at the railroad station, by which all confusion is prevented in
obtaining luggage or carriages, and we are soon whirling over the
asphalte, floor-like pavements to the Hotel de l'Athenée.
Here I had my first experience of the humbug of French politeness; for,
on descending from the carriage, after my luggage had been deposited at
the very office of the hotel, the servants, whose duty it was to come
forward and take it, stood back, and laughed to see the puzzle of a
foreigner at the demand for _pour boire_, which, in his inexperience, he
did not understand, and, when the driver was finally sent away with
thrice his demand, suffered luggage, lady and gentleman, to find their
own way to the little cuddy of a _bureau_, office of the hotel, and
were with difficulty made to understand, by a proficient in their own
tongue, that rooms for the party were engaged there.
This house and the Grand Hotel, which, I believe, are "run" by the
Credit Mobilier Company, are perfect extortion mills in the matter of
charges, especially to Americans, whom the Parisians make a rule always
to charge very much more than any one else. During the Exposition year,
the Grand Hotel extortions were but little short of barefaced swindles
upon American guests; and to this day there is no way one can quicker
arouse the ire of certain American citizens than to refer to their
experiences in that great caravanserai for the fleecing of foreign
visitors.
The _cuisine_ of these great hotels is unexceptionable, the rooms, which
are either very grand or very small, well furnished, although comfort is
too often sacrificed to display; but the attendance or attention, unless
the servants are heavily feed, is nothing to speak of, while the charges
during the travelling season are a third beyond those of other equally
good, though not "grand" establishments.
The magnificent new opera house, near these hotels, is a huge building,
rich on the exterior with splendid statues, marbles, medallions,
carving, and gilding, upon an island as it were, with the great, broad
avenues on every side of it; and as I sit at table in the _salle à
manger_ looking out at it, I am suddenly conscious that the English
tongue appears to be predominant about me; and so indeed it is, as a
large portion of the guests at these two hotels are Americans or
English, which accounts in a measure for the high prices and bad
service, the French considering Americans and English who travel to be
moving money-bags, from which it is their duty to extract as much as
possible by every means in their power.
The court-yard of the Grand Hotel, around which, in the evening,
gentlemen sit to sip a cup of coffee and puff a cigar, is such a
rendezvous for Americans, that during the Exposition it was proposed by
some to post up the inscription, "French Spoken Here," for fear of
mistakes.
The modes of living, besides that at hotels, have been frequently
described, and in taking apartments, one must be very explicit with the
landlord; indeed, it will be well to take a written memorandum from him,
else, on the presentation of his first bill, one may ascertain the true
value of a Frenchman's word, or rather how valueless he considers a
verbal agreement.
We had the fortune, however, in hiring apartments, to deal with a
Frenchman who understood how to bargain with foreigners, and had learned
that there was something to be gained by dealing fairly, and having the
reputation of being honest.
This man did a good business by taking new houses immediately after they
were finished, hiring furniture, and letting apartments to foreigners.
From him we learned that French people never like to live in an entirely
new house, one that has been dwelt in by others for a year having the
preference; perhaps this pre-occupation is supposed to take the chill
off the premises; so our landlord made a good thing of it in taking
these houses at a low rent of the owners for one year, and getting a
reputation for fair prices, fair dealing, and an accommodating spirit:
those who hired of him were so prompt to commend him as an exception
among the crowd of grasping, cringing rascals in his business, that his
houses in the pleasant quarter, near the Arc d'Etoile were constantly
occupied by Americans and English.
In Paris do as the Parisians do; and really it is difficult to do
otherwise in the matter of meals. Breakfast here is taken at twelve
o'clock, the day being commenced with a cup of coffee and a French roll,
so that between twelve and one business appears at its height in the
_cafés_, and almost suspended everywhere else. To gastronomic Yankees,
accustomed to begin the day with a good "square" meal, the French
_déjeûner_ is hardly sufficient to support the three hours' sight-seeing
our countrymen calculate upon doing between that time and the real
_déjeûner à la fourchette_.
The sights and scenes of Paris have been so thoroughly described within
the past three years, in every style and every vein, by the army of
correspondents who have visited the gay capital, that beyond personal
experiences it seems now as though but little else could possibly be
written. I therefore look at my closely-written note-book, the heap of
little memoranda, and the well-pencilled fly-leaves of my guide-books,
of facts, impressions, and experiences, with some feelings of doubt as
to how much of this already, perhaps, too familiar matter shall be
inflicted upon the intelligent reader; and yet, before I visited Paris,
every letter of the descriptive tourist kind was of interest, and since
then they are doubly so. Before visiting Europe, such letters were
instruction for what I was to one day experience; and many a bit of
useful information, read in the desultory letter of some newspaper
correspondent which had been nearly forgotten, has come to mind in some
foreign capital, and been of essential service, while, as before
remarked in these pages, much of the important minutiæ of travel I have
been surprised has not been alluded to. That surprise in a measure
vanishes, when any one with a keen love of travel finds how much
occupies his attention amid such an avalanche of the enjoyable things
that he has read, studied, and dreamed of, as are encountered in the
great European capitals.
In Paris my first experience at living was in lodgings in a fine new
house on Avenue Friedland, third flight (_au troisième_). The apartments
consisted of a _salon_, which served as parlor, breakfast and reception
room, a sleeping-room, and a dressing-room with water fixtures and pegs
for clothing. The grand Arc d'Etoile was in full view, and but a few
rods from my lodgings, and consequently the very first sight that I
"did."
This magnificent monument of the first Napoleon is almost as conspicuous
a landmark in Paris as is the State House in Boston, and seems to form
the terminus of many of the broad streets that radiate from it, and upon
approaching the city from certain points overtops all else around. The
arch is situated in a large, circular street, called the Place
d'Etoile, which is filled with elegant houses, with gardens in front,
and is one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris: from this Place
radiate, as from a great star, or like the sticks of a lady's fan,
twelve of the most magnificent avenues of the city, and from the top of
the arch itself the spectator can look straight down these broad streets
for miles. It is quite recently that several of them have been
straightened and widened, under the direction of Baron Haussmann; and
one cannot but see what a commanding position a battery of artillery
would occupy stationed in this Place d'Etoile, and sweeping down twelve
great avenues to the very centre of the city.
