days in the week, of all that is distinguished and gay in Paris. It is
a short raised walk, just inside the railings, and the only part of
all these wide and beautiful gardens where a member of the _beau
monde_ is ever to be met. The hour is four, the day Friday, the
weather heavenly. I have just been long enough in Paris to be an
excellent walking dictionary, and I will tell you who people are. In
the first place, all the well-dressed men you see are English. You
will know the French by those flaring coats, laid clear back on their
shoulders, and their execrable hats and thin legs. Their heads are
fresh from the hair-dresser; their hats are _chapeaux de soie_ or
imitation beaver; they are delicately rouged, and wear very white
gloves; and those who are with ladies, lead, as you observe, a small
dog by a string, or carry it in their arms. No French lady walks out
without her lap-dog. These slow-paced men you see in brown mustaches
and frogged coats are refugee Poles. The short, thick, agile-looking
man before us is General ----, celebrated for having been the last to
surrender on the last field of that brief contest. His handsome face
is full of resolution, and unlike the rest of his countrymen, he looks
still unsubdued and in good heart. He walks here every day an hour or
two, swinging his cane round his forefinger, and thinking, apparently
of anything but his defeat. Observe these two young men approaching
us. The short one on the left, with the stiff hair and red mustache,
is _Prince Moscowa_, the son of Marshal Ney. He is an object of more
than usual interest just now, as the youngest of the new batch of
peers. The expression of his countenance is more bold than handsome,
and indeed he is anything but a carpet knight; a fact of which he
seems, like a man of sense, quite aware. He is to be seen at the
parties standing with his arms folded, leaning silently against the
wall for hours together. His companion is, I presume to say, quite the
handsomest man you ever saw. A little over six feet, perfectly
proportioned, dark silken-brown hair, slightly curling about his
forehead, a soft curling mustache, and beard just darkening the finest
cut mouth in the world, and an olive complexion, of the most golden
richness and clearness--Mr. ---- is called the handsomest man in
Europe. What is more remarkable still, he looks like the most modest
man in Europe, too; though, like most modest _looking_ men, his
reputation for constancy in the gallant world is somewhat slender. And
here comes a fine-looking man, though of a different order of
beauty--a natural son of Napoleon. He is about his father's height,
and has most of his features, though his person and air must be quite
different. You see there Napoleon's beautiful mouth and thinly
chiselled nose, but I fancy that soft eye is his mother's. He is said
to be one of the most fascinating men in France. His mother was the
Countess Waleski, a lady with whom the Emperor became acquainted in
Poland. It is singular that Napoleon's talents and love of glory have
not descended upon any of the eight or ten sons whose claims to his
paternity are admitted. And here come two of our countrymen, who are
to be seen constantly together--_Cooper_ and _Morse_. That is Cooper
with the blue surtout buttoned up to his throat, and his hat over his
eyes. What a contrast between the faces of the two men! Morse with his
kind, open, gentle countenance, the very picture of goodness and
sincerity; and Cooper, dark and corsair-looking, with his brows down
over his eyes, and his strongly lined mouth fixed in an expression of
moodiness and reserve. The two faces, however, are not equally just to
their owners--Morse is all that he looks to be, but Cooper's features
do him decided injustice. I take a pride in the reputation which this
distinguished countryman of ours has for humanity and generous
sympathy. The distress of the refugee liberals from all countries
comes home especially to Americans, and the untiring liberality of Mr.
Cooper particularly, is a fact of common admission and praise. It is
pleasant to be able to say such things. Morse is taking a sketch of
the Gallery of the Louvre, and he intends copying some of the best
pictures also, to accompany it as an exhibition, when he returns. Our
artists do our country credit abroad. The feeling of interest in one's
country artists and authors becomes very strong in a foreign land.
Every leaf of laurel awarded to them seems to touch one's own
forehead. And, talking of laurels, here comes _Sir Sidney Smith_--the
short, fat, old gentleman yonder, with the large aquiline nose and
keen eye. He is one of the few men who ever opposed Napoleon
successfully, and that should distinguish him, even if he had not won
by his numerous merits and achievements the gift of almost every order
in Europe. He is, among other things, of a very mechanical turn, and
is quite crazy just now about a six-wheeled coach, which he has lately
invented, and of which nobody sees the exact benefit but himself. An
invitation to his rooms, to hear his description of the model, is
considered the last new bore.
And now for ladies. Whom do you see that looks distinguished? Scarce
one whom you would take positively for a lady, I venture to presume.
