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 THE 
 
 AMERICAN IN PARIS 
 
 DURING THE SUMMER, 
 
 BEING- A COMPANION TO THE " WINTER IN PARIS ; " 
 OR 
 
 HEATH'S PICTURESQUE ANNUAL 
 
 FOR 
 
 1844. 
 BY M, JULES JANIN, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY EIGHTEEN ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 FROM DESIUNS 
 
 BY M. EUGENE LAML 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS. 
 
 PARIS: L. CURMER, AND AUBERT AND co. LEIPSIC: T. o. WEIGEL. NEW YORK 
 
 APPI.ETON AND SON. 
 
 1844.
 
 LONDON : 
 J. HADDON, PRINTER, CASTLE STREET, FINSBURY.
 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 ISO 
 
 ENGLISH TRANSLATOR'S 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE English translator, in presenting another volume 
 of the American in Paris to the public, has but a slight 
 task imposed, in writing a preface. That of the French 
 translator will fully explain the circumstances, which 
 have enabled the publishers to avail themselves of the 
 hint given by two or three reviews last year, that there 
 were objects of interest, in and near the French capital, 
 necessarily left undescribed, which would amply suffice 
 to fill another volume. 
 
 One very pleasant task remains, and that is, to thank 
 the gentlemen of the press, for the unanimous kindness 
 
 1C '5
 
 vi ENGLISH TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 with which they received the American in Paris, and 
 the public, for the patronage extended to that book. 
 The translator trusts that the present volume will be 
 found at least equally interesting, and will therefore be 
 received with equal favor. Indulgence must again be 
 claimed for expressions which may be considered awk- 
 ward or inelegant, but which were unavoidable, without 
 committing a far worse fault that of sacrificing the 
 peculiarities, and in some instances, the beauties, of 
 the author, to the mere style of the translator.
 
 FRENCH TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 OUR American appears before you once more. Last year, at 
 the same period, he described to you in the best way he could, 
 Parisian life, during the brilliant months of winter. He 
 had then arrived in the great city, at the very moment when 
 the closing days of autumn were disappearing beneath the 
 yellow leaves. A traveller without affectation, he asked no- 
 thing more than to take his part in the sweet joys, lively 
 emotions, and noisy pleasures of this world of the powerful 
 and the rich ; he endured as well as he could, the intoxications 
 and the delirium of the masked ball, the thousand cross fires 
 of Parisian conversation ; the paradoxes, the slanders, and even 
 the innocent calumnies that he saw around him ; he entered 
 into all, he wished to see every thing, and he fulfilled his wish. 
 Not that he advanced very far into the mysteries of the good 
 city; but he stood, as one may say, on the edge of the wood, 
 and thence, he threw his curious and attentive look upon these 
 gay and quickly changing lights and shades. For a fellow- 
 countryman of Franklin's, our Yankee is certainly somewhat 
 of an acute observer; what he did not see he guessed, not
 
 viii FRENCH TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 sometimes without a certain discrimination and pertinence. 
 That which we especially admire in him, and which will not 
 displease the reader, is a great fund of benevolence, a happy 
 good humor which has nothing affected about it, and an inde- 
 scribable entrain and rapture, which the greater part of the 
 time keeps the reader awake. This is all that we can say in 
 his favor, for we are not of the number of those tiresome 
 editors, who are always saying, " Come and see a masterpiece, 
 come and salute a great man; the great man and the master- 
 piece were both invented by me !" We hope never to fall into 
 this enthusiasm, which is very unbecoming to him who is its 
 object. All our duty as editor, we have faithfully fulfilled, and 
 now it is for the book to defend itself. If by chance it is a 
 good book, depend upon it, the public will receive it with favor. 
 And why then say so much ? All our ambition, and you will 
 see that it is easily satisfied, is, that with an absent look, after 
 having thoroughly admired the new chefs d'oeuvre of M. Eugene 
 Lami and of Mr. Heath his worthy interpreter, you will read 
 a few of these pages, in which the translator has endeavoured to 
 reproduce somewhat of the grace, the vivacity, and the interest 
 of the original book. 
 