The length, breadth, straightness, regularity, and beauty of these
avenues strike the American visitor with astonishment. Fancy a street
twice as wide as Broadway or Washington Street, with a sidewalk as wide
as some of our ordinary streets, and shaded by a double line of trees,
the street itself paved or laid in concrete or smooth hard asphalte; the
houses tall, elegant, and of uniform style; brilliant, with elegant
stores, cafés with their crowds at the tables set in front of them; the
gay, merry throngs; little one-horse barouches, the French _voitures_,
as they are called, flying here and there, and the more stylish
turn-outs of the aristocracy,--and you have some idea of the great
avenues leading up to the Arc d'Etoile. After passing this grand arch,
you enter upon the magnificent Avenue de l'Impératrice, three hundred
feet wide, which leads to the splendid Bois de Boulogne, an avenue that
is crowded with the rush of elegant equipages, among which were to be
seen those of foreign ambassadors, rich residents, English and other
foreign noblemen, French ballet-dancers, and the demi-monde, every
pleasant afternoon.
This great arch of triumph overwhelms one with its grandeur and vastness
upon near approach; it lifts its square altar over one hundred and fifty
feet from the ground; its width is one hundred and thirty-seven feet,
and it is sixty-eight feet in thickness. The grand central arch is a
great curve, ninety feet high and forty-five wide, and a transverse
arch--that is, one going through it from one end to the other--is
fifty-seven feet high and twenty-five wide. The arch fronts the
magnificent Champs Elysées, adown which broad vista the visitor looks
till he sees it expand into the grand Place de la Concorde, with its
fountains and column of Luxor, beyond which rise the Tuileries. The
outside of this arch has superb groups, representing warlike scenes,
allegorical figures, &c., by some of the most celebrated French and
Italian artists. Some of the great figures of Victory, History, Fame,
&c., are from eighteen to twenty feet in height. Inside the arch, upon
its walls, are cut in the solid stone the names of nearly a hundred
victories, and also the names of French generals whose bravery won so
much renown for the French nation, so much glory for their great
Corsican captain, and which are names that are identified with his and
_la grande armée_.
This superb monument was commenced, in 1806, by Napoleon, but not
completed till 1836; and some idea may be obtained of the work and skill
expended upon it from its cost, which was ten million four hundred and
thirty-three thousand francs, or over _two millions of dollars_ in gold.
Two of the groups of bass-reliefs upon it cost nearly thirty thousand
dollars. Ascent to the top is obtained by broad staircases, up a flight
of two hundred and seventy-two steps, and the visitor may look down the
Avenue de la Grande Armée, Avenue d'Eylau, or over the beautiful Avenue
de l'Impératrice, or Champs Elysées, far as his eye can reach, and still
farther by the aid of the telescopes and spy-glasses kept by the
custodians on the summit.
Descending from the arch, we will take a stroll down the Avenue des
Champs Elysées--the broad, beautiful avenue which appears to be the
favorite promenade of Parisians. Upon either side of this avenue are
open grounds, and groves of trees, in and amid which is every species of
cheap amusement for the people--open booths in which are little games of
chance for cheap prizes of glass ware and toys, merry-go-rounds, Punch
and Judy shows, elegant cafés with their throngs of patrons sitting in
front and watching the passers by, or the gay equipages on their way to
the Bois de Boulogne. In one of these groves, at the side of the Champs
Elysées, is the Circus of the Empress, where feats of horsemanship are
performed, and in another a fine military band plays every afternoon;
the old Palais de l'Industrie fronts upon this avenue, and the
celebrated Jardin Mabille is but a few steps from it; but this should be
seen by gas-light; so, indeed, should the whole avenue, which by night,
in the summer, presents a most fairy-like scene. Then the groves are
illuminated by thousands of colored lights; Cafés Chantants are seen
with gayly-dressed singers, sitting in ornamented kiosks, which are
illuminated by jets of gas in every conceivable form; here, at a corner,
a huge lyre of fire blazes, and beneath it shines, in burning letters,
the name of a celebrated café, or theatre; the little booths and penny
shows are all gayly illuminated; gas gleams and flashes in all sorts of
fantastic forms from before and within the café; and, looking far up the
avenue, to where the great arch rears its dark form, you see thousands
of colored lights flitting too and fro, hither and thither, in every
direction, like a troup of elves on a midnight gambol; these are the
lights upon the cabs and voitures, which are obliged by law to have
them, and those of different quarters of the city are distinguished the
one from the other by different colors.
The cheapness and convenience of these little one-horse open barouches
of Paris make us long for the time when they and the English Hansom cab
shall displace the great, cumbersome carriage we now use in America. One
of these little fiacres, which you can hail at any time, and almost
anywhere in the streets of Paris, carries you anywhere you may choose,
to go in the city from one point to another, for a franc and a half
fare, and a _pour boire_ of about three or four cents to the driver; or,
if taken by the hour, you can glide over the asphalte floor-like streets
at the rate of two francs an hour. The police regulations respecting
fares are very strict and rigidly enforced, as, in fact, are all police
regulations, which are most excellent; and the order, system, and
regularity which characterize all arrangements at places of public
resort and throughout the city, give the stranger a feeling of perfect
safety and confidence--confidence that he is under the protection and
eye of a power and a law, one which is prompt and efficient in its
action, and in no way to be trifled with. The fiacre drivers all have
their printed _carte_ of the tariff, upon which is their number, which
they hand to customers upon entering the vehicle; these can be used in
case of imposition or dispute, which, however, very seldom occurs;
rewards are given to drivers for honesty in restoring articles left in
vehicles, and the property thus restored to owners by the police in the
course of a year is very large, sometimes reaching sixty or seventy
thousand dollars.
Straight down the broad Champs Elysées, till we came into that
magnificent and most beautiful of all squares in Paris, the Place de la
Concorde. Here, in this great open square, which the guide-books
describe as four hundred paces in length, and the same in width, several
other superb views of the grand avenues and splendid public buildings
are obtained. Standing in the centre, I looked back, up the broad Champs
Elysées, more than a mile in length, the whole course slightly rising in
grade, till the view terminated with the Triumphal Arch. Looking upon
one side, we saw the old palace of the Bourbons, now the palace of the
Corps Législatif. Fronting upon one side of the Place are two
magnificent edifices, used as government offices, and up through the Rue
Royale that divides them, the vista is terminated by the magnificent
front of the Madeleine.
Here, in the centre of the square, we stood opposite the celebrated
obelisk of Luxor, that expensive gift of the Pacha of Egypt to Louis
Philippe, and which, from the numerous bronze models of it sold in the
fancy goods stores in America, is getting to be almost as familiar as
Bunker Hill monument. Indeed, a salesman in Tiffany and Company's room
of bronzes, in Broadway, New York, once told me that, notwithstanding
the hieroglyphics upon the bronze representations of this obelisk that
they sell, he had more than once had people, who looked as though they
ought to have known better, cry out, "O, here's Bunker Hill Monument;
and it looks just like it, too."
