this city of the dead, during our three hours' tour of it--an excursion
which, notwithstanding its interest, was quite fatiguing.
The magnificent tomb of Napoleon I., at the Church of the Invalides,
contains the mortal remains of the great Corsican, placed here with much
ceremony, carrying out the desire expressed in his will that his ashes
might rest upon the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French
people that he had loved so much. Through the great cupola of the church
the light is admitted by means of colored glass, and so managed that it
shall fall upon the high altar, the crypt, and sarcophagus with striking
effect. The high altar is at the top of ten steps of pure white marble,
and is of black marble; great twisted columns of black and white marble
support a canopy of white and gold, beneath which is a figure of the
Saviour on the cross, upon which the sunlight, falling through yellow
glass, lights up the golden rays that are represented as springing from
the back of the crucifix into a blaze of glory, and flashes and sparkles
upon the gilded canopy and decorations, is if glorifying the sacred
emblems.
Directly in the centre, and beneath the dome of the church, is a great
circular opening thirty-six feet in diameter and twenty feet in depth;
this is the crypt, and surrounded by a marble rail. Looking down, you
gaze upon the sarcophagus, a huge block of red granite or porphyry,
weighing one hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds, most beautifully
polished, brought from Finland at a cost of thirty thousand dollars,
covering another huge block twelve feet long by six in width, which in
turn rests upon a splendid block of green granite, the whole forming a
monument about fourteen feet high. The pavement of this circular crypt
is a huge crown of laurels in green marble in a tessellated floor of
white and black marble; within the laurels are inscribed Marengo,
Austerlitz, Jena, Rivoli, Wagram, and other great victories, the whole
pavement being a most exquisite piece of mosaic work; around the circle
stand twelve colossal statues, facing the tomb, representing victories.
We descended to this crypt by passing to the rear, and beneath the high
altar, where we found the entrance guarded by two huge caryatides
bearing imperial emblems; passing the sarcophagus, we come to a chapel
where is the sword of Austerlitz, groups of flags captured by the French
in battle, and other mementos of the emperor.
The elegant finish of the marble-work in the interior of the Church of
the Invalides strikes one with astonishment; its joining is so perfect
as to be more like cabinet-making than masonry; the light is so managed
as to fall into the crypt through a bluish-purple glass, and striking
upon the polished marble, as one looks down from above, gives the crypt
the appearance of being filled with a delicate violet halo--a novel and
indescribable effect. The marble of the monument, the sculpture, and
decorations of the crypt, chapel, &c., cost one million eight hundred
thousand dollars in gold--a costly mausoleum.
The interior of the Invalides is circular, with arms of a cross extended
north, south, east, and west. The great dome is a splendid piece of
architecture, the summit of which is over three hundred feet from the
pavement; and high up in the cupola we see a splendid picture
representing our Saviour surrounded by saints and angels, which must be
colossal in size to appear as they do of life-size from below. In
chapels, in the angles formed by the cross, are other splendid
monuments to distinguished personages. In the Chapel of St. Augustin is
the tomb of Napoleon's eldest brother, Joseph, King of Spain, a huge
sarcophagus of black marble; and not far from this is that of Vauban,
the greatest of military engineers, also a sarcophagus of black marble,
upon which rests an effigy of Vauban; surrounded by emblems, with two
allegorical statues beside him. The monument of King Jerome is in the
chapel dedicated to St. Jerome, and is a huge sort of black marble
casket on gilt claw-feet, upon the top of which stands his statue. A
monument to Marshal Turenne represents him dying in the arms of some
allegorical genius, with an eagle at his feet.
Each of the chapels is dedicated to some saint, and richly decorated by
frescoes representing scenes in his life; but chapels, monuments, and
all, are, although splendid, of course insignificant compared with that
of the emperor, resting beneath the grand dome in the halo of colored
light, before the grand altar, and around which the twelve colossi, with
grasped swords and victorious wreaths, seem to be keeping solemn watch
and ward over the now silent dust of him
"Whose greatness was no guard
To bar Heaven's shaft."
One can easily imagine that Louis XIV. nearly bankrupted the French
nation in his magnificent expenditures on the palace and parks of
Versailles, everything about them is upon such a prodigal and princely
style. The vast halls of paintings, magnificent chapels, theatres, great
gardens, statuary, hot-houses, parks, fountains, and artificial basins,
the water to supply which was brought about four miles, the _little_
park of twelve miles in extent, and great park of _forty_. When the
visitor looks about him, he is amazed at the prodigal display of wealth
on every side. He ceases to wonder that over two hundred millions of
dollars have been expended upon this great permanent French exposition
and historical museum of the French nation.
Passing through the town, we entered the Place d'Armes, approaching the
palace. This is a great open space eight hundred feet broad, from which
we enter the grand court, or Cour d'Honneur, a space about four hundred
feet wide, leading up to the palace buildings, which are various,
irregular, and splendid piles, ornamented with pavilions, plain, or
decorated with Corinthian columns, and statues. In the centre of the
upper part of this great court stands a colossal equestrian statue of
Louis XIV., and upon either side, as the visitor walks up, he observes
fine marble statues of distinguished Frenchmen, such as Colbert,
Jourdan, Masséna, Conde, Richelieu, Bayard, &c. Entering the palace,
which appears from this court a confused mass of buildings, one is
overwhelmed with its vastness and magnificence. Some idea of the former
may be obtained by passing through, and taking a survey of the western,
or garden front, which is one continuous pile of building a quarter of a
mile in extent, elegantly adorned with richly-cut columns, statues, and
porticos, and, when viewed from the park, with the broad, very broad
flights of marble steps leading to it, adorned with vases, countless
statues, ornamental balustrades, &c., strikingly reminding one of the
pictorial representations he has seen of Solomon's Temple, or perhaps
more strikingly realizing what he may have pictured in his imagination
to have been the real appearance of that wonderful edifice.
The collection of pictures and statuary in the Historical Museum is so
overwhelming, and the series of rooms apparently so interminable, that a
single visit is inadequate to do more than give the visitor a sort of
confused general idea of the whole. Guides, if desired, were furnished,
who, at a charge of a franc an hour, will accompany a small party of
visitors, and greatly facilitate their progress in making the best use
of time, and in seeking out the most celebrated objects of interest.
Attendants in livery were stationed at different points through the
buildings, to direct visitors and indicate the route.
Here, in the great Historical Museum, are eleven spacious rooms,
elegantly decorated, and containing pictures on historical subjects from
the time of King Clovis to Louis XVI. Here is Charlemagne dictating his
Code of Laws, Henry IV. entering Paris, the Siege of Lille, Coronation
of Louis XIV., and many other immense tableaux filled with figures, and
of great detail.
There are the Halls of the Crusades, five magnificent rooms in Gothic
style, and forming a gallery of paintings illustrating those periods of
history, and, of course, such events as French crusaders were most
prominent in. The walls and ceilings are ornamented with armorial
bearings and devices of French crusaders; and in the wall of one of the
rooms are the Gates of the Hospital of the Order of the Knights of St.
