Chapter VIII (1)

From London to Paris. One of the thoughts that comes uppermost in the mind while one is making preparations for the journey is the passage of the Channel, about which so much has been said and written--a passage in which old Neptune, though he may have exempted the traveller on other occasions, hardly ever fails to exact his tribute. He who can pass the Channel in rough weather without a qualm, may henceforth consider himself proof against any attack of the sea god upon his digestion.

A first-class through ticket from London to Paris costs nearly fifteen dollars in gold; but many cheapen the fare by taking first-class boat and second-class railroad tickets. The railroad ride to Dover is about seventy miles, and the close of it carries us through a tunnel that pierces the celebrated Shakespeare's Cliff; and finally we are landed on the pier near the little steamer that is to take us over. After a good long stare at the high, chalky cliffs of old Albion, we disposed ourselves upon deck, comfortable as possible, and by rare good fortune had a smooth passage; for of the entire number of passengers, not a single one suffered from seasickness during the transit; so that the huge piles of wash-bowls were not even brought into requisition, and the stewards and boat boys grumbled at the luck that deprived them of so many sixpences and shillings.

"'Tisn't horfen the Chan'l runs as smooth as this," said an old weather-beaten sort of sea chambermaid, who stood guard over the bowls. "She's flat as Dover Pier to-day; but," added he with a grin, "when yer make hanythink like a smooth parsidge over, yer sure to ketch a horful 'eave comin' back."

And he was right. There is one comfortable anticipation, however; and that is, that the sea trip occupies only an hour and a quarter. Arrived at the great railroad station at Calais, we had our first experience of a French railway buffet, or restaurant, for dinner was ready and the tables spread, the passengers having ample time afforded them before the train started.

The neatness of the table linen, the excellence of the French bread, the bottles of claret, _vin ordinaire_, set at intervals along the table, the promptness and rapidity of the service, fine flavor of the soup, and good cooking of the viands, were noticeable features. The waiters spoke both French and English; they dashed about with Yankee celerity; and gay, and jolly, and right hearty were the passengers after their comfortable transit. Now, in getting positions in the cars come trials of indifferent as well as outrageously bad attempts at the French language, which the French guards, probably from long experience, contrive in some way to understand, and not laugh at.

Arrived at Paris after a journey of eleven hours from London, we have even time, though fatigued, to admire the admirable system that prevails at the railroad station, by which all confusion is prevented in obtaining luggage or carriages, and we are soon whirling over the asphalte, floor-like pavements to the Hotel de l'Athenée.

Here I had my first experience of the humbug of French politeness; for, on descending from the carriage, after my luggage had been deposited at the very office of the hotel, the servants, whose duty it was to come forward and take it, stood back, and laughed to see the puzzle of a foreigner at the demand for _pour boire_, which, in his inexperience, he did not understand, and, when the driver was finally sent away with thrice his demand, suffered luggage, lady and gentleman, to find their own way to the little cuddy of a _bureau_, office of the hotel, and were with difficulty made to understand, by a proficient in their own tongue, that rooms for the party were engaged there.

This house and the Grand Hotel, which, I believe, are "run" by the Credit Mobilier Company, are perfect extortion mills in the matter of charges, especially to Americans, whom the Parisians make a rule always to charge very much more than any one else. During the Exposition year, the Grand Hotel extortions were but little short of barefaced swindles upon American guests; and to this day there is no way one can quicker arouse the ire of certain American citizens than to refer to their experiences in that great caravanserai for the fleecing of foreign visitors.

The _cuisine_ of these great hotels is unexceptionable, the rooms, which are either very grand or very small, well furnished, although comfort is too often sacrificed to display; but the attendance or attention, unless the servants are heavily feed, is nothing to speak of, while the charges during the travelling season are a third beyond those of other equally good, though not "grand" establishments.

The magnificent new opera house, near these hotels, is a huge building, rich on the exterior with splendid statues, marbles, medallions, carving, and gilding, upon an island as it were, with the great, broad avenues on every side of it; and as I sit at table in the _salle à manger_ looking out at it, I am suddenly conscious that the English tongue appears to be predominant about me; and so indeed it is, as a large portion of the guests at these two hotels are Americans or English, which accounts in a measure for the high prices and bad service, the French considering Americans and English who travel to be moving money-bags, from which it is their duty to extract as much as possible by every means in their power.

The court-yard of the Grand Hotel, around which, in the evening, gentlemen sit to sip a cup of coffee and puff a cigar, is such a rendezvous for Americans, that during the Exposition it was proposed by some to post up the inscription, "French Spoken Here," for fear of mistakes.

The modes of living, besides that at hotels, have been frequently described, and in taking apartments, one must be very explicit with the landlord; indeed, it will be well to take a written memorandum from him, else, on the presentation of his first bill, one may ascertain the true value of a Frenchman's word, or rather how valueless he considers a verbal agreement.

We had the fortune, however, in hiring apartments, to deal with a Frenchman who understood how to bargain with foreigners, and had learned that there was something to be gained by dealing fairly, and having the reputation of being honest.