The Luxor obelisk was a heavy, as well as an expensive present, for it
weighed five hundred thousand pounds, and it cost the French government
more than forty thousand dollars to get it in place upon its pedestal;
but now that it is here, it makes a fine appearance, and, as far as
proportions and looks go, appears to be very appropriately placed in the
centre of this magnificent square, its monolith of red granite rising
one hundred feet; though, as we lean over the rail that surrounds it,
the thought suggests itself, that this old chronicle of the deeds of
Sesostris the Great, who reigned more than a thousand years before Paris
had an existence, and whose hundred-gated city is now a heap of ruins,
was really as out of place here, in the great square of the gayest of
modern capitals, as a funeral monument in a crowded street, or an elegy
among the pages of a novel. Around the square, at intervals, are eight
huge marble statues, seated upon pedestals, which represent eight of the
great cities of France, such as Marseilles, Rouen, Lyons, Bordeaux, &c.
Each figure is said to face in the direction in which the city or town
it is called for lies from Paris.
The great bronze fountains that stand in the centre of the square have
round basins, fifty feet in diameter, above which rise others of lesser
sizes. Tritons and water nymphs about the lower basin hold dolphins,
which spout streams of water into the upper ones, and at the base sit
ponderous granite figures, which the Parisians say do well to sit down,
for, if they stood up, they would soon be fatigued by their own weight.
But the great fountain here in the Place de la Concorde marks an
historic spot. It is no more nor less than the site of that horrid
instrument, the guillotine, during the French revolution; and it was
here, in this great square, now filled with bright and happy crowds,
gazing at the flashing waters of the fountains, the statues, and
obelisk, or rambling amid the pretty walks, lined with many-hued
flowers, in the gardens of the Tuilleries near by,--it was here, round
and about, that the fierce crowd surged during some of the bloodiest
scenes in French history. Near where rises the bronze fountain, the
horrid scaffold once stood; here, where the crystal streams rush and
foam, shine and sparkle in the sunbeams, once poured out the richest and
basest blood of France, in torrents almost rivalling those that now dash
into the great basin that covers the spot they crimsoned; here the head
of Louis XVI. fell from his shoulders; here Charlotte Corday met death
unterrified; here twenty-two Girondists poured out their life-blood;
here poor Marie Antoinette bent her neck to the cruel knife, and the
father of Louis Philippe met his death; here the victims of the fell
tyrant Robespierre fell by hundreds. At length Danton himself, and his
party, were swept before the descending axe; and finally the bloody
Robespierre and his fierce associates met a just retribution beneath the
sweep of the insatiate blade, sixty or seventy falling beneath it in a
day.
Great heavens! would they never tire of blood, or was the clang of the
guillotine music to their ears, that for more than two years they kept
the horrid machine in motion, till twenty-eight hundred victims fell
beneath its stroke! Well said Chateaubriand, in opposing the erection of
a fountain upon the very site of the scaffold, that all the water in the
world would not be sufficient to efface the bloody stains with which the
place was sullied. It thus fell out that it was agreed, that any
monument placed in this memorable square should be one which should bear
no allusion to political events, and the gift of Mehemet Ali afforded
opportunity to place one. So here the laudatory inscription to a warlike
Egyptian of three thousand years ago and more is placed, to change the
current of men's thoughts, who may stand here and think of the surging
crowd of fierce _sans-culottes_, and still fiercer women, who once
thronged this place, and who were treated to their fill of what their
brutal natures demanded--blood, blood!
But are these the people that would do such horrid deeds--these
men we see around us, with varnished boots, immaculate linen, and
irreproachable costume? these ladies, gentle creatures, with faultless
costume, ravishing boots, dainty toilets, and the very butterflies of
fashion? If you would like something approaching a realization of your
imagination, wait till you get into the Latin quarter, or in some of the
old parts of Paris, where narrow lanes have not yet been made into broad
avenues; where low-browed, blue-bloused workmen are playing dominoes in
cheap wine-shops; and coarse women, with big, bare, red arms, and
handkerchief-swathed heads, stand in the doorways and bandy obscene
jests at the passers by; where foul odors assail the olfactories; where
you meet the _sergent-de-ville_ frequently; and where, despite of what
you have heard of the great improvements made in Paris, you see just
such places as the _Tapis Franc_, described in Eugene Sue's Mysteries of
Paris, and in which, despite the excellence of the Parisian police, you
had rather not trust yourself after dark without a guard; and you will
meet to-day those whom it would seemingly take but little to transform
into the fierce mob of 1792.
The gigantic improvements made in Paris during the reign of Louis
Napoleon are apparent even to the newly-arrived tourist, and are
unequalled by any city in the world. Broad, elegant avenues have been
cut through densely-populated and filthy districts; great squares,
monuments, opera-houses, theatres, and public buildings of unexampled
splendor have arisen on every side; palaces and monuments have been
repaired and restored, the great quadrangle of the Louvre and Tuilleries
completed. Turn which way one will, he sees the evidences of this
remarkable man's ability--excellent police arrangements, drainage,
public works, liberality to foreigners, &c. What little opportunity I
had of judging the French people almost leads me to believe that no
government could be invented under the sun that would satisfy them for
any length of time, and that they would attempt revolutions merely for a
new sensation.
From this square it is but a few steps to the garden of the Tuilleries.
The portion of the garden that is immediately contiguous to the palace
is not open to the public, but separated from it by a sort of trench and
an iron railing. The public portion of the garden is beautifully laid
out with _parterres_ of flowers, fountains, bronze and marble statues,
&c. While promenading its walks, our attention was attracted to a man
who seemed upon the best of terms with the birds that flew from the
trees and bushes, and perched upon his head, hands, and arms, ate
bird-seed off his hat and shoulders, and even plucked it from between
his lips. He was evidently either some "Master of the Birds to the
Emperor," or a favored bird-charmer, as he appeared to be familiarly
acquainted with the feathered warblers, and also the police, who
sauntered by without interfering with him.
The exciting scenes of French history, that are familiar to every
school-boy's memory, render Paris, to say nothing of its other
attractions, one of those points fraught with historical associations
that the student longs to visit. To stand upon the very spot where the
most memorable events of French history took place, beneath the shadow
of some of the self-same buildings and monuments that have looked down
upon them, and to picture in one's mind how those scenes of the past
must have appeared, is pleasant experience to those of an imaginative
turn. Here we stand in the Place de la Bastille, the very site of the
famous French prison; the horrors of its dungeons and the cruelties of
its jailers have chilled the blood of youth and roused the indignation
of maturer years; but here it was rent asunder and the inmost secrets
exposed by the furious mob, in the great revolution of 1789, and not a
vestige of the terrible prison now remains. In the broad, open square
rises a tall monument of one hundred and fifty feet, from the summit of
which a figure of Liberty, with a torch in one hand and broken chain in
another, is poised upon one foot, as if about to take flight. The stones
of the cruel dungeons of the Bastille now form the Pont de la Concorde,
trampled under foot, as they should be, by the throngs that daily pass
and repass that splendid bridge. The last historical and revolutionary
act in this square was the burning of Louis Philippe's throne there in
1848.