John of Jerusalem, given to Prince de Joinville, by Sultan Mahmoud, in
1836. The great pictures of the desperate battles of the mail-clad
warriors of the cross and the Saracens are given with graphic fidelity,
the figures in the huge tableaux nearly or quite the size of life, and
the hand-to-hand encounter of sword, cimeter, battle-axe, and mace, or
the desperate struggles in the "imminent deadly breach," the fierce
escalade, the terrific charge, or the desperate assault, represented
with a force, vigor, and expression that almost make one's blood tingle
to look upon them. Here was a magnificent picture representing a
Procession of Crusaders round Jerusalem, another, by Delacroix,
representing the Taking of Constantinople, Larivière's Raising the Siege
of Malta, and Raising the Siege of Rhodes, the Battle of Ascalon, Taking
of Jerusalem, Taking of Antioch, Battle of Acre; also the portraits of
Jaques Molay, Hugh de Payens, De La Valette, and other grand commanders
of the order.
Another series of elegant halls, seven in number, had some magnificent
colossal pictures of modern battles, such as the Battle of Alma,
Storming of the Mamelon, the Return of the Army to Paris in 1859, and
Horace Vernet's celebrated picture of the Surprise of Abdel-Kader's
Encampment, a most spirited specimen of figure-painting. Then came a
spirited picture of the Storming of the Malakoff, Storming of
Sebastopol, Battles of Magenta, &c., and several fine battle-pieces by
Horace Vernet. Then there are rooms with scenes in the campaign in
Morocco, whole galleries of statues, galleries of French admirals and
generals, series after series of six, eight, or ten great apartments,
each a gallery of itself.
The "Grand Apartments," as they are called, occupy the whole of the
central portion of the palace, facing the gardens, and appear more like
the creation of a magician, or of the genii of Aladdin's lamp, than the
work of human hands. Each hall is given a name, and distinguished by the
superb frescos upon its ceiling, delineating scenes in which the deity
for which it is called figures. The great Saloon of Hercules has scenes
illustrating the deeds of Hercules, delineated upon its broad expanse of
ceiling, sixty feet square; the Hall of Abundance is illustrated with
allegorical figures, and the Saloon of Venus is rich with cupids, roses,
and the Goddess of Love; then there are Saloons of Mars, of Mercury, of
Apollo, of the States General, all richly and most gorgeously decorated;
but the grandest of all is the Grand Gallery of Louis XIV., the most
magnificent hall in the world, and one which extracts enthusiasm even
from the most taciturn.
This superb gallery connects with the Saloon of War and Saloon of Peace,
and forms with them one grand continuous apartment. It is sometimes
called the Gallery of Mirrors, from the great mirrors that line the wall
upon one side. Fancy a superb hall, two hundred and thirty feet long,
thirty-five wide, and forty-five high, with huge arched windows on one
side, and magnificent mirrors on the other, with Corinthian columns of
red marble at the sides, and the great arched ceiling, the whole length
elegantly painted with allegorical representations and tableaux of the
battles of France; statues, carvings, ornaments, furniture, and
decorations appropriate filling out the picture, the perspective view
superb, and the whole effect grand and imposing!
It was here that Queen Victoria was received on her visit to Paris in
1855. Here, where, after the London Times and British press had failed
to write down the "prisoner of Ham," "the nephew of his uncle," "the
ex-policeman," after Punch had ridiculed in every possible pictorial
burlesque and slander him whom that print represented as a mere
aspirant for the boots and cocked hat of his uncle,--it was here,
beneath the blaze of countless candles, to the music of his imperial
band, and in presence of the most celebrated personages of the French
nation, that England's queen danced with--yes, actually waltzed
with--this nephew of his uncle.
Opening out of these grand state apartments are various others, which,
although beautiful in decoration, are dwarfed by the splendor of the
great salons, though some are noted for historical events, such as Louis
XIV.'s private cabinet, in which are his table and arm-chair; the room
in which Louis XV. died. We look upon superb vases, wonderful mechanical
clocks, staircases that are wonders of architecture, and _chefs
d'oeuvre_ of execution in carving, graceful curve, and splendid sweep,
till finally I find myself, note-book in hand, in a splendid room,
gazing upward at a ceiling upon which is a magnificent picture,
representing Jupiter, and some other gods and allegorical figures. It is
a work of rare art. I refer to my guide, and find we are gazing up at a
picture by Paul Veronese, representing Jupiter punishing Crime, brought
from the Hall of the Council of Ten, in Venice, by Napoleon I., and that
we are standing in the bed-chamber of Louis XIV., and before the very
couch, rich in decoration, and railed off from approach of the common
herd, upon which he--though he may have been mighty and to be feared,
may have reigned as a monarch and lived as a conqueror--yet, at last,
died but as a man.
"Dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils
Shrunk to this little measure?"
The great Gallery of the Empire consists of fourteen large rooms, and in
these are three hundred huge pictures of the battles and noted events
that transpired during the time of Napoleon I., from 1796 to 1810--a
complete illustration of the life and times of the great emperor. The
views of the battles are very spirited and interesting, and, with those
in the Gallery of Battles, will be familiar to many from the copies
that have been made of them, and the numerous occasions they have
done duty in illustrated books. The Napoleon Gallery a volume of
illustrations published by Bohn, of London, gives engravings of nearly
all these beautiful tableaux. Here was the Battle of Marengo, Passage of
the Alps, Horace Vernet's Battle of Wagram, and Battle of Friedland, and
his picture of Napoleon addressing the Guards before the battle of Jena,
Gerard's Battle of Austerlitz, Battle of Rivoli,--one vivid pictorial
scene succeeding another,--Eckmuhl, Ratisbon, Essling, Rivoli, &c. This
Gallery of Battles is also a notable hall, being nearly four hundred
feet long, forty-two feet wide, and forty feet in height. The roof is
vaulted, and lighted by skylights, which give a good light to the
pictures, and the whole effect of the splendid gallery, which is richly
decorated, set forth by ornamental columns, with busts of distinguished
generals interspersed at intervals, is very fine. In niches near the
windows there is a sort of roll of honor--lists of names of generals and
admirals who have fallen in battle, inscribed upon tablets of black
marble. I must not forget the Hall of the Coronation, which contains
David's great painting of the Coronation of Napoleon, for which the
artist received the sum of one hundred thousand francs. In this hall is
also the Distribution of the Eagles to the Legions, by the same artist,
and the Battle of Aboukir.
Behind the Gallery of Battles extends another gallery, entirely devoted
to statues and busts of distinguished personages, from the year 1500 to
1800. This gallery is over three hundred feet in length. But even to
attempt anything like a description of the numerous galleries, halls,
and apartments in this vast structure, would be futile in the space that
can be allowed in a tourist's sketches, and those that we omit are
nearly as extensive as those already mentioned. There is a gallery of
the admirals of France--fourteen rooms full of their portraits; a
gallery of the kings of France--seventy-one portraits--down to Louis
Philippe; gallery of Louis XIII.; hall of the imperial family, with
portraits of the Bonaparte family; gallery of marine paintings; a
gallery of water colors, by French staff officers, of scenes in
campaigns from 1796 to 1814; Marie Antoinette's private apartments, in
which some of the furniture used by her still remains; the cabinets of
porcelains; cabinets of medals; saloon of clocks; great library; hall of
the king's body guards, &c. The celebrated hall known as OEil de
boeuf, from its great oval window at one end, I viewed with some
interest, as the hall where so many courtiers had fussed, and fumed, and
waited the king's coming--regular French lobbyists of old times; and
many a shrewd and deep-laid political scheme was concocted here. It is a
superb saloon, and was Louis XVI.'s and Marie Antoinette's public
dining-hall.
