expedition. He is a short, well-made man, of great personal
accomplishment, and a very bad expression, rather aggravated by an
unfortunate cutaneous eruption. The first time I saw him, I was induced
to ask who he was, from the apparent coldness and dislike with which
he was treated by a lady whose beauty had strongly arrested my attention.
He sat by her on a sofa in a very crowded party, and seemed to be
saying something very earnestly, which made the lady's Spanish eyes
flash fire, and brought a curl of very positive anger upon a pair of
the loveliest lips imaginable. She was a slender, aristocratic-looking
creature, and dressed most magnificently. After glancing at them a
minute or two, I made up my mind that, from the authenticity of his
dress and appointments, he was an Englishman, and that she was some
French lady of rank whom he was particularly annoying with his
addresses. On inquiry, the gentleman proved to be Don Pedro, and the
lady the Countess de Lourle, _his sister_! I have often met her since,
and never without wondering how two of the same family could look so
utterly unlike each other. The Count de Lourle is called the Adonis of
Paris. He is certainly a very splendid fellow, and justifies the
romantic admiration of his wife, who married him clandestinely, giving
him her left hand in the ceremony, as is the etiquette, they say, when
a princess marries below her rank. One can not help looking with great
interest on a beautiful creature like this, who has broken away from
the imposing fetters of a royal sphere, to follow the dictates of
natural feeling. It does not occur so often in Europe that one may not
sentimentalize about it without the charge of affectation.
To return to the ball. The king bowed himself out a little after
midnight, and with him departed most of the fat people, and all the
little girls. This made room enough to dance, and the French set
themselves at it in good earnest. I wandered about for an hour or two;
after wearying my imagination quite out in speculating on the
characters and rank of people whom I never saw before and shall
probably never see again, I mounted to the _paradis_ to take a last
look down upon the splendid scene, and made my exit. I should be quite
content never to go to such a ball again, though it was by far the
most splendid scene of the kind I ever saw.
LETTER XII.
PLACE LOUIS XV.--PANORAMIC VIEW OF PARIS--A LITERARY CLUB
DINNER--THE GUESTS--THE PRESIDENT--THE EXILED POLES, ETC.
I have spent the day in a long stroll. The wind blew warm and
delicious from the south this morning, and the temptation to abandon
lessons and lectures was irresistible. Taking the _Arc de l'Etoile_ as
my extreme point I yielded to all the leisurely hinderances of
shop-windows, beggars, book-stalls, and views by the way. Among the
specimen-cards in an engraver's window I was amused at finding, in the
latest Parisian fashion, "HUSSEIN-PACHA, _Dey d'Algiers_."
These delightful Tuileries! We rambled through them (I had met a
friend and countryman, and enticed him into my idle plans for the
day), and amused ourselves with the never-failing beauty and grace of
the French children for an hour. On the inner terrace we stopped to
look at the beautiful hotel of Prince Polignac, facing the Tuileries,
on the opposite bank. By the side of this exquisite little model of a
palace stands the superb commencement of Napoleon's ministerial
hotel, breathing of his glorious conception in every line of its
ruins. It is astonishing what a godlike impress that man left upon all
he touched.
Every third or fourth child in the gardens was dressed in the full
uniform of the National Guard--helmet, sword, epaulets, and all. They
are ludicrous little caricatures, of course, but it inoculates them
with love of the corps, and it would be better if that were synonymous
with a love of liberal principals. The _Garde Nationale_ are supposed
to be more than half "Carlists" at this moment.
We passed out by the guarded gate of the Tuileries to the _Place Louis
XV._ This square is a most beautiful spot, as a centre of unequalled
views, and yet a piece of earth so foully polluted with human blood
probably does not exist on the face of the globe. It divides the
Tuileries from the _Champs Elysees_, and ranges of course, in the long
broad avenue of two miles, stretching between the king's palace and
the _Arc de l'Etoile_. It is but a list of names to write down the
particular objects to be seen in such a view, but it commands, at the
extremities of its radii, the most princely edifices, seen hence with
the most advantageous foregrounds of space and avenue, and softened by
distance into the misty and unbroken surface of engraving. The king's
palace is on one hand, Napoleon's Arch at a distance of nearly two
miles on the other, Prince Talleyrand's regal dwelling behind, with
the church of Madelaine seen through the _Rue Royale_, while before
you, to the south, lies a picture of profuse splendor: the broad
Seine, spanned by bridges that are the admiration of Europe, and
crowded by specimens of architectural magnificence; the Chamber of
Deputies; and the _Palais Bourbon_, approached by the _Pont Louis
XVI._ with its gigantic statues and simple majesty of structure; and,
rising over all, the grand dome of the "_Invalides_," which Napoleon
gilded, to divert the minds of his subjects from his lost battle, and
which Peter the Great admired more than all Paris beside. What a spot
for a man to stand upon, with but one bosom to feel and one tongue to
express his wonder!