Passing through the Rue de la Paix, celebrated for its handsome jewelry
and gentlemen's furnishing goods stores, and as a street where you may
be sure of paying the highest price asked in Paris for any thing you
wish to purchase, we came out into the Place Vendôme, in the middle of
which stands the historic column we have so often read of, surmounted by
the bronze statue of the great Napoleon, who erected this splendid and
appropriate trophy of his victories. One hundred and thirty-five feet
high, and twelve in diameter, is this well-known column, and the bronze
bass-reliefs, which commence at the base and circle round the shaft to
its top, are cast from twelve hundred pieces of Russian and Austrian
cannon, which the great Corsican captured in his campaign of 1805, which
ended with the tremendous battle of Austerlitz. The bass-reliefs on the
pedestal are huge groups of weapons, warlike emblems, &c., and four huge
bronze eagles, weighing five hundred pounds each, holding wreaths, are
perched at the four corners of the pedestal.
The iron railing around this monument is thickly hung with wreaths of
_immortelles_; these are placed here by the surviving soldiers of the
grand army of Napoleon I., and are renewed once a year upon some
celebrated anniversary, when the spectacle of this handful of trembling
veterans of the first empire, showing their devotion to the memory of
their great chieftain, is a most touching one, while the deference and
honor shown to these shattered relics of France's warlike host, whose
deeds have won it an imperishable name in military glory, must be
gratifying to their pride. I saw an old shrunken veteran with a wooden
leg hobbling along with a stick, who wore an old-fashioned uniform, upon
which glittered the medals and decorations of the first empire, to whom
sentinels at public stations, as he passed, presented arms with a clang
and clatter that seemed to send the faint sparks of dying fire up into
his eyes, with a momentary martial gleam beneath his shaggy white
eyebrows, as he raised his shrunken hand in acknowledgment to his old
fashioned _képi_, while the military salutes, and even deferential
raising of hats, of young officers, his superiors in rank, that he
passed, were returned with a smile beneath his snowy mustache that
bespoke what an incense to his pride as a soldier of the grand army were
all such tokens.
But it was a still more interesting sight to see, at the court-yard of
the Hotel des Invalides, at about noon, on the occasion of some daily
military routine, some thirty or forty of these old soldiers in various
uniforms, wearing side arms only, some hobbling upon one leg, others
coming feebly but determinedly into line as they ever did on the great
battle-fields of the empire, and stand in dress parade while the band
played its martial strains, and their own flags surmounted by the French
eagles waved before them, and a splendid battalion of French troops
(some of their sons and grandsons, perhaps), officers and men, presented
arms to them as they saluted the flags they had won renown under half a
century before, and then slowly, and with an effort at military
precision that was almost comical, filed back to their quarters.
We used to read in Rogers's poem of Ginevra that,
"If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where, among other relics, you may see
Tassoni's bucket; but 'tis not the true one;")
so, also, if ever you should go to Paris, you will be shown at one end
of the Louvre a large window, from which you will be told Charles IX.
fired upon the flying Huguenots as they ran from the ferocious mob that
pursued them with bloody weapons and cries of "Kill, kill!" on the night
of St. Bartholomew, 1572; but this window is "not the true one," for it
was not built till long after the year of the massacre; but the old
church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, near by, from the belfry of which
first issued the fatal signal of that terrible night, is still standing,
and the Parisians in that vicinity find it easy to detect strangers and
foreigners, from their pausing and looking up at this church with an
expression of interest.
THE LOUVRE! Every letter-writer goes into ecstasies over it, is struck
with wonder at its vastness, and luxuriates in the inspection of its
priceless treasures. The completion of the connection of the Louvre with
the Tuilleries, made by Louis Napoleon, gives a grand enclosed space,
surrounded on all sides by the magnificent buildings of this great
gallery of fine arts and the royal palaces.
At one end, dividing the court-yard of the Louvre from that of the
Tuileries, rises the triumphal Arc du Carrousel, erected by Napoleon in
1806, surmounted with its car of victory and bronze horses; and here the
memory of the army of the first empire is perpetuated by statues of
cuirassiers, infantry and artillerymen, in the uniform of their
different corps, and the fashion in vogue at that time, while
bass-reliefs represent various battle scenes in which they figured. It
was in this open space, now the most magnificent court in Europe, that
the guillotine was first set up, before it was removed to the square
which is now the Place de la Concorde. An iron fence runs across the
court-yard at this point, making a division of the space, as it is from
an entrance in the palace, fronting this arch, that the emperor,
empress, and imperial family generally make their entrance and exit.
The architectural appearance and ornaments of these elegant buildings
combine to form a splendid interior, as it were, of this vast enclosed
square; the buildings, fronted with Corinthian columns, elegant and
elaborate sculptures, and statues, form a space something like a vast
parallelogram, their uniformity being interrupted by magnificent and
lofty pavilions, as they are called. When we say the Boston City Hall is
somewhat of a poor copy of one of these pavilions, it may give the
reader an idea of what they are. Their fronts are adorned with great
groups of statuary, wreaths, decorations, and allegorical figures,
beautifully cut, and through their vast gateways ingress is had from the
street. All along the front of the buildings, upon this interior space,
are statues of distinguished men of France. I counted over eighty of
them. Among them were those of Colbert, Mazarin, Racine, Voltaire,
Vauban, Buffon, Richelieu, Montaigne, &c.
The completion of the connection of the two palaces by Louis Napoleon
has rendered this court-yard indescribably grand and elegant, while its
vastness strikes the beholder with astonishment. The space that is now
enclosed and covered by the old and new Louvre and Tuileries is about
sixty acres. An idea of the large amount of money that has been lavished
upon these elegant piles may be obtained from the fact that the cost of
the sculptures on the new part of the building is nearly half a million
dollars; but then, perhaps, as an American remarked, it ought to be a
handsome place, since they have been over three hundred years building
it. Some of the finest portions of the architectural designs of the
façade of the Louvre were completed by Napoleon I. from the designs of
Perrault, a physician, and the author of fully as enduring monuments of
genius--those charming fairy tales of Cinderella, Bluebeard, and the
Sleeping Beauty. Perhaps the ornamental columns and beautiful
decorations were something of a realization of his ideas of palaces of
the fairies and genii, in his charming stories.