 What we have now said of the Winter in Paris,* a book 
 which has been received with more literary eagerness than could 
 have been expected ; so much so, that it has been found neces- 
 sary to print two editions, we can especially repeat of the 
 present volume, the Summer in Paris, which appeared to us the 
 necessary consequence of the other. Besides, the subject 
 is not less beautiful nor less vast. If the Parisian winter is, 
 par excellence, the season for brilliant fetes, on the other hand, a 
 
 * The French work of last year was called Un hiver a Paris, and that of this 
 vear is denominated JSEte d Paris.
 
 FRENCII TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. ix 
 
 summer in Paris, one single summer, will acquaint you, better 
 than ten winters, with the hundred thousand little revolutions 
 which the city undergoes, on certain days of the year. Paris 
 in the summer is the city in repose ; she forgets the labors of 
 her coquetry and her ambition that she may afterwards remem- 
 ber them with more joy ; she yields herself happy creature ! 
 to a calmer existence, to less ardent passions. The most un- 
 tamed go to a distance, to the Pyrenees, to the Alps, or to 
 the borders of the sea, to seek in the chances of travelling, in 
 the virulent emotions of the trente et quarante, through the 
 burning accidents of the month of August, something which 
 resembles the winter in Paris. But the Parisian, who is wise 
 and worthy of being a Parisian, remains quietly in Paris ; there 
 he profits by the space which is left him, he possesses himself 
 of all these noises, of all this silence, for his single use. To him 
 alone, now that the rest of the city has set out to him alone 
 belongs this rich capital of the world, from the palace of the 
 king to the royal library; to him belong all the paintings, all 
 the books, all which constitutes art and poetry. He reigns in 
 interregnum. For him alone, the Opera sings and dances ; for 
 him alone, the Theatre Frangais invents its comedies ; for him 
 the street music fills the air with its rustic melodies ; for him 
 the railroads are filled each morning with their powerful flame. 
 The jets d'eau of Versailles, and the fountains of Saint Cloud, 
 and the rural fetes beneath the old village elm, are all for him. 
 There is not a flower which he may not pluck, not a piece of ice 
 from last winter which has not been preserved for his use, not 
 a scarf, not a straw hat from Italy, not a pretty, ingenuous 
 countenance of which the model-Parisian does not have the 
 first sight; not a little love song or drinking song which the 
 poet and the musician have not composed for this pacha of
 
 x FRENCH TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 the beautiful days of June, July, and September. Travellers 
 from all countries, travellers from the depth of Russia with 
 its brilliant fetes, Englishmen who have quitted your green 
 meadows, Scotchmen from the banks of the Tweed, our Irish 
 brothers, who abandon, at its most exciting moment, your 
 Emerald Isle ; and you the lovely black-eyed Italians, Italians 
 from Naples; you the fair Italians, from Milan or from Flo- 
 rence ; you also, the daughters of Germany, the dreamers, the 
 imaginative beings who seek the ideal upon the earth . . . and 
 in the sky; what do you intend to do in Paris these sunny 
 days? what do you come to seek in these profound solitudes? 
 " We come," say they, " when all the false Parisians are absent, 
 that we may observe and admire more closely the true Parisian 
 of Paris." 
 
 Thus has our American La Bruyere done; he also wished 
 to know what kind of life is led in the deserted city, what 
 philosophers walk under the flowering chesnut trees, and what 
 songs of thanksgiving are uttered by the wave of the Seine, 
 from the moment when it escapes an unknown source across 
 the fertile country, to the solemn hour when it loses itself in 
 the sea. This is the way in which this second volume has been 
 composed, filled with the most beautiful passages, the finest 
 fetes, the Parisian elegancies ; and which, in short, is a true 
 epitome of a Parisian summer. 
 