This man did a good business by taking new houses immediately after they were finished, hiring furniture, and letting apartments to foreigners. From him we learned that French people never like to live in an entirely new house, one that has been dwelt in by others for a year having the preference; perhaps this pre-occupation is supposed to take the chill off the premises; so our landlord made a good thing of it in taking these houses at a low rent of the owners for one year, and getting a reputation for fair prices, fair dealing, and an accommodating spirit: those who hired of him were so prompt to commend him as an exception among the crowd of grasping, cringing rascals in his business, that his houses in the pleasant quarter, near the Arc d'Etoile were constantly occupied by Americans and English.

In Paris do as the Parisians do; and really it is difficult to do otherwise in the matter of meals. Breakfast here is taken at twelve o'clock, the day being commenced with a cup of coffee and a French roll, so that between twelve and one business appears at its height in the _cafés_, and almost suspended everywhere else. To gastronomic Yankees, accustomed to begin the day with a good "square" meal, the French _déjeûner_ is hardly sufficient to support the three hours' sight-seeing our countrymen calculate upon doing between that time and the real _déjeûner à la fourchette_.

The sights and scenes of Paris have been so thoroughly described within the past three years, in every style and every vein, by the army of correspondents who have visited the gay capital, that beyond personal experiences it seems now as though but little else could possibly be written. I therefore look at my closely-written note-book, the heap of little memoranda, and the well-pencilled fly-leaves of my guide-books, of facts, impressions, and experiences, with some feelings of doubt as to how much of this already, perhaps, too familiar matter shall be inflicted upon the intelligent reader; and yet, before I visited Paris, every letter of the descriptive tourist kind was of interest, and since then they are doubly so. Before visiting Europe, such letters were instruction for what I was to one day experience; and many a bit of useful information, read in the desultory letter of some newspaper correspondent which had been nearly forgotten, has come to mind in some foreign capital, and been of essential service, while, as before remarked in these pages, much of the important minutiæ of travel I have been surprised has not been alluded to. That surprise in a measure vanishes, when any one with a keen love of travel finds how much occupies his attention amid such an avalanche of the enjoyable things that he has read, studied, and dreamed of, as are encountered in the great European capitals.

In Paris my first experience at living was in lodgings in a fine new house on Avenue Friedland, third flight (_au troisième_). The apartments consisted of a _salon_, which served as parlor, breakfast and reception room, a sleeping-room, and a dressing-room with water fixtures and pegs for clothing. The grand Arc d'Etoile was in full view, and but a few rods from my lodgings, and consequently the very first sight that I "did."

This magnificent monument of the first Napoleon is almost as conspicuous a landmark in Paris as is the State House in Boston, and seems to form the terminus of many of the broad streets that radiate from it, and upon approaching the city from certain points overtops all else around. The arch is situated in a large, circular street, called the Place d'Etoile, which is filled with elegant houses, with gardens in front, and is one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris: from this Place radiate, as from a great star, or like the sticks of a lady's fan, twelve of the most magnificent avenues of the city, and from the top of the arch itself the spectator can look straight down these broad streets for miles. It is quite recently that several of them have been straightened and widened, under the direction of Baron Haussmann; and one cannot but see what a commanding position a battery of artillery would occupy stationed in this Place d'Etoile, and sweeping down twelve great avenues to the very centre of the city.

The length, breadth, straightness, regularity, and beauty of these avenues strike the American visitor with astonishment. Fancy a street twice as wide as Broadway or Washington Street, with a sidewalk as wide as some of our ordinary streets, and shaded by a double line of trees, the street itself paved or laid in concrete or smooth hard asphalte; the houses tall, elegant, and of uniform style; brilliant, with elegant stores, cafés with their crowds at the tables set in front of them; the gay, merry throngs; little one-horse barouches, the French _voitures_, as they are called, flying here and there, and the more stylish turn-outs of the aristocracy,--and you have some idea of the great avenues leading up to the Arc d'Etoile. After passing this grand arch, you enter upon the magnificent Avenue de l'Impératrice, three hundred feet wide, which leads to the splendid Bois de Boulogne, an avenue that is crowded with the rush of elegant equipages, among which were to be seen those of foreign ambassadors, rich residents, English and other foreign noblemen, French ballet-dancers, and the demi-monde, every pleasant afternoon.

This great arch of triumph overwhelms one with its grandeur and vastness upon near approach; it lifts its square altar over one hundred and fifty feet from the ground; its width is one hundred and thirty-seven feet, and it is sixty-eight feet in thickness. The grand central arch is a great curve, ninety feet high and forty-five wide, and a transverse arch--that is, one going through it from one end to the other--is fifty-seven feet high and twenty-five wide. The arch fronts the magnificent Champs Elysées, adown which broad vista the visitor looks till he sees it expand into the grand Place de la Concorde, with its fountains and column of Luxor, beyond which rise the Tuileries. The outside of this arch has superb groups, representing warlike scenes, allegorical figures, &c., by some of the most celebrated French and Italian artists. Some of the great figures of Victory, History, Fame, &c., are from eighteen to twenty feet in height. Inside the arch, upon its walls, are cut in the solid stone the names of nearly a hundred victories, and also the names of French generals whose bravery won so much renown for the French nation, so much glory for their great Corsican captain, and which are names that are identified with his and _la grande armée_.