The work of improvement upon the buildings and court-yard of the Louvre
is still going on, and the present emperor will leave here, as well as
in many other parts of Paris, the impress of his power, as used for
beautifying the French capital, and raising enduring monuments of the
encouragement of improvements, progress, and the arts, during his reign.
We have been in and through the Louvre, not in one visit, but again and
again, over acres of flooring, past miles of pictures,--a plethora of
luxurious art,--days of wonder, and hours of sight-seeing. How many
originals we have gazed upon that we have seen copies of in every style!
how many pictures of great artists that we have read of, and how many
curious and wonderful historical relics and antiquities! What an
opportunity for the student and the artist, what a source of amusement
and entertainment, what a privilege, in these old countries, is the free
admission to these costly and well-stocked galleries of art--here, where
we may see hundreds of celebrated pictures and statues, any two of
which would "pay handsomely," placed on exhibition in one of our great
American cities; here, where there are seven miles of pictures, and
their catalogue makes a thick book of over seven hundred pages; here,
where, if you were to start and walk constantly, without stopping an
instant to rest, it would require three hours to pass through the
different apartments; here, where, perhaps, the American tourist or
newspaper correspondent sharpens his pencil and takes a fresh note-book,
with the feeling that it is a prolific field, but is overwhelmed with an
ocean of art, and consoles himself with the thought that the Louvre has
been so often described, written about, and commented on, that the
subject is worn threadbare; and that the public has had enough of
rhapsodies and descriptions of it.
And he is more than half right. The Louvre alone is a great exposition,
that would suffice to attract thousands of foreigners to Paris. The
number of visitors is immense. Galignani says that the produce of the
sale of catalogues amounts to forty thousand dollars a year, and more
than twenty thousand dollars per annum are taken for depositing canes
and umbrellas at the door, the charge for which service is only two or
three sous. It is best to avoid, if possible, the taking of canes,
parasols, and umbrellas with you, as it may chance that you will desire
to make exit at some point distant from that of entrance, and save the
trouble of returning for the _impedimenta_.
I commenced with a determination, like many others, to see the Louvre
thoroughly and systematically, and therefore began with the basement
story, entering the museum of Assyrian antiquities, thence into Egyptian
halls of curiosities, where the visitor gets view of a large and
interesting collection from the cities of Nineveh, Thebes, &c., the
results of the researches and discoveries of French _savants_ and
travellers in the East--vases, mummies, fragments of sculptured stones
and figures, manuscripts, besides articles of domestic use among the
ancient Egyptians.
Here were the mirrors that Theban dames arranged their dark tresses at,
and the combs, needle and toilet cases that they used; musical
instruments, games, and weights and measures; articles of ornament, and
of the household, that have been exhumed from the monuments of ancient
cities--a rare and curious collection; then come the Algerian museum,
the Renaissance sculpture gallery, with beautiful groups of bronze and
marble statuary, dating from the commencement of the sixteenth century,
among which is the celebrated one of Diana with the Stag, the likeness
being that of Diane de Poitiers, mistress of Henry II.; then come the
five different halls of modern sculptures, where we saw Canova's Cupid
and Psyche, Julien's Ganymede and Eagle, Bartolini's colossal bust of
Bonaparte, and groups representing Cupid cutting his bow from Hercules'
club, Perseus releasing Andromeda, and many others.
Next we reach the museum of antique marbles, a grand gallery, divided
off into half partitions, and rich in superb ancient statuary. One of
the halls of this gallery is noted as being that in which Henry IV. was
married; and here, too, was his body brought after his assassination by
Ravaillac; but the visitor's thoughts of historical associations are
banished by the beautiful works of art that meet him on every hand. Here
is Centaur overcome by Bacchus, the Borghese Vase, the Stooping Venus,
Pan, the Three Graces, Hercules and Telephus, Mars, Cupid proving his
bow, Dancing Faun, a magnificent figure of Melpomene, twelve feet high,
with the drapery falling so naturally about as almost to cheat belief
that it was the work of the sculptor's chisel; another magnificent
colossal figure of Minerva, about ten feet high, armed with helmet and
shield; the Borghese Gladiator, a splendid figure; Wounded Amazon, Satyr
and Faun, Diana and the Deer, Wounded Gladiator, Bass-relief of
triumphal procession of Bacchus and Ariadne, &c.
I am aware that this enumeration will seem something like a reproduction
of a catalogue to some readers, though it is but the pencilled memoranda
of a very few of the notable pieces in this magnificent collection,
before which I was enabled to halt anything like long enough to examine
strictly and admire; for the days seemed all short, our few weeks in
Paris too brief, and this grand collection, with other sight-seeing, a
formidable undertaking, as we now began to contemplate it, when I found
myself still upon this basement floor of the Louvre after nearly a day's
time, and the thought that if my resolution to see the whole,
systematically and thoroughly, were faithfully carried out, almost a
season in Paris would be required, and but little time left for anything
else.
I have seen copies, and busts, and engravings of the Venus of Milo a
hundred times, but never was attracted by it enough to go into raptures
over its beauty, being, perhaps, unable to view it with an artistic eye;
but as I chanced to approach the great original here from a very
favorable point of view, as it stood upon its pedestal, with the mellow
light of the afternoon falling upon the beautiful head and shoulders,
the effect upon me was surprising to myself. I thought I never before
had gazed upon more exquisitely moulded features. The features seemed
really those of a goddess, and admiration divided itself in the beauty
of the production and the genius of an artist that could conceive and
execute it. I am not ashamed to say, that during the hour I spent in the
room in which this beautiful work of art is placed, I came to a better
understanding concerning some of the enthusiasm respecting art
manifested by certain friends, which I had hitherto regarded as
commonplace expressions, or was at loss to understand the real feeling
that prompted their fervor.
If the visitor is amazed at the fine collection of sculpture and
statuary, what are his feelings at beholding the grand and almost
endless halls of paintings as he ascends to the floors above! Here,
grand galleries, spacious and well lighted, stretch out seemingly as far
as the eye can reach, while halls and ante-rooms, here and there
passages, and vestibules, and rooms, are crammed with the very wealth of
art; here the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the great artists of Europe, known
all over the world by copies and engravings, are collected; and the
pleasure of looking upon these great originals is a gratification not
easy to be described.
The lover of art, as he passes from point to point, from one great work
to another, to each fresh surprise that awaits him, feels like shaking
hands mentally with himself in congratulation at the enjoyment
experienced in seeing so much of real and genuine art collected
together, and under such favorable circumstances.
The paintings in the galleries are all arranged according to different
schools of art. Thus the Spanish, Dutch, and German schools are arrayed
in one gallery, the Italian in another, the modern French school in
another; and these are further arranged in subdivisions, so that the
student and art lover may study, inspect, or copy, in any department of
art that he may desire.