These two, with the velvet pelisses and small satin bonnets, are
rather the most genteel-looking people in the garden. I set them down
for ladies of rank, in the first walk I ever took here; and two who
have just passed us, with the curly lap-dog, I was equally sure were
persons of not very dainty morality. It is precisely _au contraire_.
The velvet pelisses are gamblers from Frascati's, and the two with the
lap-dog are the Countess N. and her unmarried daughter--two of the
most exclusive specimens of Parisian society. It is very odd--but if
you see a remarkably modest-looking woman in Paris, you may be sure,
as the periphrasis goes, that "she is no better than she should be."
Everything gets _travestied_ in this artificial society. The general
ambition seems to be, to appear that which one is not. White-haired
men cultivate their sparse mustaches, and dark-haired men shave.
Deformed men are successful in gallantry, where handsome men despair.
Ugly women dress and dance, while beauties mope and are deserted.
Modesty looks brazen, and vice looks timid; and so all through the
calendar. Life in Paris is as pretty a series of astonishment, as an
_ennuye_ could desire.
But there goes the palace-bell--five o'clock! The sun is just
disappearing behind the dome of the "Invalides," and the crowd begins
to thin. Look at the atmosphere of the gardens. How deliciously the
twilight mist softens everything. Statues, people, trees, and the long
perspectives down the alleys, all mellowed into the shadowy
indistinctness of fairy-land. The throng is pressing out at the gates,
and the guard, with his bayonet presented, forbids all re-entrance,
for the gardens are cleared at sundown. The carriages are driving up
and dashing away, and if you stand a moment you will see the most
vulgar-looking people you have met in your promenade, waited for by
_chasseurs_, and departing with indications of rank in their
equipages, which nature has very positively denied to their persons.
And now all the world dines and dines well. The "_chef_" stands with
his gold repeater in his hand, waiting for the moment to decide the
fate of the first dish; the _garcons_ at the restaurants have donned
their white aprons, and laid the silver forks upon the napkins; the
pretty women are seated on their thrones in the saloons, and the
interesting hour is here. Where shall we dine? We will walk toward the
Palais Royal, and talk of it as we go along.
That man would "deserve well of his country" who should write a "Paris
Guide" for the palate. I would do it myself if I could elude the
immortality it would occasion me. One is compelled to pioneer his own
stomach through the endless _cartes_ of some twelve eating-houses, all
famous, before he half knows whether he is dining well or ill. I had
eaten for a week at Very's, for instance, before I discovered that,
since Pelham's day, that gentleman's reputation has gone down. He is
a subject for history at present. I was misled also by an elderly
gentleman at Havre, who advised me to eat at _Grignon's_, in the
_Passage Vivienne_. Not liking my first _coquilles aux huitres_, I
made some private inquiries, and found that his _chef_ had deserted
him about the time of Napoleon's return from Elba. A stranger gets
misguided in this way. And then, if by accident you hit upon the right
house, you may be eating for a month before you find out the peculiar
triumphs which have stamped its celebrity. No mortal man can excel in
everything, and it is as true of cooking as it is of poetry. The
"_Rochers de Cancale_," is now the first eating-house in Paris, yet
they only excel in fish. The "_Trois Freres Provencaux_," have a high
reputation, yet their _cotelettes provencales_ are the only dish which
you can not get equally well elsewhere. A good practice is to walk
about in the Palais Royal for an hour before dinner, and select a
master. You will know a _gourmet_ easily--a man slightly past the
prime of life, with a nose just getting its incipient blush, a
remarkably loose, voluminous white cravat, and a corpulence more of
suspicion than fact. Follow him to his restaurant, and give the
_garcon_ a private order to serve you with the same dishes as the
_bald_ gentleman. (I have observed that dainty livers universally lose
their hair early.) I have been in the wake of such a person now for a
week or more, and I never lived, comparatively, before. Here we are,
however, at the "_Trois Freres_," and there goes my unconscious model
deliberately up stairs. We'll follow him, and double his orders, and
if we dine not well, there is no eating in France.
LETTER XV.
HOPITAL DES INVALIDES--MONUMENT OF TURENNE--MARSHAL NEY--A
POLISH LADY IN UNIFORM--FEMALES MASQUERADING IN MEN'S
CLOTHES--DUEL BETWEEN THE SONS OF GEORGE IV. AND OF
BONAPARTE--GAMBLING PROPENSITIES OF THE FRENCH.