And yet, of what, that should make a spot of earth sink to perdition,
has it not been the theatre? Here were beheaded the unfortunate Louis
XVI.--his wife, Marie Antoinette--his kinsman, Philip duke of Orleans,
and his sister Elizabeth; and here were guillotined the intrepid
Charlotte Corday, the deputy Brissot, and twenty of his colleagues,
and all the victims of the revolution of 1793, to the amount of two
thousand eight hundred; and here Robespierre and his cursed crew met
at last with their insufficient retribution; and, as if it were
destined to be the very blood-spot of the earth, here the fireworks,
which were celebrating the marriage of the same Louis that was
afterward brought hither to the scaffold, exploded, and killed
fourteen hundred persons. It has been the scene, also, of several
minor tragedies not worth mentioning in such a connexion. Were I a
Bourbon, and as unpopular as King Philippe I. at this moment, the view
of the Place Louis XV. from my palace windows would very much disturb
the beauty of the perspective. Without an _equivoque_, I should look
with a very ominous dissatisfaction on the "Elysian fields" that lie
beyond.
We loitered slowly on to the _Barrier Neuilly_, just outside of which,
and right before the city gates, stands the Triumphal Arch. It has the
stamp of Napoleon--simple grandeur. The broad avenue from the
Tuileries swells slowly up to it for two miles, and the view of Paris
at its foot, even, is superb. We ascended to the unfinished roof, a
hundred and thirty-five feet from the ground, and saw the whole of the
mighty capital of France at a _coup d'oeil_--churches, palaces,
gardens; buildings heaped upon buildings clear over the edge of the
horizon, where the spires of the city in which you stand are scarcely
visible for the distance.
I dined, a short time since, with the editors of the _Revue
Encyclopedique_ at their monthly reunion. This is a sort of club
dinner, to which the eminent contributors of the review invite once a
month all the strangers of distinction who happen to be in Paris. I
owed my invitation probably to the circumstance of my living with Dr.
Howe, who is considered the organ of American principles here, and
whose force of character has given him a degree of respect and
prominence not often attained by foreigners. It was the most
remarkable party, by far, that I had ever seen. There were nearly a
hundred guests, twenty or thirty of whom were distinguished Poles,
lately arrived from Warsaw. Generals Romarino and Langermann were
placed beside the president, and another general, whose name is as
difficult to remember as his face is to forget, and who is famous for
having been the last on the field, sat next to the head seat. Near him
were General Bernard and Dr. Bowring, with Sir Sidney Smith (covered
with orders, from every quarter of the world), and the president of
Colombia. After the usual courses of a French dinner, the president,
Mons. Julien, a venerable man with snow-white hair, addressed the
company. He expressed his pleasure at the meeting, with the usual
courtesies of welcome, and in the fervent manner of the old school of
French politeness; and then pausing a little, and lowering his voice,
with a very touching cadence, he looked around to the Poles, and began
to speak of their country. Every movement was instantly hushed about
the table--the guests leaned forward, some of them half rising in
their earnestness to hear; the old man's voice trembled, and sunk
lower; the Poles dropped their heads upon their bosoms, and the whole
company were strongly affected. His manner suddenly changed at this
moment, in a degree that would have seemed too dramatic, if the strong
excitement had not sustained him. He spoke indignantly of the Russian
barbarity toward Poland--assured the exiles of the strong sympathy
felt by the great mass of the French people in their cause, and
expressed his confident belief that the struggle was not yet done, and
the time was near when, with France at her back, Poland would rise and
be free. He closed, amid tumultuous acclamation, and all the Poles
near him kissed the old man, after the French manner, upon both his
cheeks.
This speech was followed by several others, much to the same effect.
Dr. Bowring replied handsomely, in French, to some compliment paid to
his efforts on the "question of reform," in England. _Cesar Moreau_,
the great schemist, and founder of the _Academie d'Industrie_, said a
few very revolutionary things quite emphatically, rolling his fine
visionary-looking eyes about as if he saw the "shadows cast before" of
coming events; and then rose a speaker, whom I shall never forget. He
was a young Polish noble, of about nineteen, whose extreme personal
beauty and enthusiastic expression of countenance had particularly
arrested my attention in the drawing-room, before dinner. His person
was slender and graceful--his eye and mouth full of beauty and fire,
and his manner had a quiet native superiority, that would have
distinguished him anywhere. He had behaved very gallantly in the
struggle, and some allusion had been made to him in one of the
addresses. He rose modestly, and half unwillingly, and acknowledged
the kind wishes for his country in language of great elegance. He
then went on to speak of the misfortunes of Poland, and soon warmed
into eloquence of the most vivid earnestness and power. I never was
more moved by a speaker--he seemed perfectly unconscious of everything
but the recollections of his subject. His eyes swam with tears and
flashed with indignation alternately, and his refined, spirited mouth
assumed a play of varied expression, which, could it have been
arrested, would have made a sculptor immortal. I can hardly write
extravagantly of him, for all present were as much excited as myself.