What a host of masterpieces in the great gallery! And here were artists,
male and female, copying them. Some, with little easel and chair, were
merely sketching a single head from a group in some grand tableau.
Others, with huge framework, and mounted up many feet from the floor,
were making full copies of some great painting. Students were sketching
in crayon, upon crayon paper, portions of designs from some favorite
artist. Ladies were making cabinet copies of paintings, and others
copying celebrated heads upon tablets of the size of miniatures; and one
artist I observed putting a copy of a group upon a handsome vase that
was before him. Nearly every one of the most noted paintings by great
masters had two or three artists near it, making copies.
The Grand Gallery, as it is called, is a quarter of a mile long, and
over forty feet wide, and with its elegantly ornamented ceilings, its
magnificent collection of nearly two thousand splendid paintings,
including some of the finest masterpieces in the world, and superb
vista, presents a _coup d'oeil_ that can hardly fail to excite
enthusiasm even from those who are not professed admirers of pictures.
Think of the luxury of seeing the original works of Raphael, Rembrandt,
Titian, Rubens, Claude Lorraine, Holbein, Paul Veronese, Guido, Quintin
Matsys, Murillo, Teniers, Ostade, Wouverman, Vandyke, David, Andrea del
Sarto, Vernet, Leonardo da Vinci, Poussin, Albert Dürer, &c., besides
those of other celebrated artists, all in one gallery! And it is not a
meagre representation of them either, for the Louvre is rich in works
from each of these great artists. There was Paul Veronese's great
picture of the Repast in the House of Simon the Pharisee, thirty-one
feet long and fifteen high, and his Marriage at Cana, a magnificent
tableau, thirty-two feet long and twenty-one high, the figures splendid
portraits of celebrated persons; Titian's Entombment of Christ;
Raphael's beautiful picture of the Virgin and Child; Murillo's
Conception of the Virgin, which cost twenty-four thousand six hundred
pounds; Landscape by Claude Lorraine; a whole gallery of Rubens, and
another of Joseph Vernet's Seaports; then there is the Museum of Design,
of fourteen rooms full of designs, over thirty thousand in number, of
the great masters in all schools of art. Here one may look on the
original sketches, in pencil and India ink, of Rembrandt, Holbein,
Dürer, Poussin, and other great artists.
It would be but a sort of guide-book review to enumerate the different
halls and their wonders, such as one that is devoted entirely to antique
terra cottas, another to jewelry and ornaments of the mediæval and
renaissance period, another to specimens of Venetian glass ware, of
exquisite designs and workmanship, another to bronzes, &c. The Museum of
Sovereigns was interesting in historical relics; for it was something,
remember, to have looked upon the sceptre, sword, and spars of
Charlemagne, the arm-chair of King Dagobert, the alcove in the room
where Henry IV. ("King Henry of Navarre") used to sleep; Marie
Antoinette's shoe, her cabinet and casket; Henry II.'s armor, and the
very helmet through which the lance of Montgomeri went that killed him
in the tournament in 1559; Charles IX.'s helmet and shield, the
coronation robes of Charles X., and a host of other relics that have
figured in French history.
One room is devoted to relics of Napoleon I., and is called the Hall of
the Emperor. Here you may look upon the very uniform that he wore on the
bloody field of Marengo, a locket containing his hair, the flag of the
Old Guard, that he kissed when he bade adieu at Fontainebleau, the
veritable gray overcoat which he wore, and the historical cocked hat
which distinguished him, the cockade worn when he landed from Elba, the
great coronation robes worn when he was crowned emperor, his sword,
riding whip, and saddle, the pocket-handkerchief used by him on his
death-bed, articles of clothing, &c. The cases containing these articles
were thronged, and the curious French crowd looked upon them with a sort
of veneration, and occasional exclamations of wonderment or sympathy, as
some descriptive inscription was read and explained to an unlettered
visitor by his more fortunate companion.
But suffice it to say that the Louvre, with its superb collections, and
its almost endless "Salles de --" everything, is overwhelming in the
impression it gives as a wealth of art. It is impossible to convey a
correct idea of it to the lover of art, or even the longing lover of
travel who has Europe in prospect. In the words of the modern
advertisers, it must be seen to be appreciated, and will require a great
many visits to see enough of it to properly appreciate it.
Right opposite the Louvre, across a square, is the Palais Royal,
attractive to all Americans and English from the restaurants, and
jewelry, and bijouterie shops, which are on the ground floor, and form
the continuous arcade or four sides of the square of the garden which
they enclose. This garden is about a thousand feet long and four
hundred wide, with trees, flowers, and fountain, and a band plays in
the afternoon to the entertainment of the crowd of loungers who have
dined at the Trois Frères, Vefour, or Rotonde, lounge in chairs, and
sip _café noir_, or absinthe, if Frenchmen, or smoke cigars and drink
wine, if Americans. The restaurants here and in the vicinity are
excellent; but one wants a thorough experience, or an expert to teach
him how to dine at a French restaurant; otherwise he may pay twice as
much as he need to have done, and then not get what he desired. Fresh
arrivals, English and Americans, are rich game for the restaurants.
They know not all the dodges by which the Frenchman gets four or five
excellent courses for almost half what it costs the uninitiated, such
as ordering a four-franc dinner, with a privilege of ordering so many
dishes of meat, so many of vegetables, or one of meat for two of the
latter, or the ordering of one "portion" for two persons, &c. And I do
not know as my countrymen would always practise them if they did; for
being accustomed at home to order more than they want at a restaurant,
and to make the restaurant-keeper a free gift of what they do not use,
they are rather apt, in Paris, to "darn the expense," and order what
suits their palates, without investigating the cost till they call for
the garçon with "_l'addition_."
The jewelry shops in the arcade around the Palais Royal Garden are of
two kinds--those for the sale of real jewelry and rich fancy goods, and
those selling the imitation. These latter are compelled by law to keep a
sign conspicuously displayed, announcing the fact that their wares are
imitation, and any one found selling imitation for real is, I
understand, severely punished. The imitation jewelry stores are very
attractive, and it is really quite remarkable to what perfection the art
is carried. Imitation of diamonds, made from polished rock-crystal,
which will retain their brilliancy for some months, mock coral, painted
sets, imitation gold bracelets, chains, necklaces, sleeve-buttons, and
earrings, of every conceivable design, very prettily made.
The designs of this cheap jewelry are fully equal to that of the more
costly kind, and it is retailed here in large quantities at a far more
reasonable price, in proportion to its cost, than is the Attleboro'
jewelry in our own country. The arcade used to be thronged with
Americans, who purchased generally from a handful to a half peck each of
the attractive and pretty articles which are so liberally displayed
here.