This superb monument was commenced, in 1806, by Napoleon, but not completed till 1836; and some idea may be obtained of the work and skill expended upon it from its cost, which was ten million four hundred and thirty-three thousand francs, or over _two millions of dollars_ in gold. Two of the groups of bass-reliefs upon it cost nearly thirty thousand dollars. Ascent to the top is obtained by broad staircases, up a flight of two hundred and seventy-two steps, and the visitor may look down the Avenue de la Grande Armée, Avenue d'Eylau, or over the beautiful Avenue de l'Impératrice, or Champs Elysées, far as his eye can reach, and still farther by the aid of the telescopes and spy-glasses kept by the custodians on the summit.

Descending from the arch, we will take a stroll down the Avenue des Champs Elysées--the broad, beautiful avenue which appears to be the favorite promenade of Parisians. Upon either side of this avenue are open grounds, and groves of trees, in and amid which is every species of cheap amusement for the people--open booths in which are little games of chance for cheap prizes of glass ware and toys, merry-go-rounds, Punch and Judy shows, elegant cafés with their throngs of patrons sitting in front and watching the passers by, or the gay equipages on their way to the Bois de Boulogne. In one of these groves, at the side of the Champs Elysées, is the Circus of the Empress, where feats of horsemanship are performed, and in another a fine military band plays every afternoon; the old Palais de l'Industrie fronts upon this avenue, and the celebrated Jardin Mabille is but a few steps from it; but this should be seen by gas-light; so, indeed, should the whole avenue, which by night, in the summer, presents a most fairy-like scene. Then the groves are illuminated by thousands of colored lights; Cafés Chantants are seen with gayly-dressed singers, sitting in ornamented kiosks, which are illuminated by jets of gas in every conceivable form; here, at a corner, a huge lyre of fire blazes, and beneath it shines, in burning letters, the name of a celebrated café, or theatre; the little booths and penny shows are all gayly illuminated; gas gleams and flashes in all sorts of fantastic forms from before and within the café; and, looking far up the avenue, to where the great arch rears its dark form, you see thousands of colored lights flitting too and fro, hither and thither, in every direction, like a troup of elves on a midnight gambol; these are the lights upon the cabs and voitures, which are obliged by law to have them, and those of different quarters of the city are distinguished the one from the other by different colors.

The cheapness and convenience of these little one-horse open barouches of Paris make us long for the time when they and the English Hansom cab shall displace the great, cumbersome carriage we now use in America. One of these little fiacres, which you can hail at any time, and almost anywhere in the streets of Paris, carries you anywhere you may choose, to go in the city from one point to another, for a franc and a half fare, and a _pour boire_ of about three or four cents to the driver; or, if taken by the hour, you can glide over the asphalte floor-like streets at the rate of two francs an hour. The police regulations respecting fares are very strict and rigidly enforced, as, in fact, are all police regulations, which are most excellent; and the order, system, and regularity which characterize all arrangements at places of public resort and throughout the city, give the stranger a feeling of perfect safety and confidence--confidence that he is under the protection and eye of a power and a law, one which is prompt and efficient in its action, and in no way to be trifled with. The fiacre drivers all have their printed _carte_ of the tariff, upon which is their number, which they hand to customers upon entering the vehicle; these can be used in case of imposition or dispute, which, however, very seldom occurs; rewards are given to drivers for honesty in restoring articles left in vehicles, and the property thus restored to owners by the police in the course of a year is very large, sometimes reaching sixty or seventy thousand dollars.

Straight down the broad Champs Elysées, till we came into that magnificent and most beautiful of all squares in Paris, the Place de la Concorde. Here, in this great open square, which the guide-books describe as four hundred paces in length, and the same in width, several other superb views of the grand avenues and splendid public buildings are obtained. Standing in the centre, I looked back, up the broad Champs Elysées, more than a mile in length, the whole course slightly rising in grade, till the view terminated with the Triumphal Arch. Looking upon one side, we saw the old palace of the Bourbons, now the palace of the Corps Législatif. Fronting upon one side of the Place are two magnificent edifices, used as government offices, and up through the Rue Royale that divides them, the vista is terminated by the magnificent front of the Madeleine.

Here, in the centre of the square, we stood opposite the celebrated obelisk of Luxor, that expensive gift of the Pacha of Egypt to Louis Philippe, and which, from the numerous bronze models of it sold in the fancy goods stores in America, is getting to be almost as familiar as Bunker Hill monument. Indeed, a salesman in Tiffany and Company's room of bronzes, in Broadway, New York, once told me that, notwithstanding the hieroglyphics upon the bronze representations of this obelisk that they sell, he had more than once had people, who looked as though they ought to have known better, cry out, "O, here's Bunker Hill Monument; and it looks just like it, too."

The Luxor obelisk was a heavy, as well as an expensive present, for it weighed five hundred thousand pounds, and it cost the French government more than forty thousand dollars to get it in place upon its pedestal; but now that it is here, it makes a fine appearance, and, as far as proportions and looks go, appears to be very appropriately placed in the centre of this magnificent square, its monolith of red granite rising one hundred feet; though, as we lean over the rail that surrounds it, the thought suggests itself, that this old chronicle of the deeds of Sesostris the Great, who reigned more than a thousand years before Paris had an existence, and whose hundred-gated city is now a heap of ruins, was really as out of place here, in the great square of the gayest of modern capitals, as a funeral monument in a crowded street, or an elegy among the pages of a novel. Around the square, at intervals, are eight huge marble statues, seated upon pedestals, which represent eight of the great cities of France, such as Marseilles, Rouen, Lyons, Bordeaux, &c. Each figure is said to face in the direction in which the city or town it is called for lies from Paris.