All these "galleries," it should be borne in mind, are really galleries
worthy the name--vast in extent, elegant in decoration, and rich in
pictures, busts, and statues. Then the splendid staircases by which some
of them are reached are wonders of art. The great Staircase of the
Princes is a beautiful piece of work, with pillars, sculptured ceiling,
bass-reliefs, &c., and adorned with marble statues of Bonaparte, Louis
XIV., and other great men. So also are the Marble Staircase, and the
splendid Staircase of the Ambassadors. I only mention these, each in
themselves a sight to be seen, to give the reader some idea of the
vastness of this palace, and the wealth of art it contains.
Think of the luxuriousness of the monarch who provides himself with a
fine opera-house or theatre, which he may visit at pleasure, without
leaving his palace! Yet here it is, a handsome theatre, with a stage
seventy-five feet deep and sixty wide, a height of fifty feet, with its
auditorium, seventy feet from curtain to boxes, and sixty feet wide. It
is elegantly decorated with Ionic columns, crimson and gold. There are
three rows of boxes, with ornamental balustrades, a profusion of mirrors
and chandeliers, and the ceiling elegantly ornamented. The royal box
occupies the centre of the middle row of boxes, and is richly decorated.
On the occasion of the visit of Queen Victoria to Louis Napoleon, this
theatre was used as the supper-room, the pit being boarded over, and
four hundred illustrious guests sat down to a splendid banquet.
Not only have the means of amusement been thus provided, but we find in
this wonderful palace the royal chapel for royal worship of Him before
whom all monarchs are as dust in the balance--a beautiful interior, one
hundred and fourteen feet long by sixty wide, with nave, aisles, side
galleries, and Corinthian columns, and its elegant ceiling, which is
eighty-six feet from the richly-inlaid mosaic pavement, covered with
handsome paintings of sacred subjects by great artists. The high altar
is magnificent, the organ one of the finest in France, and the side
aisles contain seven elegant chapels, dedicated to as many saints, their
altars rich in beautiful marbles, sculptures, bass-reliefs, and
pictures--among the latter, a Last Supper, by Paul Veronese, the whole
forming a superb chapel, glowing with beauty and art. In this chapel
Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were married in 1770.
Verily one gets a surfeit of splendor in passing through this vast
historic pile of buildings. The limbs are weary, while the eyes ache
from the gazing at pictures, statues, perspectives, and frescos, and it
is a relief to go forth into the grand park and gardens, where fresh
wonders await the visitor. Descending from the broad and spacious
terrace, adorned by statues and vases, by flights of marble steps, the
spectator is bewildered by the number and beauty of the fountains,
statues, &c., that he encounters on every side; but the very terrace
itself is a wonder. Here are great bronze statues of Apollo, Bacchus,
and other heathen gods. Two broad squares of water, surrounded by
twenty-four splendid groups, in bronze, of nymphs and children, are in
the midst of vast grass plots and walks, and among the statues we notice
one of Napoleon I. From this broad terrace you descend to the gardens
below, and other parts of the ground, by magnificent flights of broad
steps. In the orangery or hot-house, orange trees, pomegranates, and a
variety of curious plants are kept, many of which are transplanted
about the grounds during the summer season. One old veteran of an orange
tree, hooped with iron to preserve it, is shown, which is said to be
over four hundred and thirty years old. The guide-books say it was
planted by the wife of Charles III., King of Navarre, in 1421. Many
other old trees of a hundred years of age are in the gardens.
One great feature of the gardens at Versailles is the beautiful
fountains. The principal one is that known as the Basin of Neptune,
which is a huge basin, surrounded by colossal figures of Neptune,
Amphitrite, nymphs, tritons, and sea-monsters, that spout _jets-d'eau_
into it. The Basin of Latona is a beautiful affair, consisting of five
circular basins, rising one above another, surmounted by a group of
Latona, Apollo, and Diana. All around the basins, upon slabs of marble,
are huge frogs and tortoises, representing the metamorphosed peasants of
Libya, who are supplying the goddess with water in liberal streams,
which they spout in arching jets towards her. Then there is the great
Basin of Apollo, with the god driving a chariot, surrounded by sea-gods
and monsters, who are all doing spouting duty; the Basin of Spring and
Summer; Basin of the Dragon, where a huge lead representation of that
monster is solemnly spouting in great streams from his mouth when the
water is turned on. The Baths of Apollo is a grotto, in which the god is
represented served by nymphs--seven graceful figures; while near him are
the horses of the Sun, being watered by Tritons, all superbly executed
in marble. Sheets and jets of water issue from every direction in this
beautiful grotto, and form a lake at the foot of the rocks. This grotto
is a very elaborate piece of work, and is said to have cost a million
and a half of francs.
Besides these beautiful and elaborate fountains are many others of
lesser note, but still of beautiful design, at different points in the
gardens and park. Parterres of beautiful flowers charm the eye, the
elegant groves tempt the pedestrian, and greensward, of thick and
velvety texture and emerald hue, stretches itself out like an artificial
carpet. Here is one that stretches the whole length between two of the
great fountains, Latona and Apollo, and called the Green Carpet--one
sheet of vivid green, set out with statues and marble vases along the
walks that pass beside it; another beautiful one, of circular form, is
called the Round Green. Here are beautiful gravel walks, artificial
groves with charming alleys, thickets, green banks, and, in fact, a
wealth of landscape gardening, in which art is often made to so closely
imitate nature, that it is difficult to determine where the one ceases
and the other begins.
A visit to the Great and Little Trianon is generally the wind-up of the
visit to the parks of Versailles: the former, it will be recollected,
was the villa built in the park by Louis XIV. for Madame de Maintenon.
It contains many elegant apartments. Among those which most attracted
our attention was the Hall of Malachite, and the Palace Gallery, the
latter a hall one hundred and sixty feet long, ornamented with
portraits, costly mosaic tables, and bronzes. Notwithstanding the eye
has been sated with luxury in the palace, the visitor cannot but see
that wealth has been poured out with a lavish hand on this villa; its
beautiful saloons,--Saloon of Music, Saloon of the Queen, Saloon of
Mirrors,--its chapel and gardens, are all those befitting a royal
palace; for such indeed it was to Louis XIV., XV., and XVI., and even
Napoleon, who, at different times, made it their residence.
The Little Trianon, built by Louis XV. for Madame Du Barry, is a small,
two-story villa, with a handsome garden attached, at which I only took a
hasty glance, and concluded by omitting to inspect the Museum of State
Carriages,--where, I was told, Bonaparte's, Charles X.'s, and others
were kept,--the sedan chair of Marie Antoinette, and various curious
harnesses. I was assured by another tourist, who learned a few days
after that I had not seen it, that it was the finest thing in the whole
palace. I have frequently found this to be the judgment of many
travellers, of objects or points _they_ have "done," which you have
missed or omitted, and so I endured the loss of this sight with
resignation.
But we find that an attempt to give anything like a full description of
all we saw in Paris,--even those leading "lions" that all tourists
describe,--would make us tarry in that gay capital too long for the
patience of our readers who have followed us "over the ocean" thus far.