The French shopkeepers are quick to detect a stranger or foreigner, and
very many of them regulate their prices accordingly; so that one soon
ascertains that it is not labor in vain to urge a reduction in price,
even in establishments where huge placards of "Prix Fixé" inform you
that they have a fixed price for their goods, which may mean, however,
that it is "fixed" according to the customer and his anxiety to
purchase. I myself had an experience in the purchase of a pair of
ornaments. Inquiring the price, I was informed, "Eight francs."
"Ah, indeed! That is more than I care to pay."
"For what price does monsieur expect to obtain such beautiful articles?"
"Six francs."
"C'est impossible!" (_shrugging his shoulders and elevating his
eyebrows_); "ici le prix est fixé;" but monsieur should have them for
seven francs, as they had been taken from the show-case.
Monsieur was indifferent; he "remercier'd" the shopkeeper; he did not
care to pay but six francs, and walked towards the door; but the
salesman followed him, and, as he reached the threshold, presented
monsieur the articles in question, neatly enveloped in one of his
tissue-paper shop-bills. It was positively too cheap, but "pour obliger
monsieur," he would give him this "bon marché" for the six francs.
We paid the six francs accordingly; but our satisfaction respecting the
"bon marché" was somewhat dampened at seeing the very self-same
description of articles we had just purchased at six francs a pair
displayed in a window, scarcely half a dozen stores distant, ticketed,
in plain figures, three francs a pair.
Passing along through one of the busiest streets of Paris one day, we
observed the entrance or passage from the street to the lower story of
one of the houses hung with black and decorated with funeral trappings;
in fact, the interior arranged as a sort of little apartment, in the
midst of which, exposed to full view to all passers by, stood a coffin,
surrounded by candles, with crucifix at its head, and all the usual
sombre emblems of mourning; pedestrians, as they passed, respectfully
uncovered, and such exposition, we were told, is one of the customs in
France when death occurs in a family. Funerals often take place at
night, although we have met the funeral train during the day, when all
who meet it, or whom it passes, remove their hats--a mark of respect
which it is pleasant to observe, and which the newly-arrived tourist
makes haste to record as one of the evidences of French breeding and
politeness.
When I was a boy, and studied first books of history and geography,
there was in one of them a picture in which a Frenchman was represented
as taking off his hat and making a ceremonious bow to a lady;
underneath, as part of the pleasing fable in which the youth were then,
and may be, in many cases, to this day are instructed, was printed that
the French were the most polite people in the world. If courtly speech,
factitious conventionalities, and certain external forms constitute
politeness, then the French _are_ the most polite people; but if
politeness embraces in its true definition, as I hold that it does,
spontaneous unselfishness, refined generosity, carrying kindliness into
common acts, unselfishness into daily life, and a willingness to make
some self-sacrifice for others, making itself felt more than seen--then
there never was a more monstrous humbug than French "politeness." It is
nothing more than a certain set of hypocritical forms, the thin,
deceptive varnish which is substituted for the clear, solid crystal of
hearty honesty.
The Frenchman will raise his hat at a funeral, will "mille pardons,
monsieur," if he accidentally jostles your elbow, bow gracefully to the
_dame du comptoir_ as he leaves a restaurant; do these and a thousand
graceful and pretty things that tend to exhibit himself, and, that cost
nothing; but how seldom does he perform an act that calls for the
slightest self-sacrifice! He never surrenders a good place that he holds
for an inferior one to a lady, an aged person, or a stranger; but he
will, if possible, by some petty trick at an exhibition, a review, or
public display, endeavor to obtain it from them for himself. The excess
of civility shown by the cringing and bowing shopman, with vertebræ as
supple as if oiled or supplied with patent hinges in the middle, he
expects to put into the price of the goods when he cheats you in your
purchases. Attendance in sickness, and service at your hotel, are
measured by the francs' worth, till at last, understanding the
hollowness of French politeness, its hypocrisy and artificial nature,
you long for less ceremony and more heart, and feel that there is much
of the former, and little, if any, of the latter, in the Frenchman's
code.
Speaking of funerals naturally inclined us to turn our steps towards the
celebrated cemetery of Père Lachaise, which has suggested many of the
rural cemeteries in our own country that in natural attractions now so
far surpass it; but Père Lachaise cemetery, which was formerly an old
Jesuit stronghold, was first laid out in 1804, and now it is the largest
burial-ground of Paris. It contains over twenty thousand tombs, besides
innumerable graves, and occupies two hundred and twelve acres of
undulating ground. Some of the older parts of it present a rusty and
ill-kept appearance. Before reaching the entrance gate, we had
indications of its proximity from the long street through which we
passed being almost entirely filled on both sides with the workshops of
marble and stone cutters, and funeral wreath manufacturers. Monuments of
every conceivable design, size, and expense were displayed, from the
elegant and elaborate group of statuary to the simple slab or the little
one-franc plaster _Agnus Dei_, to mark the grave of the poor man's
infant. There were quantities of shops for the sale of wreaths of
_immortelles_, bouquets, and other decorations for graves, and scores of
men and girls at work fashioning them into various designs, with mottoes
varied for all degrees of grief, and for every relation. These are the
touching ones: "To My Dear Mother," "My Dear Father," "My Sweet Infant,"
"To My Dear Sister;" and the friendly ones, "To My Uncle," "My Aunt,"
"My Friend;" or the sentimental ones, "Mon Cher Felix," "Ma Chère
Marie," "Alphonsine," "Pierre," &c.; besides bouquets of natural
flowers, and vases for their reception, of every style, and graduated
for every degree of grief and the limit of every purse; and you are
beset by children offering pretty little bunches of violets or bouquets
and wreaths of natural flowers. Arrived at the gate, we were furnished
with a guide, whom it is quite necessary to have, to save time in
traversing the cemetery, and direct one to the monuments that one most
wants to see of celebrated persons.
Our guide was a retired old soldier, slightly lame, and still preserving
a sort of military gait, as he stumped along in front of us; but the
combined perfume of the pipe he had learned to smoke while campaigning,
and the garlic he loved to eat at home, caused him to be a companion
that one would prefer occupying the windward side of.
The older part of the cemetery of Père Lachaise is very much crowded;
the tombs or vaults in some avenues stand as close together,
comparatively, as the doors of blocks of houses in a city thoroughfare.
Many of these vaults, facing the avenues, have open fronts, guarded only
by a light, iron latticed gate, through which the visitor may look into
a little square chapel, reached by a descent of three or four steps; in
this little chapel-vault stands a little altar, or shelf, on which is
placed cross, wreaths, and vase or vases of flowers, this being the
place of offering or prayer for the relatives, the interment being made
below the slab in the floor or side.