The great bronze fountains that stand in the centre of the square have round basins, fifty feet in diameter, above which rise others of lesser sizes. Tritons and water nymphs about the lower basin hold dolphins, which spout streams of water into the upper ones, and at the base sit ponderous granite figures, which the Parisians say do well to sit down, for, if they stood up, they would soon be fatigued by their own weight. But the great fountain here in the Place de la Concorde marks an historic spot. It is no more nor less than the site of that horrid instrument, the guillotine, during the French revolution; and it was here, in this great square, now filled with bright and happy crowds, gazing at the flashing waters of the fountains, the statues, and obelisk, or rambling amid the pretty walks, lined with many-hued flowers, in the gardens of the Tuilleries near by,--it was here, round and about, that the fierce crowd surged during some of the bloodiest scenes in French history. Near where rises the bronze fountain, the horrid scaffold once stood; here, where the crystal streams rush and foam, shine and sparkle in the sunbeams, once poured out the richest and basest blood of France, in torrents almost rivalling those that now dash into the great basin that covers the spot they crimsoned; here the head of Louis XVI. fell from his shoulders; here Charlotte Corday met death unterrified; here twenty-two Girondists poured out their life-blood; here poor Marie Antoinette bent her neck to the cruel knife, and the father of Louis Philippe met his death; here the victims of the fell tyrant Robespierre fell by hundreds. At length Danton himself, and his party, were swept before the descending axe; and finally the bloody Robespierre and his fierce associates met a just retribution beneath the sweep of the insatiate blade, sixty or seventy falling beneath it in a day.

Great heavens! would they never tire of blood, or was the clang of the guillotine music to their ears, that for more than two years they kept the horrid machine in motion, till twenty-eight hundred victims fell beneath its stroke! Well said Chateaubriand, in opposing the erection of a fountain upon the very site of the scaffold, that all the water in the world would not be sufficient to efface the bloody stains with which the place was sullied. It thus fell out that it was agreed, that any monument placed in this memorable square should be one which should bear no allusion to political events, and the gift of Mehemet Ali afforded opportunity to place one. So here the laudatory inscription to a warlike Egyptian of three thousand years ago and more is placed, to change the current of men's thoughts, who may stand here and think of the surging crowd of fierce _sans-culottes_, and still fiercer women, who once thronged this place, and who were treated to their fill of what their brutal natures demanded--blood, blood!

But are these the people that would do such horrid deeds--these men we see around us, with varnished boots, immaculate linen, and irreproachable costume? these ladies, gentle creatures, with faultless costume, ravishing boots, dainty toilets, and the very butterflies of fashion? If you would like something approaching a realization of your imagination, wait till you get into the Latin quarter, or in some of the old parts of Paris, where narrow lanes have not yet been made into broad avenues; where low-browed, blue-bloused workmen are playing dominoes in cheap wine-shops; and coarse women, with big, bare, red arms, and handkerchief-swathed heads, stand in the doorways and bandy obscene jests at the passers by; where foul odors assail the olfactories; where you meet the _sergent-de-ville_ frequently; and where, despite of what you have heard of the great improvements made in Paris, you see just such places as the _Tapis Franc_, described in Eugene Sue's Mysteries of Paris, and in which, despite the excellence of the Parisian police, you had rather not trust yourself after dark without a guard; and you will meet to-day those whom it would seemingly take but little to transform into the fierce mob of 1792.

The gigantic improvements made in Paris during the reign of Louis Napoleon are apparent even to the newly-arrived tourist, and are unequalled by any city in the world. Broad, elegant avenues have been cut through densely-populated and filthy districts; great squares, monuments, opera-houses, theatres, and public buildings of unexampled splendor have arisen on every side; palaces and monuments have been repaired and restored, the great quadrangle of the Louvre and Tuilleries completed. Turn which way one will, he sees the evidences of this remarkable man's ability--excellent police arrangements, drainage, public works, liberality to foreigners, &c. What little opportunity I had of judging the French people almost leads me to believe that no government could be invented under the sun that would satisfy them for any length of time, and that they would attempt revolutions merely for a new sensation.

From this square it is but a few steps to the garden of the Tuilleries. The portion of the garden that is immediately contiguous to the palace is not open to the public, but separated from it by a sort of trench and an iron railing. The public portion of the garden is beautifully laid out with _parterres_ of flowers, fountains, bronze and marble statues, &c. While promenading its walks, our attention was attracted to a man who seemed upon the best of terms with the birds that flew from the trees and bushes, and perched upon his head, hands, and arms, ate bird-seed off his hat and shoulders, and even plucked it from between his lips. He was evidently either some "Master of the Birds to the Emperor," or a favored bird-charmer, as he appeared to be familiarly acquainted with the feathered warblers, and also the police, who sauntered by without interfering with him.