The weather still holds warm and bright, as it has been all the month,
and the scarcely "premature white pantaloons" appeared yesterday in
the Tuileries. The ladies loosen their "boas;" the silken greyhounds
of Italy follow their mistresses without shivering; the birds are
noisy and gay in the clipped trees--who that had known February in New
England would recognize him by such a description?
I took an indolent stroll with a friend this morning to the _Hopital
des Invalides_, on the other side of the river. Here, not long since,
were twenty-five thousand old soldiers. There are but five thousand
now remaining, most of them having been dismissed by the Bourbons. It
is of course one of the most interesting spots in France; and of a
pleasant day there is no lounge where a traveller can find so much
matter for thought, with so much pleasure to the eye. We crossed over
by the _Pons Louis Quinze_, and kept along the bank of the river to
the esplanade in front of the hospital. There was never a softer
sunshine, or a more deliciously-tempered air; and we found the old
veterans out of doors, sitting upon the cannon along the rampart, or
halting about, with their wooden legs, under the trees, the pictures
of comfort and contentment. The building itself, as you know, is very
celebrated for its grandeur. The dome of the _Invalides_ rises upon
the eye from all parts of Paris, a perfect model of proportion and
beauty. It was this which Bonaparte ordered to be gilded, to divert
the people from thinking too much upon his defeat. It is a living
monument of the most touching recollections of him now. Positively the
blood mounts, and the tears spring to the eyes of the spectator, as he
stands a moment, and remembers what is around him in that place. To
see his maimed followers, creeping along the corridors, clothed and
fed by the bounty he left, in a place devoted to his soldiers alone,
their old comrades about them, and all glowing with one feeling of
devotion to his memory, to speak to them, to hear their stories
of--"_L'Empereur_" it is better than a thousand histories to make one
_feel_ the glory of "the great captain." The interior of the dome is
vast, and of a splendid style of architecture, and out from one of its
sides extends a superb chapel, hung all round with the tattered flags
taken in _his_ victories alone. Here the veterans of his army worship,
beneath the banners for which they fought. It is hardly appropriate, I
should think, to adorn thus the church of a "religion of peace;" but
while there, at least, we feel strangely certain, somehow, that it is
right and fitting; and when, as we stood deciphering the half-effaced
insignia of the different nations, the organ began to peal, there
certainly was anything but a jar between this grand music,
consecrated as it is by religious associations, and the thrilling and
uncontrolled sense in my bosom of Napoleon's glory. The anthem seemed
to _him_!
The majestic sounds were still rolling through the dome when we came
to the monument of _Turenne_. Here is another comment on the character
of Bonaparte's mind. There was once a long inscription on this
monument, describing, in the fulsome style of an epitaph, the deeds
and virtues of the distinguished man who is buried beneath. The
emperor removed and replaced it by a small slab, graven with the
single word TURENNE. You acknowledge the sublimity of this as you
stand before it. Everything is in keeping with its grandeur. The lofty
proportions and magnificence of the dome, the tangible trophies of
glory, and the maimed and venerable figures, kneeling about the altar,
of those who helped to win them, are circumstances that make that
eloquent word as articulate as if it were spoken in thunder. You feel
that Napoleon's spirit might walk the place, and read the hearts of
those who should visit it, unoffended.
We passed on to the library. It is ornamented with the portraits of
all the generals of Napoleon, save one. _Ney's_ is not there. It
should, and will be, at some time or other, doubtless; but I wonder
that, in a day when such universal justice is done to the memory of
this brave man, so obvious and it would seem necessary a reparation
should not be demanded. Great efforts have been making of late to get
his sentence publicly reversed, but, though they deny his widow and
children nothing else, this melancholy and unavailing satisfaction is
refused them. Ney's memory little needs it, it is true. No visiter
looks about the gallery at the _Invalides_ without commenting
feelingly on the omission of his portrait; and probably no one of the
scarred veterans who sit there, reading their own deeds in history,
looks round on the faces of the old leaders of whom it tells, without
remembering and feeling that the brightest name upon the page is
wanting. I would rather, if I were his son, have the regret than the
justice.
We left the hospital, as all must leave it, full of Napoleon. France
is full of him. The monuments and the hearts of the people, all are
alive with his name and glory. Disapprove and detract from his
reputation as you will (and as powerful minds, with apparent justice,
_have_ done), as long as human nature is what it is, as long as power
and loftiness of heart hold their present empire over the imagination,
Napoleon is immortal.