The lover of travel, of variety, of architecture, of fashion, frivolity,
or excitement may enjoy himself in Paris to the extent of his desire.
There is plenty to occupy the attention of all who wish to enjoy
themselves, in a rational and profitable manner, in the mere seeing of
sights that every one ought to see. There is the grand old cathedral of
Notre Dame, famed in history and story, which has experienced rough
usage at the hands of the fierce French mobs of different revolutions,
who respect not historical relics, works of art, or even the sepulchres
of the dead.
The exterior of this magnificent great Gothic structure was familiar to
me from the many engravings I had seen of it, with its two great square
towers of over two hundred feet in height, with the huge rose window
between them of thirty-six feet in diameter, and the three beautiful
Gothic doors of entrance, rich in ornamentation, carvings, and statues
of saints. The interior has that grand and impressive appearance that
attaches to all these superb creations of the old cathedral builders.
The vaulted arches, rising one above another, over a hundred feet in
height, present a fine appearance, and a vista of Gothic columns
stretches along its length, of three hundred and ninety feet; at the
transept the width is one hundred and forty-four feet. The three great
rose windows, which will not fail to challenge admiration, are wonders
in their way, and, with their beautiful stained glass, are coeval with
the foundation of the cathedral.
We ascended the tower, and enjoyed the magnificent view of Paris from
its summit, and, more particularly, the course of the River Seine and
the splendid bridges that span it. Up here we saw the huge bells, and
walked round amid them, recalling scenes in Victor Hugo's novel of the
Hunchback of Notre Dame; these were the huge tocsins that Quasimodo
swung, and far down below was the square in which La Esmeralda spread
her little carpet, and summoned the crowd, with tambourine, to witness
her dancing goat; farther away, to the right, was the street that
Captain Porteous rode from at the head of his troop; here, upon the
roof, sheeted with lead, must have been the place that the mishapen
dwarf built the fire that turned the dull metal into a molten stream
that poured destruction upon the heads of the mob that were battering
the portals below. With what an interest do the poet and novelist clothe
these old monuments of the past! Intertwining them with the garlands of
their imagination, they contend with history in investing them with
attractions to the tourist.
High up here, at the edge of the ramparts, are figures of demons, carved
in stone, looking over the edge, which appear quite "little devils" from
the pavement, but which are, in reality, of colossal size. The pure air
of the heavens, as we walked around here near the clouds, was of a
sudden charged with garlic, which nauseous perfume we discovered, on
investigation, arose from the hut of a custodian and his wife, who dwelt
up here, hundreds of feet above the city, like birds in an eyrie, and
defiled the air with their presence.
One of the most gorgeous church interiors of Paris is that of Sainte
Chapelle; this building, although not very large, is a perfect gem of
Gothic architecture, and most beautifully and perfectly finished in
every part; it is one hundred and twenty feet long, forty wide, and has
a spire of one hundred and forty feet in height. Every square inch of
the interior is exquisitely painted and gilded in diamonds, lozenges,
and fleurs-de-lis; and stars spangle the arched roof, which is as blue
as the heavens. The windows are filled with exquisite stained glass of
the year 1248--glass which escaped the ruin of the revolutions; and the
great rose window can only be likened to a magnificent flower of more
than earthly beauty, as the light streams through its glorious coloring,
where it rests above a beautiful Gothic balustrade.
Leaving the Sainte Chapelle, we passed a few rods distant, after
turning a corner, the two old coffee-pot-looking towers of the bloody
Conciergerie, where poor Marie Antoinette languished for seventy-six
days, before she was led forth to execution; here also was where
Ravaillac, Robespierre, and Charlotte Corday were imprisoned; and the
very bloody record-book of the names of those who were ordered to be
despatched during the revolution, kept by the human butchers who
directed affairs, is still preserved, and shown to the visitor.
That magnificent Grecian-looking temple, the Madeleine, is one of the
first public buildings the tourist recognizes in Paris. As many
Americans are apt to estimate the value of things by the money they
cost, it may be of interest to state that this edifice cost two million
six hundred thousand dollars. It is really a magnificent structure, with
its thirty Corinthian columns, fifteen on each side, and its noble
front, with ornamental pediment, its great bronze entrance, doors
thirty-two feet high, reached by the broad flight of marble steps
extending across the whole length of the end of the building, the
dimensions of which are three hundred and twenty-eight feet in length by
one hundred and thirty-eight in breadth. The beautiful Corinthian
columns, which, counting those at the ends, are fifty-two in number, are
each fifty feet in height. The broad, open square about the Madeleine
affords an excellent opportunity of viewing the exterior; and one needs
to make two or three detours about the building to obtain a correct idea
of its magnitude and beauty. The interior is one spacious hall, the
floors and walls all solid marble, beautifully decorated, and lighted
from the top by domes; all along the sides are chapels, dedicated to
different saints, and decorated with elegant statues and paintings; the
high altar is rich in elegant sculpture, the principal group
representing, in marble, Mary Magdalene borne into Paradise by
angels--exquisitely done. The whole effect of this beautiful interior,
with its lofty ornamented domes and Corinthian pillars, the beautiful
statuary and bass-reliefs, frescoing, and walls incrusted with rich
marbles, is grand beyond description.
The Church of St. Genevieve, better known as the Pantheon, is another
magnificent structure: three hundred and fifty feet long and two hundred
and sixty wide is this beautiful building, and three rows of elegant
Corinthian columns support its portico. We gazed up at the beautiful
pediment, over this portico, which is over one hundred and twenty feet
long and twenty-two feet high, and contains a splendid group of statuary
in relief, the central figure of which is fifteen feet in height; but
above the whole building rises the majestic dome, two hundred and
sixty-four feet. Inside we ascended into this grand and superb cupola,
and, after making a portion of the ascent, paused in a circular gallery
to have a view of the great painting which adorns the dome, representing
St. Genevieve receiving homage from King Clovis. After going as far
above as possible, we descended with a party to the vaults below, where
we were shown the place, in which the bodies of Mirabeau and Marat were
deposited, and the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau, which, however, do
not contain the remains of the two philosophers. We were then escorted
by the guide, by the dim light of his lantern, to a certain gloomy part
of the vaults, where there was a most remarkable echo; a clap of the
hand reverberated almost like a peal of thunder, and a laugh sounded so
like the exultation of some gigantic demon who had entrapped his victims
here in his own terrible caverns, as to make us quite ready to follow
the guide through the winding passages back to the upper regions, and
welcome the light of day.
An American thinks his visit to Paris scarcely completed unless he has
visited the Jardin Mabille. It has the reputation of being a very wicked
place, which, in some degree, accounts for tourists, whose dread of
appearances at home restrains them from going to naughty places, having
an intense desire to visit it; and it is amusing to see some of these
very proper persons, who would be shocked at the idea of going inside a
theatre at home for fear of contamination, who are enjoying the
spectacle presented here like forbidden fruit, quite confused at meeting
among the throng their friends from America who are in Paris, as is
frequently the case. Sometimes the confusion is mutual, and then
explanations of both parties exhibit a degree of equivocation that would
rival a Japanese diplomat. Those, however, who expect to see any
outrageous display of vice or immodesty will be disappointed: the garden
is under the strict surveillance of the police, and there is a far more
immodest display by the ladies in the boxes of the opera at the Grand
Opera in London, than by the frail sisterhood at the Jardin. During the
travelling season one meets plenty of tourists, English and American, at
Mabille, and hears the English tongue spoken in the garden on every side
of him.