The exciting scenes of French history, that are familiar to every school-boy's memory, render Paris, to say nothing of its other attractions, one of those points fraught with historical associations that the student longs to visit. To stand upon the very spot where the most memorable events of French history took place, beneath the shadow of some of the self-same buildings and monuments that have looked down upon them, and to picture in one's mind how those scenes of the past must have appeared, is pleasant experience to those of an imaginative turn. Here we stand in the Place de la Bastille, the very site of the famous French prison; the horrors of its dungeons and the cruelties of its jailers have chilled the blood of youth and roused the indignation of maturer years; but here it was rent asunder and the inmost secrets exposed by the furious mob, in the great revolution of 1789, and not a vestige of the terrible prison now remains. In the broad, open square rises a tall monument of one hundred and fifty feet, from the summit of which a figure of Liberty, with a torch in one hand and broken chain in another, is poised upon one foot, as if about to take flight. The stones of the cruel dungeons of the Bastille now form the Pont de la Concorde, trampled under foot, as they should be, by the throngs that daily pass and repass that splendid bridge. The last historical and revolutionary act in this square was the burning of Louis Philippe's throne there in 1848.

Passing through the Rue de la Paix, celebrated for its handsome jewelry and gentlemen's furnishing goods stores, and as a street where you may be sure of paying the highest price asked in Paris for any thing you wish to purchase, we came out into the Place Vendôme, in the middle of which stands the historic column we have so often read of, surmounted by the bronze statue of the great Napoleon, who erected this splendid and appropriate trophy of his victories. One hundred and thirty-five feet high, and twelve in diameter, is this well-known column, and the bronze bass-reliefs, which commence at the base and circle round the shaft to its top, are cast from twelve hundred pieces of Russian and Austrian cannon, which the great Corsican captured in his campaign of 1805, which ended with the tremendous battle of Austerlitz. The bass-reliefs on the pedestal are huge groups of weapons, warlike emblems, &c., and four huge bronze eagles, weighing five hundred pounds each, holding wreaths, are perched at the four corners of the pedestal.

The iron railing around this monument is thickly hung with wreaths of _immortelles_; these are placed here by the surviving soldiers of the grand army of Napoleon I., and are renewed once a year upon some celebrated anniversary, when the spectacle of this handful of trembling veterans of the first empire, showing their devotion to the memory of their great chieftain, is a most touching one, while the deference and honor shown to these shattered relics of France's warlike host, whose deeds have won it an imperishable name in military glory, must be gratifying to their pride. I saw an old shrunken veteran with a wooden leg hobbling along with a stick, who wore an old-fashioned uniform, upon which glittered the medals and decorations of the first empire, to whom sentinels at public stations, as he passed, presented arms with a clang and clatter that seemed to send the faint sparks of dying fire up into his eyes, with a momentary martial gleam beneath his shaggy white eyebrows, as he raised his shrunken hand in acknowledgment to his old fashioned _képi_, while the military salutes, and even deferential raising of hats, of young officers, his superiors in rank, that he passed, were returned with a smile beneath his snowy mustache that bespoke what an incense to his pride as a soldier of the grand army were all such tokens.

But it was a still more interesting sight to see, at the court-yard of the Hotel des Invalides, at about noon, on the occasion of some daily military routine, some thirty or forty of these old soldiers in various uniforms, wearing side arms only, some hobbling upon one leg, others coming feebly but determinedly into line as they ever did on the great battle-fields of the empire, and stand in dress parade while the band played its martial strains, and their own flags surmounted by the French eagles waved before them, and a splendid battalion of French troops (some of their sons and grandsons, perhaps), officers and men, presented arms to them as they saluted the flags they had won renown under half a century before, and then slowly, and with an effort at military precision that was almost comical, filed back to their quarters.

We used to read in Rogers's poem of Ginevra that,

"If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where, among other relics, you may see
Tassoni's bucket; but 'tis not the true one;")

so, also, if ever you should go to Paris, you will be shown at one end of the Louvre a large window, from which you will be told Charles IX. fired upon the flying Huguenots as they ran from the ferocious mob that pursued them with bloody weapons and cries of "Kill, kill!" on the night of St. Bartholomew, 1572; but this window is "not the true one," for it was not built till long after the year of the massacre; but the old church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, near by, from the belfry of which first issued the fatal signal of that terrible night, is still standing, and the Parisians in that vicinity find it easy to detect strangers and foreigners, from their pausing and looking up at this church with an expression of interest.

THE LOUVRE! Every letter-writer goes into ecstasies over it, is struck with wonder at its vastness, and luxuriates in the inspection of its priceless treasures. The completion of the connection of the Louvre with the Tuilleries, made by Louis Napoleon, gives a grand enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by the magnificent buildings of this great gallery of fine arts and the royal palaces.

At one end, dividing the court-yard of the Louvre from that of the Tuileries, rises the triumphal Arc du Carrousel, erected by Napoleon in 1806, surmounted with its car of victory and bronze horses; and here the memory of the army of the first empire is perpetuated by statues of cuirassiers, infantry and artillerymen, in the uniform of their different corps, and the fashion in vogue at that time, while bass-reliefs represent various battle scenes in which they figured. It was in this open space, now the most magnificent court in Europe, that the guillotine was first set up, before it was removed to the square which is now the Place de la Concorde. An iron fence runs across the court-yard at this point, making a division of the space, as it is from an entrance in the palace, fronting this arch, that the emperor, empress, and imperial family generally make their entrance and exit.