 THE EDITOR.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 
 Leaving Paris Peculiarities of Paris Retrospection Wads worth Longfellow Paris 
 the centre of France The celebrated men of the Provinces Brittany Provence 
 Burgundy Normandy The Seine Celebrated men of Paris Moliere and Vol- 
 taire A great mistake Journey of Lord S to Rome Forgets to visit St. 
 
 Peter's Similar predicament of the Author in Paris Victor Hugo His love of 
 the horrible His idea of the picturesque, and partiality for ancient Paris . . 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The eighteenth century State of Paris at that time Power of the French fashions 
 Present improvements Fortune-hunters Their habits The old nobility An 
 old sportsman Forest of Compiegne The Royal Almanac M. Chrin The old 
 miser her valuable hoards Her death The Opera i 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Parisian Churches An anecdote Associations of Paris The Val de Grace The 
 Jardin des Plantes Santeul Paris white and Paris black The Sorbonne M. 
 Saint Marc Girardin The Sorbonne and the Bastille Revolutionaries The 
 Orators of the Sorbonne M. Guizot M. Villemain M. Cousin M. Laromi- 
 guiere Fete at the Sorbonne Cathedrals of Saint Denis Tombs of Saint Denis- 
 Island of Saint Denis . .38
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Cafe Procope Island of Saint Louis Hotel Lambert Antiquarians M. Lenoir 
 M. du Sommerard A French bishop A lucky escape The Hotel de Cluny Its 
 chapel Chamber of Francis I. Longchamps ....... 70 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Paris a coquette The year 2440 Mercier's dreams Voltaire out of fashion 
 Allegory Definition of a gentleman Various improvements M. Gannal Palace 
 of the quai d'Orsay Hotel of a Minister Country excursions Saint Germain 
 The Country Ball 84 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Royal Stables at Chantilly The Chantilly Races The Race for the Gold Cup 
 An unexpected ball Strange mistakes Return to the city Toilette of Paris 
 Effect of Revolutions Respect of the French for unfinished Monuments The 
 unfinished Louvre .... 105 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Postman A welcome Messenger An invitation The Croix de Berny The 
 High Road The Steeple Chase Enthusiasm of the French 114 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Circus in the Champs Elys^es The Green room of the Actors Their freedom 
 from affectation M. Baucher Partisan The Champs Elysees The Alice des 
 Veuves The Comet of 1843 120 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A sudden recollection Reasons for returning to Paris Powerful attractions Rouen 
 A happy circumstance Opening of the Railroad Cordiality of the French and 
 English workmen Liberality of feeling The Exposition at the Louvre Discus- 
 sion about the Paintings Eagerness of the Artists at the opening of the Exposition 
 The Portraits M. Ingres His portrait of M. Berlin His portrait of Count 
 Mote M. Champmartin M. Winterhalter Likenesses of the Duchess de Nemours 
 M. Dubufe His impartiality as a painter His admiration of the ladies M. 
 Guizot Death of Madame Guizot Isabey Vandalism of the French . . . 126 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A visit Delicate health of the Parisian ladies Convalescence Parisian Causerie 
 Europe a vast saloon 145
 