Stroll up the beautiful Champs Elysées of a summer's evening; all along,
on either side, the groves, gardens, and grounds are brilliant with
gas-jets, colored lights, and Chinese lanterns, brilliant _cafés_, with
chairs and tables in front, where you may sit and enjoy a cup of coffee
and a cigar, or a glass of wine, while you view the never-ending
succession of passers by. Just off amid the trees are little
extemporized theatres, where the never-tiring comedy of Punch and Judy
is performed to admiring crowds, at two sous a head; little booths, with
a gambling game, which, translated into English, is "the d--among the
tailors," afford an opportunity of indulging in a game of chance for a
few sous, which game consists in setting a brass top spinning in among a
curious arrangement of brass fixed and movable upright pins upon a
board; the number of pins knocked over, and little brass arches passed
under, by the top, determines the amount of the prize won by the player,
which can be selected from the knickknacks in the booth ticketed with
prize cards.
A friend of mine, a very proper young gentleman, was so attracted by the
gyrations of the brass top spinning on these tables one evening, that he
insisted upon stopping and trying his hand at the game: he did so, and
so expertly that he bore off a pair of cheap vases, a china dog, and a
paper weight; his triumph was somewhat dampened, however, at being
reminded by a lady friend, whom he met with his hands filled with his
treasures, that he had been gambling on Sunday evening. It is not at all
surprising, however, from the sights and scenes, that one should forget
the character of the day, there is so little to remind him of it in
Paris.
Besides these booths are those for the sale of a variety of fanciful
articles, illuminated penny peep shows; and off at side streets you are
directed, by letters in gas jets, to the Cafés Chantants--enclosed
gardens with an illuminated pavilion at one end of them, its whole side
open, exposing a stage, upon which sit the singers, handsomely dressed,
who are to appear in the programme. The stage is beautifully illuminated
with gas and very handsomely decorated, generally representing the
interior of a beautiful drawing room; the audience sit at tables in the
garden immediately before the stage, which, from its raised position,
affords a good view to all; there is no charge for admission, but each
visitor orders something to the value of from half a franc to a franc
and a half of the waiters, who are pretty sharp to see that everybody
_does_ order something. The trees are hung with colored lights, a good
orchestra plays the accompaniment for the singers, besides waltzes,
quadrilles, and galops, and the Frenchman sits and sips his claret or
coffee, and smokes his cigar beneath the trees, and has an evening, to
him, of infinite enjoyment. I saw, among the brilliant group that formed
the corps of performers, seated upon the illuminated stage at one of
these Cafés Chantants, a plump negro girl, whose low-necked and
short-sleeved dress revealed the sable hue of her skin in striking
contrast to her white and gold costume. She was evidently a dusky
"star."
But we will continue our walk up the beautiful Elysian Fields; the
great, broad carriage-way is thronged with voitures, with their
different colored lights flitting hither and thither like elves on a
revel: as seen in the distance up the illuminated course they sparkled
like a spangled pathway, clear away up to the huge dusky Arc d'Etoile,
which in the distance rises "like an exhalation." The little bowers,
nooks, chairs, and booths are all crowded; music reaches us from the
Cafés Chantants, and peals of laughter at the performances in the
raree-shows; finally, reaching the Rond Point, a sort of circular
opening with six pretty fountains,--and turning a little to the left
upon the Avenue Montaigne, the brilliant gas jets of the Jardin Mabille
are in view--admission three francs for gentlemen, ladies free.
The garden is prettily laid out with winding paths, flower-beds,
fountains, cosy arbors, where refreshments may be ordered, and a
tête-à-tête enjoyed, the trees hung with colored lights, artificial
perspectives made by bits of painted scenery placed at the end of pretty
walks, &c. In the centre is a brilliantly lighted stand, which is
occupied by a fine orchestra, and upon the smooth flooring about it,
within sound of the music, the dancers. The frequenters of Mabille are
of the upper and middle class among the males, the females are generally
lorettes, and the spectators largely composed of Americans and English.
The leader of the orchestra displays a large card bearing the name of
each piece the orchestra will perform, as "Galop," "Valse," "Quadrille,"
&c., before it commences, and it is the dance which is one of the great
features of the place; but this, which, a few years ago, used to be so
novel, has been so robbed of its "naughtiness" by the outrageous
displays of the ballet, and the indecencies of "White Fawn" and "Black
Crook" dramas have left the Jardin Mabille so far in the background that
even American ladies now venture there as spectators.
The fact that the women at Mabille are lorettes, and that in dancing
they frequently kick their feet to the height of their partners' heads,
appears to be the leading attractive feature of the place. The style of
dancing is a curiosity, however; a quadrille of these women and their
partners is a specimen of the saltatory art worth seeing. There is no
slow, measured sliding and dawdling through the figure, as in our
cotillons at home; the dancers dance all over--feet, arms, muscles,
head, body, and legs; each quadrille, in which there are dancers of
noted skill and agility, is surrounded by a circle of admiring
spectators. The men, as they forward and back, and _chassé_, bend and
writhe like eels, now stooping nearly to the floor, then rising with a
bound into the air like a rubber ball: forward to partners, a fellow
leans forward his head, and feigns to kiss the advancing siren, who,
with a sudden movement, brings her foot up in the position just occupied
by his face, which is skilfully dodged by the fellow leaping backwards,
agile as an ape; the men toss their arms, throw out their feet, describe
arcs, circles, and sometimes a spry fellow turns a summersault in the
dance. The girls gather up their long skirts to the knee with their
hand, and are scarcely less active than their partners; they bound
forward, now and then kicking their boots, with white lacings, high into
the air, sometimes performing the well-known trick of kicking off the
hat of a gaping Englishman or American, who may be watching the dance.
The waltz, polka, and galop are performed with a frantic fervor that
makes even the spectator's head swim, and at its close the dancers
repair to the tables to cool off with iced drinks, or a stroll in the
garden walks.
The proprietors of the Jardin Mabille, Closerie des Lilas, and similar
places, generally have some few female dancers of more than usual
gymnastic skill, and with some personal attraction, whom they employ as
regular habitues of the gardens as attractions for strangers, more
particularly green young Englishmen and Americans. This place, however,
is perfectly safe, being under strict surveillance of the police, and
there is very rarely the least disturbance or rudeness; the police see
that the gardens are cleared, and the gas extinguished, at midnight. Two
nights in the week at the Jardin Mabille are fête nights, when a grand
display of fireworks is added to the other attractions of the place.
The Closerie des Lilas is a garden not so extensive as Mabille,
frequented principally by students and their mistresses--admission one
franc, ladies free. Here the dancing is a little more demonstrative, and
the dresses are cut rather lower in the neck; yet the costume and
display of the person are modest in comparison with that in the
spectacular pieces upon the stage. The students go in for a jolly
time, and have it, if dancing with all their might, waltzing like
whirling dervishes, and undulating through the Can-Can with abandon
indescribable, constitute it.