The architectural appearance and ornaments of these elegant buildings combine to form a splendid interior, as it were, of this vast enclosed square; the buildings, fronted with Corinthian columns, elegant and elaborate sculptures, and statues, form a space something like a vast parallelogram, their uniformity being interrupted by magnificent and lofty pavilions, as they are called. When we say the Boston City Hall is somewhat of a poor copy of one of these pavilions, it may give the reader an idea of what they are. Their fronts are adorned with great groups of statuary, wreaths, decorations, and allegorical figures, beautifully cut, and through their vast gateways ingress is had from the street. All along the front of the buildings, upon this interior space, are statues of distinguished men of France. I counted over eighty of them. Among them were those of Colbert, Mazarin, Racine, Voltaire, Vauban, Buffon, Richelieu, Montaigne, &c.

The completion of the connection of the two palaces by Louis Napoleon has rendered this court-yard indescribably grand and elegant, while its vastness strikes the beholder with astonishment. The space that is now enclosed and covered by the old and new Louvre and Tuileries is about sixty acres. An idea of the large amount of money that has been lavished upon these elegant piles may be obtained from the fact that the cost of the sculptures on the new part of the building is nearly half a million dollars; but then, perhaps, as an American remarked, it ought to be a handsome place, since they have been over three hundred years building it. Some of the finest portions of the architectural designs of the façade of the Louvre were completed by Napoleon I. from the designs of Perrault, a physician, and the author of fully as enduring monuments of genius--those charming fairy tales of Cinderella, Bluebeard, and the Sleeping Beauty. Perhaps the ornamental columns and beautiful decorations were something of a realization of his ideas of palaces of the fairies and genii, in his charming stories.

The work of improvement upon the buildings and court-yard of the Louvre is still going on, and the present emperor will leave here, as well as in many other parts of Paris, the impress of his power, as used for beautifying the French capital, and raising enduring monuments of the encouragement of improvements, progress, and the arts, during his reign.

We have been in and through the Louvre, not in one visit, but again and again, over acres of flooring, past miles of pictures,--a plethora of luxurious art,--days of wonder, and hours of sight-seeing. How many originals we have gazed upon that we have seen copies of in every style! how many pictures of great artists that we have read of, and how many curious and wonderful historical relics and antiquities! What an opportunity for the student and the artist, what a source of amusement and entertainment, what a privilege, in these old countries, is the free admission to these costly and well-stocked galleries of art--here, where we may see hundreds of celebrated pictures and statues, any two of which would "pay handsomely," placed on exhibition in one of our great American cities; here, where there are seven miles of pictures, and their catalogue makes a thick book of over seven hundred pages; here, where, if you were to start and walk constantly, without stopping an instant to rest, it would require three hours to pass through the different apartments; here, where, perhaps, the American tourist or newspaper correspondent sharpens his pencil and takes a fresh note-book, with the feeling that it is a prolific field, but is overwhelmed with an ocean of art, and consoles himself with the thought that the Louvre has been so often described, written about, and commented on, that the subject is worn threadbare; and that the public has had enough of rhapsodies and descriptions of it.

And he is more than half right. The Louvre alone is a great exposition, that would suffice to attract thousands of foreigners to Paris. The number of visitors is immense. Galignani says that the produce of the sale of catalogues amounts to forty thousand dollars a year, and more than twenty thousand dollars per annum are taken for depositing canes and umbrellas at the door, the charge for which service is only two or three sous. It is best to avoid, if possible, the taking of canes, parasols, and umbrellas with you, as it may chance that you will desire to make exit at some point distant from that of entrance, and save the trouble of returning for the _impedimenta_.

I commenced with a determination, like many others, to see the Louvre thoroughly and systematically, and therefore began with the basement story, entering the museum of Assyrian antiquities, thence into Egyptian halls of curiosities, where the visitor gets view of a large and interesting collection from the cities of Nineveh, Thebes, &c., the results of the researches and discoveries of French _savants_ and travellers in the East--vases, mummies, fragments of sculptured stones and figures, manuscripts, besides articles of domestic use among the ancient Egyptians.

Here were the mirrors that Theban dames arranged their dark tresses at, and the combs, needle and toilet cases that they used; musical instruments, games, and weights and measures; articles of ornament, and of the household, that have been exhumed from the monuments of ancient cities--a rare and curious collection; then come the Algerian museum, the Renaissance sculpture gallery, with beautiful groups of bronze and marble statuary, dating from the commencement of the sixteenth century, among which is the celebrated one of Diana with the Stag, the likeness being that of Diane de Poitiers, mistress of Henry II.; then come the five different halls of modern sculptures, where we saw Canova's Cupid and Psyche, Julien's Ganymede and Eagle, Bartolini's colossal bust of Bonaparte, and groups representing Cupid cutting his bow from Hercules' club, Perseus releasing Andromeda, and many others.

Next we reach the museum of antique marbles, a grand gallery, divided off into half partitions, and rich in superb ancient statuary. One of the halls of this gallery is noted as being that in which Henry IV. was married; and here, too, was his body brought after his assassination by Ravaillac; but the visitor's thoughts of historical associations are banished by the beautiful works of art that meet him on every hand. Here is Centaur overcome by Bacchus, the Borghese Vase, the Stooping Venus, Pan, the Three Graces, Hercules and Telephus, Mars, Cupid proving his bow, Dancing Faun, a magnificent figure of Melpomene, twelve feet high, with the drapery falling so naturally about as almost to cheat belief that it was the work of the sculptor's chisel; another magnificent colossal figure of Minerva, about ten feet high, armed with helmet and shield; the Borghese Gladiator, a splendid figure; Wounded Amazon, Satyr and Faun, Diana and the Deer, Wounded Gladiator, Bass-relief of triumphal procession of Bacchus and Ariadne, &c.