One ceases to wonder at the desperate character of the attempt to
redeem the liberty of a land when he sees such specimens of its
people. I have seen hundreds of Poles, of all classes, in Paris, and I
have not yet met with a face of even common dulness among them.
You have seen by the papers, I presume, that a body of several
thousand Poles fled from Warsaw, after the defeat, and took refuge in
the northern forests of Prussia. They gave up their arms under an
assurance from the king that they should have all the rights of
Prussian subjects. He found it politic afterward to recall his
protection, and ordered them back to Poland. They refused to go, and
were surrounded by a detachment of his army, and the orders given to
fire upon them. The soldiers refused, and the Poles, taking advantage
of the sympathy of the army, broke through the ranks, and escaped to
the forest, where, at the last news, they were armed with clubs, and
determined to defend themselves to the last. The consequence of a
return to Poland would be, of course, an immediate exile to Siberia.
The Polish committee, American and French, with General Lafayette at
their head, have appropriated a great part of their funds to the
relief of this body, and our countryman, Dr. Howe, has undertaken the
dangerous and difficult task of carrying it to them. He left Paris for
Brussels, with letters from the Polish generals, and advices from
Lafayette to all Polish committees upon his route, that they should
put all their funds into his hands. He is a gallant fellow, and will
succeed if any one can; but he certainly runs great hazard. God
prosper him!
LETTER XIII.
THE GAMBLING-HOUSES OF PARIS.
I accepted, last night, from a French gentleman of high standing, a
polite offer of introduction to one of the exclusive gambling clubs
of Paris. With the understanding, of course, that it was only as a
spectator, my friend, whom I had met at a dinner party, despatched
a note from the table, announcing to the temporary master of
ceremonies his intention of presenting me. We went at eleven, in full
dress. I was surprised at the entrance with the splendor of the
establishment--gilt balustrades, marble staircases, crowds of servants
in full livery, and all the formal announcement of a court. Passing
through several ante-chambers, a heavy folding-door was thrown open,
and we were received by one of the noblest-looking men I have seen in
France--Count ----. I was put immediately at my ease by his dignified
and kind politeness; and after a little conversation in English, which
he spoke fluently, the entrance of some other person left me at
liberty to observe at my leisure. Everything about me had the impress
of the studied taste of high life. The lavish and yet soft disposition
of light, the harmony of color in the rich hangings and furniture,
the quiet manners and subdued tones of conversation, the respectful
deference of the servants, and the simplicity of the slight
entertainment, would have convinced me, without my Asmodeus, that I
was in no every-day atmosphere. Conversation proceeded for an hour,
while the members came dropping in from their evening engagements, and
a little after twelve a glass door was thrown open, and we passed from
the reception-room to the spacious suite of apartments intended for
play. One or two of the gentlemen entered the side rooms for billiards
and cards, but the majority closed about the table of hazard in the
central hall. I had never conceived so beautiful an apartment. It can
be described in two words--_columns_ and _mirrors_. There was nothing
else between the exquisitely-painted ceiling and the floor. The form
was circular, and the wall was laid with glass, interrupted only with
pairs of Corinthian pillars, with their rich capitals reflected and
re-reflected innumerably. It seemed like a hall of colonnades of
illimitable extent--the multiplication of the mirrors into each other
was so endless and illusive. I felt an unconquerable disposition to
abandon myself to a waking revery of pleasure; and as soon as the
attention of the company was perfectly engrossed by the silent
occupation before them, I sank upon a sofa, and gave my senses up for
a while to the fascination of the scene. My eye was intoxicated. As
far as my sight could penetrate, stretched apparently interminable
halls, carpeted with crimson, and studded with graceful columns and
groups of courtly figures, forming altogether, with its extent and
beauty, and in the subdued and skilfully-managed light, a picture
that, if real, would be one of unsurpassable splendor. I quite forgot
my curiosity to see the game. I had merely observed, when my companion
reminded me of the arrival of my own appointed hour for departure
that, whatever was lost or won, the rustling bills were passed from
one to the other with a quiet and imperturbable politeness, that
betrayed no sign either of chagrin or triumph; though, from the fact
that the transfers were in paper only, the stakes must have been
anything but trifling. Refusing a polite invitation to partake of the
supper, always in waiting, we took leave about two hours after
midnight.