Of course we did not omit the Palace of the Luxembourg, with its superb
gallery of modern paintings, among which we noticed Delacroix' pictures
of Dante and Virgil, and Massacre of Scio; Oxen ploughing by Rosa
Bonheur, and Hay Harvest by the same artist; Horace Vernet's Meeting of
Raphael and Michael Angelo, and Müller's Calling the Roll of Victims to
be guillotined, during the Reign of Terror. In this palace is also the
Hall of the Senate, semicircular, about one hundred feet in diameter,
elegantly decorated with statues, busts, and pictures, and the vaulted
ceiling adorned with allegorical frescoes. Here is also the Salle du
Trône, or Throne Room, a magnificent saloon, elegantly frescoed,
ornamented, and gilded. The throne itself is a large chair, elegantly
upholstered, with the Napoleonic N displayed upon it, upon a raised
dais, above which was a splendid canopy supported by caryatides. The
walls of the saloon were adorned with elegant pictures, representing
Napoleon at the Invalides, Napoleon I. elected emperor, and Napoleon I.
receiving the flags taken at Austerlitz. Other paintings, representing
scenes in the emperor's life, are in a small apartment adjoining, called
the Emperor's Cabinet. We then visited here the chamber of Marie de
Medicis, which contains the arm-chair used at the coronation of Napoleon
I., and paintings by Rubens. The latter were taken down, with some of
the beautiful panelling, which is rich in exquisite scroll-work, and
concealed during the revolution of 1789, and replaced again in 1817.
The Garden of Plants, at Paris, is another of those very enjoyable
places in Europe, in which the visitor luxuriates in gratifying his
taste for botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and natural science. Here in
this beautiful garden are spacious hot-houses and green-houses, with
every variety of rare plants, a botanical garden, galleries of botany,
zoölogy, and mineralogy, and a great amphitheatre and laboratories for
lectures, which are free to all who desire to attend, given by
scientific and skilled lecturers, from April to October. The
amphitheatre for lectures will hold twelve hundred persons; and among
the lectures on the list, which is posted up at its entrance, and also
at the entrance of the gardens, were the subjects of chemistry, geology,
anatomy, physiology, botany, and zoölogy. Many scientific men of
celebrity received their education here, and the different museums are
rich in rare specimens of their departments. The Zoölogical Museum has a
fine collection of stuffed specimens of natural history, zoöphites,
birds, butterflies, large mammiferous animals, &c. The Geological Museum
is admirably arranged--curious specimens from all parts of the
world--from mountains, waterfalls, volcanoes, mines, coral-reefs, and
meteors, i. e., specimens from the earth below and the heavens above.
The Botanical Department, besides its botanical specimens, has a museum
of woods similar to that at Kew Gardens. A Cabinet of Anatomy contains a
collection of skeletons of animals, &c. The Zoölogical Garden is the
most interesting and most frequented part of the grounds. The lions,
tigers, bears, elephants, hyenas, and other beasts have spacious
enclosures, as in the Zoölogical Gardens at London, though not so well
arranged, nor is the collection so extensive. The Palais des Singes
(palace of monkeys), a circular building provided for these agile
acrobats, is a most attractive resort, and always thronged with
spectators. Parterres of flowers, handsome shade trees, shrubs, and
curious plants adorn the grounds and border the winding walks and paths;
and the visitor cannot help being impressed that almost everything
connected with natural science is represented here in this grand garden
and museum--plants, animals, fossils, minerals, curious collections, and
library. A single visit scarcely suffices to view the menagerie, and
many days would be required to examine the whole collection in different
departments.
St. Cloud! Even those who travel with a _valet de place_, and cannot
understand a word of French, seem to learn the pronunciation of this
name, and to air their "_song klew_" with much satisfaction. Through
the splendid apartments of this palace--since our visit, alas! destroyed
by the invading Prussians--we strolled of a Sunday afternoon. There was
the Saloon of Mars, Saloon of Diana, rich in magnificent frescoing,
representing the gods and goddesses of heathen mythology upon the lofty
ceilings; the Gallery of Apollo, a vast and magnificently-decorated
apartment, ceiling painted by Mignard, with scenes in the life of
Apollo, walls beautifully gilt and frescoed, hung with rare paintings,
furnished with cabinets of elegant Sèvres porcelain, rich and curious
furniture, and costly bronzes. It was here, in this apartment, that
Prince Napoleon, son of Jerome, was baptized by Pope Pius VII., in
1805, and here the marriage of Napoleon I. and Maria Louisa was
celebrated in 1810. Then we go on through the usual routine of grand
apartments--Saloons of Minerva, Mercury, Aurora, Venus, &c.--rich in
magnificent paintings, wondrous tapestry, elegant carving, and splendid
decorations. Here are a suit of rooms that have been occupied by Marie
Antoinette, the Empress Josephine, Marie Louise, Louis Philippe, and
also by Louis Napoleon. Historical memories come thickly into the mind
on visiting these places, and throw an additional charm about them. St.
Cloud often figures in the history of the great Napoleon. That great
soldier and his Guard, Cromwell-like, dispersed the Council of Five
Hundred that held their sessions here in 1799, and was soon after made
first consul. Farther back in history, here the monk assassinated Henry
III., and it was here Louis XIV. and Louis XVI. often sojourned.
The Cascade at St. Cloud is the object that figures most frequently in
illustrated books and pictures, and the leading attraction inquired for.
It is in the grand park, and consists of a series of vast steps, at the
top of which are huge fountains, which send the water down in great
sheets, forming a succession of waterfalls, the sides of the steps
ornamented with innumerable vases and shell-work. The water, after
passing these steps, reaches a great semicircular basin, surrounded by
_jets d'eau_, and from thence falls over other grand steps into a grand
canal, two hundred and sixty feet long and ninety wide; dolphins
spouting into it, fountains running over from vases, and spouting
upright from the basin itself, and one huge waterspout near by sending
up its aqueous shaft one hundred and forty feet into the air, the whole
forming a sparkling spectacle in the sunlight of a summer afternoon.
Every alternate Sunday in summer is a fête day here; and on one of these
occasions we saw fountains playing, merry-go-round horses, with children
upon the horses, ten-pin alleys, in which the prizes were dolls, china
ware, and macaroon cakes. Here was a figure of an open-mouthed giant,
into which the visitor was invited to pitch three wooden balls for two
sous; prizes, three ginger-snaps in case of success. The d--l among the
tailors was in brisk operation; a loud-voiced Frenchman invited
spectators to throw leathern balls at some grotesque dolls that he had
in a row astride of a cord, a sou only for three shots; and prizes for
knocking off the dolls, which were dressed to represent obnoxious
personages, and duly labelled, were paid in pretty artificial flowers
made of paper. Fortune-wheels could be whirled at half a franc a turn,
the gifts on which that halted beneath the rod of the figure of the
enchanter that stood above them belonged to the whirler. I heard a
vigorous crowing, succeeded by a fellow shouting, "_Coq de village, un
sou! Coq de village, un sou, messieurs!_" He had a huge basket filled
with little shells, which were so prepared that, when blown upon, they
gave a clever imitation of chanticleer. Fandangos carried their laughing
groups up into the air and down again; inclined planes, with
self-running cars, gave curious rides; and in one part of the grounds
were shown booths of the old English fair kind. Before one, on a
platform, a clown danced, and invited the public to enter, to the music
of bass drum and horn; ponies, monkeys, trained dogs, and other
performers were paraded, as an indication of what might be seen within;
pictorial representations of giants, fat women, and dwarfs were in front
of others; a sword-swallower took a mouthful or two by way of
illustrating the appetite he would display for three sous; and a
red-hot iron taster, in suit of dirty red and white muslin, and gold
spangles, passed a heated bar dangerously near his tongue, intimating
that those who desired could, by the investment of a few coppers, have
the rare privilege of witnessing his repast of red-hot iron. These, and
scores of other cheap amusements, invited the attention of the thousands
that thronged the park on that pleasant Sunday afternoon; and among all
the throng, which was composed principally of the common people, we saw
not a single case of intoxication, and the trim-dressed officers of
police, in dress coats, cocked hats, and swords, who sauntered here and
there, had little to do, except, when a throng at some point became too
dense, to open a passage, or cause some of the loungers to move on a
little.