I am aware that this enumeration will seem something like a reproduction of a catalogue to some readers, though it is but the pencilled memoranda of a very few of the notable pieces in this magnificent collection, before which I was enabled to halt anything like long enough to examine strictly and admire; for the days seemed all short, our few weeks in Paris too brief, and this grand collection, with other sight-seeing, a formidable undertaking, as we now began to contemplate it, when I found myself still upon this basement floor of the Louvre after nearly a day's time, and the thought that if my resolution to see the whole, systematically and thoroughly, were faithfully carried out, almost a season in Paris would be required, and but little time left for anything else.

I have seen copies, and busts, and engravings of the Venus of Milo a hundred times, but never was attracted by it enough to go into raptures over its beauty, being, perhaps, unable to view it with an artistic eye; but as I chanced to approach the great original here from a very favorable point of view, as it stood upon its pedestal, with the mellow light of the afternoon falling upon the beautiful head and shoulders, the effect upon me was surprising to myself. I thought I never before had gazed upon more exquisitely moulded features. The features seemed really those of a goddess, and admiration divided itself in the beauty of the production and the genius of an artist that could conceive and execute it. I am not ashamed to say, that during the hour I spent in the room in which this beautiful work of art is placed, I came to a better understanding concerning some of the enthusiasm respecting art manifested by certain friends, which I had hitherto regarded as commonplace expressions, or was at loss to understand the real feeling that prompted their fervor.

If the visitor is amazed at the fine collection of sculpture and statuary, what are his feelings at beholding the grand and almost endless halls of paintings as he ascends to the floors above! Here, grand galleries, spacious and well lighted, stretch out seemingly as far as the eye can reach, while halls and ante-rooms, here and there passages, and vestibules, and rooms, are crammed with the very wealth of art; here the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the great artists of Europe, known all over the world by copies and engravings, are collected; and the pleasure of looking upon these great originals is a gratification not easy to be described.

The lover of art, as he passes from point to point, from one great work to another, to each fresh surprise that awaits him, feels like shaking hands mentally with himself in congratulation at the enjoyment experienced in seeing so much of real and genuine art collected together, and under such favorable circumstances.

The paintings in the galleries are all arranged according to different schools of art. Thus the Spanish, Dutch, and German schools are arrayed in one gallery, the Italian in another, the modern French school in another; and these are further arranged in subdivisions, so that the student and art lover may study, inspect, or copy, in any department of art that he may desire.

What a host of masterpieces in the great gallery! And here were artists, male and female, copying them. Some, with little easel and chair, were merely sketching a single head from a group in some grand tableau. Others, with huge framework, and mounted up many feet from the floor, were making full copies of some great painting. Students were sketching in crayon, upon crayon paper, portions of designs from some favorite artist. Ladies were making cabinet copies of paintings, and others copying celebrated heads upon tablets of the size of miniatures; and one artist I observed putting a copy of a group upon a handsome vase that was before him. Nearly every one of the most noted paintings by great masters had two or three artists near it, making copies.

The Grand Gallery, as it is called, is a quarter of a mile long, and over forty feet wide, and with its elegantly ornamented ceilings, its magnificent collection of nearly two thousand splendid paintings, including some of the finest masterpieces in the world, and superb vista, presents a _coup d'oeil_ that can hardly fail to excite enthusiasm even from those who are not professed admirers of pictures.

Think of the luxury of seeing the original works of Raphael, Rembrandt, Titian, Rubens, Claude Lorraine, Holbein, Paul Veronese, Guido, Quintin Matsys, Murillo, Teniers, Ostade, Wouverman, Vandyke, David, Andrea del Sarto, Vernet, Leonardo da Vinci, Poussin, Albert Dürer, &c., besides those of other celebrated artists, all in one gallery! And it is not a meagre representation of them either, for the Louvre is rich in works from each of these great artists. There was Paul Veronese's great picture of the Repast in the House of Simon the Pharisee, thirty-one feet long and fifteen high, and his Marriage at Cana, a magnificent tableau, thirty-two feet long and twenty-one high, the figures splendid portraits of celebrated persons; Titian's Entombment of Christ; Raphael's beautiful picture of the Virgin and Child; Murillo's Conception of the Virgin, which cost twenty-four thousand six hundred pounds; Landscape by Claude Lorraine; a whole gallery of Rubens, and another of Joseph Vernet's Seaports; then there is the Museum of Design, of fourteen rooms full of designs, over thirty thousand in number, of the great masters in all schools of art. Here one may look on the original sketches, in pencil and India ink, of Rembrandt, Holbein, Dürer, Poussin, and other great artists.