These vault chapels are more or less pretentious, according to the
wealth of the proprietors, some being fifteen or twenty feet square,
with marble sides, flooring, and sculpture, beautiful altar, candles,
vases, and handsome _prie dieu_, while the names cut into the carved
panels indicated what members of the family have been placed behind them
in the narrow chamber for their last sleep. Garlands, wreaths, and
mementos are in every direction--within, about, and upon the graves and
tombs; and in one department, where children were buried, upon the
little graves, beneath small glass cases, rested some of the little
toys--the dolls, and wooden soldiers, and little rattles--that had
belonged to them when living. We found, as we advanced, how much a guide
was needed, for we should never have been able to have threaded unaided
the labyrinths or the winding cypress-shaded paths of this crowded city
of the dead.
There were, we were informed, over eighteen thousand different monuments
in the cemetery, ranging from the simple cross or slab to the costly
mausoleum, such as is raised over the Countess Demidoff,--the most
expensive and elaborate monument in the grounds,--which is reached by
elegant flights of steps, and consists of a broad platform, supported by
ten splendid white marble Doric columns, upon which rests a sarcophagus,
bearing a sculptured cushion, with the arms and cornet of the deceased
resting thereon. This monument stands upon the brow of a hill, and
occupies one of the most conspicuous positions in the cemetery. But let
us follow our guide, taking a glance at a few of the notable features of
the place; for that is all one can do in a single visit and in the three
hours' stroll which we make through the most attractive parts.
You can hardly walk a dozen steps without encountering tombs bearing
names familiar and celebrated in military, scientific, religious, or
literary history; and the opportunity one has to study the taste in
monuments, obelisks, urns, mausoleums, pyramids, and sarcophagi, may be
inferred from the fact, that upon these tributes to departed worth, and
mementos of loved ones, no less than five millions sterling, or about
twenty-five million dollars in gold, have been expended since the
cemetery was first opened. The paths and walks of the old portion of
Père Lachaise are rough, and in sad contrast with the newer part, and
suffer much in comparison with the broad, spacious, well-rolled avenues
of our own Mount Auburn and Forest Hills, or the natural and artificial
beauties of Greenwood Cemetery.
We first took a glance at the Jewish division of the grounds, which is
separated from the rest by a wall, where the monument of Rachel, the
celebrated actress, was pointed out to us, and also those bearing the
name of Rothschild and Fould. We then walked to that most interesting
monument, generally the first one of any note visited by tourists, an
actual evidence and memento of the truth of that sad and romantic
history which is embalmed in the memory of youth, the monument of
Abélard and Héloise. This is a little open Gothic chapel, in which is
the sarcophagus of Abélard, and upon it rests his effigy, and by his
side that of Héloise.
The monument is built from the ruins of Paraclete Abbey, of which
Héloise was abbess, and its sculptured figures and decorations are very
beautiful, although suffering from decay and neglect. A bunch or two of
fresh violets and forget-me-nots, which we saw lying upon the breast of
the recumbent figure, showed that sentimental visitors still paid
tribute to this shrine of disappointed love.
As we advanced farther into the grounds, monuments bearing well-known
names, distinguished in science, literature, and art, met the eye on
every side. Here is that of Arago, the astronomer; Talma, the great
actor of Napoleon's time; Bernardin de St. Pierre, the author of Paul
and Virginia; David, the celebrated painter; Pradier, the great
sculptor; Chopin, the musician; Scribe, the dramatist; Racine, the poet;
Laplace, the astronomer; and Lafitte, the banker. Then we come to the
names of some of those military chiefs that surrounded the great soldier
of the first empire, and helped him to write the name of France in
imperishable records upon the pages of history.
Here rests Marshal Kellermann; here rises a granite pyramid to Marshal
Davoust, who won his laurels at Eylau, Friedland, and Auerstadt, the
great cavalry action of Eckmuhl, and, except Ney, who was the most
prominent in the tremendous battle of Borodino, and the disastrous
retreat from Russia; here Suchet, who commenced his career with Napoleon
at the siege of Toulon, sleeps beneath a white marble sarcophagus;
Macdonald and Lefebvre are here; and a pyramid of white marble, bearing
a bass-relief portrait, rises to the memory of General Masséna, "a very
obstinate man" and "the favorite child of victory"--him whom Napoleon
once told, "You yourself are equivalent to six thousand men." Passing
monument after monument, bearing names the birthplaces of whose titles
were victorious battle-fields, we were guided by our conductor to a
little square plat of ground enclosed by a light railing; it was gay
with many-hued flowers in full bloom, filling the air with their
fragrance. The old guide stopped, and reverently taking off his cap,
turned to us, saying,--
"_Hommage, monsieur, à le plus brave des braves--à Maréchal Ney._"
I involuntarily followed his example. "But where," asked I, looking
about on every side, "where is his monument?"
"His monument, monsieur," said the old fellow, drawing himself up as
erect as possible, and dramatically placing his hand upon his left
breast,--"his monument is the memory of his brave deeds, which will live
forever in the hearts of the French people."
Such a reply, coming from such a speaker, astonished me; and I almost
expected to see the staff change to a musket, the tattered cap into a
high grenadier "bearskin," and the old blouse into the faced uniform of
the _Garde Impériale_; there was such a flavor of Napoleon Bonaparteism
in the response, that that of the garlic was for the moment forgotten,
and we considered the reply increased the value of the speaker's
services to the extent of another franc.
I stood, afterwards, opposite the spot where Marshal Ney, "the rear
guard of the grand army" in the retreat from Russia, the last man who
left Russian territory, "the bravest of the brave," was shot according
to decree on the 7th of December, 1815. It is a short distance form the
south entrance of the gardens of the Palais du Luxembourg, and is marked
by a bronze statue of the great marshal, who is represented in the
attitude of leading his troops, sword in hand, as he did at the head of
the Old Guard, after four horses had been shot under him, in the last
charge on the disastrous field of Waterloo. A marble pedestal is nearly
covered with an enumeration of the battles in which he distinguished
himself He was indeed the "hero of a hundred battles."
Passing through another path, we came to the monument of Lafontaine,
surmounted by a life-size figure of a fox, sculptured from black marble,
the sides of the monument showing bronze bass-reliefs of the fable of
the fox and stork, and wolf and lamb. Béranger, the poet, sleeps in the
same tomb with Manuel, a French orator; and just before leaving the
cemetery our guide pointed out to us a little cross over the grave of
Judith Frère, who figures in the poet's songs as Lisette.
"But first Lisette should here before me stand,
So blithe, so lovely, in her fresh-trimmed bonnet;
See, at the narrow window, how her hand
Pins up her shawl, in place of curtain on it."