The traveller who visits the splendid retail establishments in the Rue
de la Paix or on the Boulevards, unattended, and purchases what suits
his fancy, paying the price that the very supple and cringing salesmen
choose to charge, or even goes into those magasins in which a
conspicuously-displayed sign announces the _prix fixé_, will, after a
little experience, become perfectly amazed at the elasticity of French
conscience, not to say the skill and brazen effrontery of French
swindling.
In four fifths of these great retail stores, the discovery that the
purchaser is an American or an Englishman, and a stranger, is a signal
for increasing the regular price of every article he desires to
purchase; if he betrays his ignorance of the usual rate, palming off an
inferior quality of goods, and obtaining an advantage in every possible
way, besides the legitimate profit. It never seems to enter the heads of
these smirking, supple-backed swindlers, that a reputation for honesty
and fair dealing is worth anything at all to their establishments.
Possibly they argue that, as Paris is headquarters for shopping, buyers
will come, willy-nilly; or it may be that deception is so much a part of
the Frenchman's nature, that it is a moral impossibility for him to get
along without a certain amount of it.
The _prix fixé_, put up to indicate that the establishment has a fixed
price, from which there is no abatement, after the style of the "one
price" stores in America, very often has but little significance. A
friend with whom I was shopping upon one occasion told the shop-keeper,
whom he had offered fifteen or twenty per cent. less than his charge,
and who pointed, with an expressive shrug, to the placard, that he was
perfectly aware the price was fixed, as it generally was "fixed" all
over Paris for every new customer. Monsieur was so _charmé_ with his
repartee, that he obtained the article at the price he offered.
One frequently sees costly articles, or some that have been very
slightly worn, displayed in a shop window, ticketed at a low price, and
marked _L'Occasion_, to signify that it is not a part of the regular
stock, but has been left there for sale--is an "opportunity;" or
intimating, perhaps, that it is sold by some needy party, who is anxious
to raise the ready cash. Some of these opportunities are bargains, but
the buyer must be on his guard that the "occasion" is not one that has
been specially prepared to entrap the purchaser into taking a damaged
article of high cost at a price beyond its real value.
Although the French shop-keeper may use every artifice to make the buyer
pay an exorbitant rate for his goods, the law is very stringent in
certain branches of trade, and prevents one species of barefaced
cheating that is continually practised in New York, and has been for
years, with no indications that it will ever be abolished.
In Paris--at least on the Boulevards and great retail marts--there are
no mock auction shops, gift enterprise swindlers, bogus ticket agencies,
or similar traps for the unwary, which disgrace New York. Government
makes quick work of any abuse of this kind, and the police abolish it
and the proprietor so completely, that few dare try the experiment.
Neither dare dealers in galvanized watches or imitation jewelry sell it
for gold. They are compelled to display the word "imitation"
conspicuously upon their shop front and window; and really imitation
jewelry is such an important article of trade, that as much skill is
exhausted upon it as in the real article, and dealers vie with each
other in producing splendid imitations, some of which are so good that a
purchaser may, while the article is worn in its "newest gloss," make a
display for ten francs that in the real article would cost as many
hundreds. Neither are dealers allowed to sell berries by the "box," or
peaches by the "crate;" nor are there any of the opportunities of
America in making the "box" or the "crate" smaller, without deduction of
price. Many kinds of fruit are sold by weight, and there appears to be a
rigid inspection, that poor and damaged articles shall not be palmed off
upon purchasers. When the government steps in to the regulation of
trade, it does it so business-like, so thoroughly, promptly, and
effectually, and places such an impassable bar to imposture, that an
American, even of the most spread-eagle description, cannot help
acknowledging that there are some advantages in imperial rule, after
all. He certainly feels a decided degree of confidence that the law will
be enforced upon a ruffian or a pickpocket, that should be detected in
any attempt to interfere with him, which he never can feel in the city
of New York, and that the French police are always on hand, know and
perform their duty without solicitation; are efficient officers of the
law, and not political roughs, rewarded with places, to be paid for with
votes.
There are many French articles that have a large sale in America, and
which the traveller promises himself he will lay in a supply of, on
visiting Paris, which he is quite surprised to find, on inquiry, are
hardly ever called for by Parisians. Thus certain brands of kid gloves,
and varieties of perfumery, that are very popular in America, can
scarcely be found at the shops on the Boulevards. The best gloves, and
those most celebrated in Paris, which are really marvels of excellence
in workmanship, are of a brand that cannot be found in the American
shops, their high price affording too little margin for profit; but
scarce an American who visits Paris but supplies himself from the now
well-known magasin in Rue Richelieu. A friend, who thought to purchase
at headquarters, sought in vain in Paris for the thick, yellow, and
handsomely-stitched gloves he had seen in Regent Street, London, known
as French dog-skin. Nothing of the kind could be found. They were made
exclusively for the English market.
But it really seems as if almost everything ever heard or thought of
could be bought in the French capital, and made in any style, prepared
in any form, and furnished with marvellous speed. There is one
characteristic of the European shopmen, which I have before referred to,
which is in agreeable contrast with many American dealers; and that is,
their willingness to make or alter an article to the purchaser's taste;
to sell you what you want, and not dispute, and try to force an article
upon you which they argue you ought to have, instead of the one you call
for. If a lady liked the sleeves of one cloak, and the body of another,
she is informed that the change of sleeves shall instantly be made from
one to the other. Does a gentleman order a pair of boots with twisted
toes, the boot-maker only says, "_Certainement, monsieur_," and takes
his measure. The glover will give you any hue, in or out of the fashion,
stitched with any colored silk, and gratify any erratic taste, without
question, at twenty-four hours' notice. The ribbon-seller will show you
an innumerable variety of gradations of the same hue, will match
anything, and shows a skill in endeavoring to suit you exactly. In fact,
we presume that the foreign shopman accepts the situation, and is
striving to be more a shopman than ever, instead of--as is too often the
case in our own country--acting as though he merely held the position
_pro tempore_, and was conferring an honor upon the purchaser by serving
him.
Purchases may be made down to infinitesimal quantities, especially of
articles of daily consumption; and where so many are making a grand
display upon a small capital, as in Paris, it is necessary that every
convenience should be afforded; and it is. Living in apartments, one may
obtain everything from the magasins within a stone's throw. He may order
turkey and truffles, and a grand dinner, with entrées, which will be
furnished him at his lodgings, at any hour, from the neighboring
restaurant, with dishes, table furniture, and servant; or he may order
the leg of a fowl, one pickle, and two sous' worth of salt and pepper.