It would be but a sort of guide-book review to enumerate the different halls and their wonders, such as one that is devoted entirely to antique terra cottas, another to jewelry and ornaments of the mediæval and renaissance period, another to specimens of Venetian glass ware, of exquisite designs and workmanship, another to bronzes, &c. The Museum of Sovereigns was interesting in historical relics; for it was something, remember, to have looked upon the sceptre, sword, and spars of Charlemagne, the arm-chair of King Dagobert, the alcove in the room where Henry IV. ("King Henry of Navarre") used to sleep; Marie Antoinette's shoe, her cabinet and casket; Henry II.'s armor, and the very helmet through which the lance of Montgomeri went that killed him in the tournament in 1559; Charles IX.'s helmet and shield, the coronation robes of Charles X., and a host of other relics that have figured in French history.

One room is devoted to relics of Napoleon I., and is called the Hall of the Emperor. Here you may look upon the very uniform that he wore on the bloody field of Marengo, a locket containing his hair, the flag of the Old Guard, that he kissed when he bade adieu at Fontainebleau, the veritable gray overcoat which he wore, and the historical cocked hat which distinguished him, the cockade worn when he landed from Elba, the great coronation robes worn when he was crowned emperor, his sword, riding whip, and saddle, the pocket-handkerchief used by him on his death-bed, articles of clothing, &c. The cases containing these articles were thronged, and the curious French crowd looked upon them with a sort of veneration, and occasional exclamations of wonderment or sympathy, as some descriptive inscription was read and explained to an unlettered visitor by his more fortunate companion.

But suffice it to say that the Louvre, with its superb collections, and its almost endless "Salles de --" everything, is overwhelming in the impression it gives as a wealth of art. It is impossible to convey a correct idea of it to the lover of art, or even the longing lover of travel who has Europe in prospect. In the words of the modern advertisers, it must be seen to be appreciated, and will require a great many visits to see enough of it to properly appreciate it.

Right opposite the Louvre, across a square, is the Palais Royal, attractive to all Americans and English from the restaurants, and jewelry, and bijouterie shops, which are on the ground floor, and form the continuous arcade or four sides of the square of the garden which they enclose. This garden is about a thousand feet long and four hundred wide, with trees, flowers, and fountain, and a band plays in the afternoon to the entertainment of the crowd of loungers who have dined at the Trois Frères, Vefour, or Rotonde, lounge in chairs, and sip _café noir_, or absinthe, if Frenchmen, or smoke cigars and drink wine, if Americans. The restaurants here and in the vicinity are excellent; but one wants a thorough experience, or an expert to teach him how to dine at a French restaurant; otherwise he may pay twice as much as he need to have done, and then not get what he desired. Fresh arrivals, English and Americans, are rich game for the restaurants. They know not all the dodges by which the Frenchman gets four or five excellent courses for almost half what it costs the uninitiated, such as ordering a four-franc dinner, with a privilege of ordering so many dishes of meat, so many of vegetables, or one of meat for two of the latter, or the ordering of one "portion" for two persons, &c. And I do not know as my countrymen would always practise them if they did; for being accustomed at home to order more than they want at a restaurant, and to make the restaurant-keeper a free gift of what they do not use, they are rather apt, in Paris, to "darn the expense," and order what suits their palates, without investigating the cost till they call for the garçon with "_l'addition_."

The jewelry shops in the arcade around the Palais Royal Garden are of two kinds--those for the sale of real jewelry and rich fancy goods, and those selling the imitation. These latter are compelled by law to keep a sign conspicuously displayed, announcing the fact that their wares are imitation, and any one found selling imitation for real is, I understand, severely punished. The imitation jewelry stores are very attractive, and it is really quite remarkable to what perfection the art is carried. Imitation of diamonds, made from polished rock-crystal, which will retain their brilliancy for some months, mock coral, painted sets, imitation gold bracelets, chains, necklaces, sleeve-buttons, and earrings, of every conceivable design, very prettily made.

The designs of this cheap jewelry are fully equal to that of the more costly kind, and it is retailed here in large quantities at a far more reasonable price, in proportion to its cost, than is the Attleboro' jewelry in our own country. The arcade used to be thronged with Americans, who purchased generally from a handful to a half peck each of the attractive and pretty articles which are so liberally displayed here.

The French shopkeepers are quick to detect a stranger or foreigner, and very many of them regulate their prices accordingly; so that one soon ascertains that it is not labor in vain to urge a reduction in price, even in establishments where huge placards of "Prix Fixé" inform you that they have a fixed price for their goods, which may mean, however, that it is "fixed" according to the customer and his anxiety to purchase. I myself had an experience in the purchase of a pair of ornaments. Inquiring the price, I was informed, "Eight francs."

"Ah, indeed! That is more than I care to pay."

"For what price does monsieur expect to obtain such beautiful articles?"

"Six francs."

"C'est impossible!" (_shrugging his shoulders and elevating his eyebrows_); "ici le prix est fixé;" but monsieur should have them for seven francs, as they had been taken from the show-case.

Monsieur was indifferent; he "remercier'd" the shopkeeper; he did not care to pay but six francs, and walked towards the door; but the salesman followed him, and, as he reached the threshold, presented monsieur the articles in question, neatly enveloped in one of his tissue-paper shop-bills. It was positively too cheap, but "pour obliger monsieur," he would give him this "bon marché" for the six francs.

We paid the six francs accordingly; but our satisfaction respecting the "bon marché" was somewhat dampened at seeing the very self-same description of articles we had just purchased at six francs a pair displayed in a window, scarcely half a dozen stores distant, ticketed, in plain figures, three francs a pair.