* * * * *
The promenading world is amused just now with the daily appearance in
the Tuileries of a Polish lady, dressed in the Polonaise undress
uniform, decorated with the order of distinction given for bravery at
Warsaw. She is not very beautiful, but she wears the handsome military
cap quite gallantly; and her small feet and full chest are truly
captivating in boots and a frogged coat. It is an exceedingly
spirited, well-charactered face, with a complexion slightly roughened
by her new habits. Her hair is cut short, and brushed up at the sides,
and she certainly handles the little switch she carries with an air
which entirely forbids insult. She is ordinarily seen lounging very
idly along between two polytechnic boys, who seem to have a great
admiration for her. I observe that the Polish generals touch their
hats very respectfully as she passes, but as yet I have been unable to
come at her precise history.
By the by, masquerading in men's clothes is not at all uncommon in
Paris. I have sometimes seen two or three women at a time dining at
the restaurants in this way. No notice is taken of it, and the lady is
perfectly safe from insult, though every one that passes may penetrate
the disguise. It is common at the theatres, and at the public balls
still more so. I have noticed repeatedly at the weekly _soirees_ of a
lady of high respectability, two sisters in boy's clothes, who play
duets upon the piano for the dance. The lady of the house told me they
preferred it, to avoid attention, and the awkwardness of position
natural to their vocation, in society. The tailors tell me it is quite
a branch of trade--making suits for ladies of a similar taste. There
is one particularly, in the _Rue Richelieu_, who is famed for his nice
fits to the female figure. It is remarkable, however, that instead of
wearing their new honors meekly, there is no such impertinent puppy as
a _femme deguisee_. I saw one in a _cafe_, not long ago, rap the
_garcon_ very smartly over the fingers with a rattan, for overrunning
her cup; and they are sure to shoulder you off the sidewalk, if you
are at all in the way. I have seen several amusing instances of a
probable quarrel in the street, ending in a gay bow, and a "_pardon,
madame!_"
* * * * *
There has been a great deal of excitement here for the past two days
on the result of a gambling quarrel. An English gentleman, a fine,
gay, noble-looking fellow, whom I have often met at parties, and
admired for his strikingly winning and elegant manners, lost fifty
thousand francs on Thursday night at cards. The Count St. Leon was the
winner. It appears that Hesse, the Englishman, had drank freely before
sitting down to play, and the next morning his friend, who had bet
upon the game, persuaded him that there had been some unfairness on
the part of his opponent. He refused consequently to pay the debt, and
charged the Frenchman, and another gentleman who backed him, with
deception. The result was a couple of challenges, which were both
accepted. Hesse fought the Count on Friday, and was dangerously
wounded at the first fire. His friend fought on Saturday (yesterday),
and is reported to be mortally wounded. It is a little remarkable that
both the _losers_ are shot, and still more remarkable, that Hesse
should have been, as he was known to be, a natural son of George the
Fourth; and Count Leon, as was equally well known, a natural son of
Bonaparte!
Everybody gambles in Paris. I had no idea that so desperate a vice
could be so universal, and so little deprecated as it is. The
gambling-houses are as open and as ordinary a resort as any public
promenade, and one may haunt them with as little danger to his
reputation. To dine from six to eight, gamble from eight to ten, go to
a ball, and return to gamble till morning, is as common a routine for
married men and bachelors both, as a system of dress, and as little
commented on. I sometimes stroll into the card-room at a party, but I
can not get accustomed to the sight of ladies losing or winning money.
Almost all Frenchwomen, who are too old to dance, play at parties; and
their daughters and husbands watch the game as unconcernedly as if
they were turning over prints. I have seen English ladies play, but
with less philosophy. They do not lose their money gayly. It is a
great spoiler of beauty, the vexation of a loss. I think I never could
respect a woman upon whose face I had remarked the shade I often see
at an English card-table. It is certain that vice walks abroad in
Paris, in many a shape that would seem, to an American eye, to show
the fiend too openly. I am not over particular, I think, but I would
as soon expose a child to the plague as give either son or daughter a
free rein for a year in Paris.
LETTER XVI.
THE CHOLERA--A MASQUE BALL--THE GAY WORLD--MOBS--VISIT TO THE
HOTEL DIEU.