As we drove from the court, my companion suggested to me, that, since
we were out at so late an hour, we might as well look in for a moment
at the more accessible "hells," and, pulling the _cordon_, he ordered
to "_Frascati's_." This, you know of course, is the fashionable place
of ruin, and here the heroes of all novels, and the rakes of all
comedies, mar or make their fortunes. An evening dress, and the look
of a gentleman, are the only required passport. A servant in
attendance took our hats and canes, and we walked in without ceremony.
It was a different scene from the former. Four large rooms, plainly
but handsomely furnished, opened into each other, three of which were
devoted to play, and crowded with players. Elegantly-dressed women,
some of them with high pretensions to French beauty, sat and stood at
the table, watching their own stakes in the rapid games with fixed
attention. The majority of the gentlemen were English. The table was
very large, marked as usual with the lines and figures of the game,
and each person playing had a small rake in his hand, with which he
drew toward him his proportion of the winnings. I was disappointed at
the first glance in the faces: there was very little of the high-bred
courtesy I had seen at the club-house, but there was no very striking
exhibition of feeling, and I should think, in any but an extreme case,
the whispering silence and general quietness of the room would
repress it. After watching the variations of luck awhile, however, I
selected one or two pretty desperate losers, and a young Frenchman who
was a large winner, and confined my observation to them only. Among
the former was a girl of about eighteen, a mild, quiet-looking
creature, with her hair curling long on her neck, and hands childishly
small and white, who lost invariably. Two piles of five-franc pieces
and a small heap of gold lay on the table beside her, and I watched
her till she laid the last coin upon the losing color. She bore it
very well. By the eagerness with which, at every turn of the last
card, she closed her hand upon the rake which she held, it was evident
that her hopes were high; but when her last piece was drawn into the
bank, she threw up her little fingers with a playful desperation, and
commenced conversation even gayly with a gentleman who stood leaning
over her chair. The young Frenchman continued almost as invariably to
win. He was excessively handsome; but there was a cold, profligate,
unvarying hardness of expression in his face, that made me dislike
him. The spectators drew gradually about his chair; and one or two of
the women, who seemed to know him well, selected a color for him
occasionally, or borrowed of him and staked for themselves. We left
him winning. The other players were mostly English, and very
uninteresting in their exhibition of disappointment. My companion told
me that there would be more desperate playing toward morning, but I
had become disgusted with the cold selfish faces of the scene, and
felt no interest sufficient to detain me.
LETTER XIV.
THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES--PRINCE MOSCOWA--SONS OF NAPOLEON--
COOPER AND MORSE--SIR SIDNEY SMITH--FASHIONABLE WOMEN--CLOSE
OF THE DAY--THE FAMOUS EATING-HOUSES--HOW TO DINE WELL IN PARIS,
ETC.
It is March, and the weather has all the characteristics of
New-England May. The last two or three days have been deliciously
spring-like, clear, sunny, and warm. The gardens of the Tuileries are
crowded. The chairs beneath the terraces are filled by the old men
reading the gazettes, mothers and nurses watching their children at
play, and, at every few steps, circles of whole families sitting and
sewing, or conversing, as unconcernedly as at home. It strikes a
stranger oddly. With the _privacy_ of American feelings, we cannot
conceive of these out-of-door French habits. What would a Boston or
New York mother think of taking chairs for her whole family, grown-up
daughters and all, in the Mall or upon the Battery, and spending the
day in the very midst of the gayest promenade of the city? People of
all ranks do it here. You will see the powdered, elegant gentleman of
the _ancien regime_, handing his wife or daughter to a straw-bottomed
chair, with all the air of drawing-room courtesy; and, begging pardon
for the liberty, pull his journal from his pocket, and sit down to
read beside her; or a tottering old man, leaning upon a stout Swiss
servant girl, goes bowing and apologizing through the crowd, in search
of a pleasant neighbor, or some old compatriot, with whom he may sit
and nod away the hours of sunshine. It is a beautiful custom,
positively. The gardens are like a constant _fete_. It is a holiday
revel, without design or disappointment. It is a masque, where every
one plays his character unconsciously, and therefore naturally and
well. We get no idea of it at home. We are too industrious a nation to
have idlers enough. It would even pain most of the people of our
country to see so many thousands of all ages and conditions of life
spending day after day in such absolute uselessness.