He can call in a porter, with a back-load of wood for a fire, or buy
three or four sous' worth of fagots. But your true Frenchman, of limited
means, utilizes everything. He argues, and very correctly, that all he
pays for belongs to him. So at the café you will see him carefully wrap
the two or three lumps of sugar that remain, of those furnished him for
his coffee, in a paper, and carry them away. They save the expense of
the article for the morning cup at his lodgings. So if a cake or two, or
biscuit, remain, he appropriates them as his right; and I have even seen
one who went so far as to pocket two or three little wax matches that
were brought to him with a cigar. Much has been said of how cheaply one
can live in Paris. This would apply, with equal truthfulness, to many of
our own cities, if people would live in the same way, and practise the
same economy. This, however, is repugnant to the American, and, in some
respects, mistaken idea of liberality.
The absolute, unnecessary waste in an American gentleman's kitchen would
support two French families comfortably. In some it already supports
three or four Irish ones.
There are three ways of going shopping in Paris. The first is to start
out by yourself, and seek out stores which may have the goods that you
desire to purchase; the second, to avail yourself of the services of a
_valet de place_, or courier; and the third, to employ the services of
one of your banker's clerks, who is an expert, or those of a commission
merchant.
We have experimented in all three methods. In the first, you are sure to
pay the extreme retail price. In the second, you are very likely to do
the same, the only difference being that the courier gets a handsome
_douceur_ from the shop-keeper for introducing you, or, in other words,
shares with him the extra amount of which you have been plundered. The
latter method is by far the best and most satisfactory to strangers
unfamiliar with Paris and French customs.
Stereoscopic views of Paris, which we were charged one franc apiece for
on the Boulevards, were purchased of the manufacturer in his garret at
three francs a dozen. Spectacles which cost five dollars a pair in
Boston, and eight francs on the Boulevards, we bought for three francs a
pair of the wholesale dealer. Gloves are sold at all sorts of prices,
and are of all sorts of qualities, and the makers will make to measure
any pattern or style to suit any sort of fancy. Jewelry we were taken to
see in the quarter where it was made--up stairs, in back rooms, often in
the same building where the artisan lived, where, there being no plate
glass, grand store, and heavy expenses to pay, certain small articles of
_bijouterie_ could be purchased at a very low figure; rich jewelry,
diamonds, and precious stones were sold in quiet, massive rooms, up
stairs, in buildings approached through a court-yard.
For diamonds, you may be taken up stairs to a small, carefully guarded
inner room, dimly lighted, in which a black-velvet-covered table or
counter, and two or three leather-covered chairs, give a decidedly
funereal aspect to the place. An old, bent man, whose hooked nose and
glittering eyes betoken him a Hebrew, waits upon your conductor, whom he
greets as an old acquaintance. He adjusts the window shade so that the
light falls directly upon the black counter (which is strikingly
suggestive of being prepared to receive a coffin), or else pulls down
the window-shade, and turns up the gas-light directly above the black
pedestal, and then, from some inner safe or strong box, produces little
packages of tissue paper, from which he displays the flashing gems upon
the black velvet, shrewdly watching the effect, and the purchaser's
skill and judgment, and keeping back the most desirable stones until the
last.
Ladies' ready-made clothing may be bought in Paris as readily as
gentlemen's can be in New York or Boston--garments of great elegance,
and of the most fashionable make and trimming, such as full dress for
evening party or ball, dress for promenade, morning dress, and cloaks of
the latest mode. These are made, apparently, with all the care of
"custom made" garments, certainly of just as rich silk, satin, and
velvet, and a corps of workwomen appears to be always in attendance, to
immediately adapt a dress or garment to the purchaser by alteration, to
make it a perfect fit. In one of these large establishments for the sale
of ladies' clothing were numerous small private drawing-rooms, each of
which was occupied by different lady purchasers, who were making their
selections of dresses, mantles, or cloaks, which were being exhibited to
them in almost endless variety.
The saleswomen were aided by young women, evidently selected for their
height and good figures, whose duty it was to continually whip on a
dress or mantle, and promenade back and forth before the purchasers. By
these shrewd manoeuvres, many a fat dowager or dumpy woman of wealth
was induced to purchase an elegant garment, which, upon the lithe,
undulating figure of a girl of twenty was a thing of grace and beauty,
thinking it would have the same effect upon herself. These model artists
were adepts in the art of dress, and knew how to manage a dress trail in
the most _distingué_ style, wore a mantelet with a grace, and threw a
glance over the shoulder of a new velvet cloak or mantle with an
archness and _naiveté_ that straightway invested it with a charm that
could never have been given to it had it been displayed upon a "dummy."
As an illustration of the value of a reliable _commissionaire's_
services at this first-class establishment, it is only necessary to
state, that on our second visit, which was in his company, we found that
a difference of eighty to a hundred francs was made in our favor, on a
six hundred franc costume, upon what was charged when we came as
strangers, and alone.
There are some magnificent India shawl stores in Paris, carried on by
companies of great wealth, who have their agents and operatives
constantly employed in India, and whose splendid warehouses are filled
with a wealth of those draperies that all women covet. In a room of one
of these great shawl warehouses we saw retail dealers selecting and
purchasing their supplies. Salesmen were supplied by assistants with
different styles from the shelves, which were displayed before the buyer
upon a lay figure; and upon his displeasure or decision, it was
immediately cast aside upon the floor, to be refolded and replaced by
other assistants; which was so much more labor, however, than unfolding,
that the floor was heaped with the rich merchandise. This so excited an
American visitor, that she could not help exclaiming, "Only think of it!
Must it not be nice to stand knee-deep in Cashmere shawls?"
Many purchasers, who seek low prices and fair dealings, visit
the establishment known as the "_Bon Marché_," rather out of the
fashionable quarter of the city, and "the other side of the Seine."
The proprietor of this place buys in big lots, and sells on the
quick-sales-and-small-profits principle; and his immense warehouse,
which is filled with every species of dry goods, haberdashery, ribbons,
clothing, gloves, gents' furnishing goods, and almost everything except
groceries and medicines, is crammed with purchasers every day, whose
_voitures_ line the streets in the immediate vicinity. At this place
bargains are often obtained in articles of ladies' dress, which may be a
month past the season, and which are closed out at a low figure, to make
room for the latest style; and American ladies, who sometimes purchase
in this manner, rejoice, on arrival in their own country, with that joy
which woman only knows when she finds she has about the first article
out of a new fashion, and that, too, bought at a bargain.
It is a good plan for American tourists, who have any amount of
purchases to make, to take a carriage by the hour, and the banker's
clerk or commission merchant whom they engage to accompany them, and
make a day of it. It will be found an economy of time, and to involve
far less vexation and fatigue, than to attempt walking, or trusting to
luck to find the articles desired. An American, on his first visit to
Paris, finds so many things to attract and amuse him, and withal meets
so many of his countrymen, all bent upon having a good time there, that
he generally overstays the time he has allotted himself in the gay
capital. Once there, in its whirl of pleasure and never-ending
kaleidoscopic changes of attractions, amusements, and enjoyment, time
flits by rapidly; and when the day of departure comes, many a
thoughtless tourist feels that he has not half seen Paris.