You see by the papers, I presume, the official accounts of the cholera
in Paris. It seems very terrible to you, no doubt, at your distance
from the scene, and truly it is terrible enough, if one could realize
it, anywhere; but many here do not trouble themselves about it, and
you might be in this metropolis a month, and if you observed the
people only, and frequented only the places of amusement, and the
public promenades, you might never suspect its existence. The weather
is June-like, deliciously warm and bright; the trees are just in the
tender green of the new buds, and the public gardens are thronged all
day with thousands of the gay and idle, sitting under the trees in
groups, laughing and amusing themselves, as if there were no plague in
the air, though hundreds die every day. The churches are all hung in
black; there is a constant succession of funerals; and you cross the
biers and hand-barrows of the sick, hurrying to the hospitals at every
turn, in every quarter of the city. It is very hard to realize such
things, and, it would seem, very hard even to treat them seriously. I
was at a masque ball at the _Theatre des Varietes_, a night or two
since, at the celebration of the _Mi-Careme_, or half-Lent. There were
some two thousand people, I should think, in fancy dresses, most of
them grotesque and satirical, and the ball was kept up till seven in
the morning, with all the extravagant gaiety, noise, and fun, with
which the French people manage such matters. There was a
_cholera-waltz_, and a _cholera-galopade_, and one man, immensely
tall, dressed as a personification of the _Cholera_ itself, with
skeleton armor, bloodshot eyes, and other horrible appurtenances of a
walking pestilence. It was the burden of all the jokes, and all the
cries of the hawkers, and all the conversation; and yet, probably,
nineteen out of twenty of those present lived in the quarters most
ravaged by the disease, and many of them had seen it face to face, and
knew perfectly its deadly character!
As yet, with few exceptions, the higher classes of society have
escaped. It seems to depend very much on the manner in which people
live, and the poor have been struck in every quarter, often at the
very next door to luxury. A friend told me this morning, that the
porter of a large and fashionable hotel, in which he lives, had been
taken to the hospital; and there have been one or two cases in the
airy quarter of St. Germain, in the same street with Mr. Cooper, and
nearly opposite. Several physicians and medical students have died
too, but the majority of these live with the narrowest economy, and in
the parts of the city the most liable to impure effluvia. The balls go
on still in the gay world; and I presume they _would_ go on if there
were only musicians enough left to make an orchestra, or fashionists
to compose a quadrille. I was walking home very late from a party the
night before last, with a captain in the English army. The gray of
the morning was just stealing into the sky; and after a stopping a
moment in the _Place Vendome_, to look at the column, stretching up
apparently unto the very stars, we bade good morning, and parted. He
had hardly left me, he said, when he heard a frightful scream from one
of the houses in the _Rue St. Honore_, and thinking there might be
some violence going on, he rang at the gate and entered, mounting the
first staircase that presented. A woman had just opened a door, and
fallen on the broad stair at the top, and was writhing in great agony.
The people of the house collected immediately; but the moment my
friend pronounced the word cholera, there was a general dispersion,
and he was left alone with the patient. He took her in his arms, and
carried her to a coach-stand, without assistance, and, driving to the
_Hotel Dieu_, left her with the _Soeurs de Charite_. She has since
died.
As if one plague were not enough, the city is still alive in the
distant faubourgs with revolts. Last night, the _rappel_ was beat all
over the town, the national guard called to arms, and marched to the
_Porte St. Denis_, and the different quarters where the mobs were
collected.
Many suppose there is no cholera except such as is produced by poison;
and the _Hotel Dieu_, and the other hospitals, are besieged daily by
the infuriated mob, who swear vengeance against the government for all
the mortality they witness.
* * * * *
I have just returned from a visit to the _Hotel Dieu_--the hospital
for the cholera. Impelled by a powerful motive, which it is not now
necessary to explain, I had previously made several attempts to gain
admission in vain; but yesterday I fell in fortunately with an English
physician, who told me I could pass with a doctor's diploma, which he
offered to borrow for me of some medical friend. He called by
appointment at seven this morning, to accompany me on my visit.
It was like one of our loveliest mornings in June--an inspiriting,
sunny, balmy day, all softness and beauty--and we crossed the
Tuileries by one of its superb avenues, and kept down the bank of the
river to the island. With the errand on which we were bound in our
minds, it was impossible not to be struck very forcibly with our own
exquisite enjoyment of life. I am sure I never felt my veins fuller of
the pleasure of health and motion; and I never saw a day when
everything about me seemed better worth living for. The splendid
palace of the Louvre, with its long _facade_ of nearly half a mile,
lay in the mellowest sunshine on our left; the lively river, covered
with boats, and spanned with its magnificent and crowded bridges on
our right; the view of the island, with its massive old structures
below, and the fine gray towers of the church of _Notre Dame_ rising,
dark and gloomy, in the distance, rendered it difficult to realize
anything but life and pleasure. That under those very towers, which
added so much to the beauty of the scene, there lay a thousand and
more of poor wretches dying of a plague, was a thought my mind would
not retain a moment.