 CONTENTS. Xlll 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 p. ge 
 
 Versailles The Railroad The Windmill at Versailles Louis XIV. at Versailles 
 His chamber The (Eil-de-Beeuf the Chapel Louis XIV. the real King of Ver- 
 sailles Louis Philippe at Versailles Fete of June 10, 1839 Versailles now a 
 Museum Statue of Joan of Arc The old Marshals recognising themselves in 
 the Paintings Varied Tastes The Petit Trianon Marie Antoinette A vision 
 The Railroad The Arc-de-Triomphe 149 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Fontainebleau The Gardens Historical Associations Napoleon taking leave of 
 the Imperial Guard The Chateau Abdication of Napoleon Great changes 
 Francis I. and Napoleon Ambition of Louis Philippe Forest of Fontainebleau 
 The Roche-qui-pleure Other celebrated rocks 163 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Saint Cloud Passy Franklin Anecdote of M. de Richelieu La Muette M. 
 Erard Mount VaKjrien Madame de Genlis Terrace of Saint Cloud Interview 
 between Marie Antoinette and Mirabeau Ville d'Avray Lantern of Diogenes 
 Park of Saint Cloud A Ball Fireworks Forgetfulness of the French . . 175 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The July fetes The M&t de Cocagne The Parisian on the Seine His awkwardness 
 Various Amusements The Place de la Bastille Beaumarchais Destruction of 
 the Bastille Monument of July History of an old Man Phantoms of the 
 Bastille The Colossal Elephant The Revolution of July 182 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Mineral waters the bike d'Enghien The family of Montmorenci The village of 
 Montmorenci Rousseau Gretry Saint Gratien The Marshal de Catinat 
 Eaubonne Sannois Epinay Rousseau The forest of Montmorenci Imagina- 
 tion and reality 192 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A horticultural fete Ennui of the flowers The dahlias Useful flowers Barbarous 
 Latin Nomenclature of the Roses Vexatious ignorance Tulips Daisies Pan- 
 sies Flora and Pomona Vegetables Fruit Flowers Talent of the Parisian 
 ladies The carnations Favorite names . 200
 
 XIV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Page 
 Music Friendly Reunions Madame Damoreau Nourrit Madame Nathan 
 
 Treilhet Countess de Mont6ngro Madame de Sparre Madame Lafarge 
 French hospitality to foreigners Burlesque on the Italian Operas A beautiful 
 audience Extraordinary actors Beautiful singing Discovery of Rossini A 
 mistake Burning of Babylon Clorinda's madness Clorinda recovers her senses 
 Reconciliation Call for the Author and the Actors The Author of Esmeralda 
 M. Monpou Mademoiselle Pujet Celebrated Pianists A family concert Love 
 of the French for old music Wilhem Kindness of the Parisian ladies Schlesinger 
 His first evening in New York His misfortunes His death An elegy written 
 upon him by an American girl 211 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Thoughts of Home Impossibility of describing Paris Parisian urbanity to 
 strangers Paris deserted in the month of August The Etoiles Banks of the 
 Seine Arrival at Rouen Dieppe The Duchess de Berri Visit of Queen Vic- 
 toria to the chateau d'Eu Mademoiselle Narrow escape of the French royal 
 family Arrival of the Queen Enthusiastic reception Fte at the Mount d' 
 Orleans Intended paintings illustrating the royal visit The Concert Excite- 
 ment in Paris whether Queen Victoria would honor that city with her presence 
 The Queen's decision Her departure Parisian Society A puzzling question 
 Departure from France Death of Victor Hugo's daughter Sentiment and 
 business . . ... .... 231
 
 LIST OF ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 1. GRAND FETE AT THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES (Frontispiece). 
 
 2. MEETING OF THE HOUNDS . ... .26 
 
 3. INTERIOR OF AN OPERA Box ..... 37 
 
 4. CHURCH OF SAINT DENIS . . . . . . .65 
 
 5. LONGCHAMI'S ........ 82 
 
 6. ARRIVAL AT THE CHATEAU . . . . . .98 
 
 7. SAINT GERMAINE ....... 103 
 
 8. PEASANT'S BALL . . . . . . . .104 
 
 9. CHANTILLY RACES . . . . . . .108 
 
 10. STEEPLE CHASE . . . . . . . 118 
 
 11. FRANCONI ........ 121 
 
 12. THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE ...... 144 
 
 13. CONVALESCENCE . . . . . . .146 
 
 14. THE GRAND WATERWORKS AT VERSAILLES . . . .154 
 
 15. INTERIOR OF THE PALACE OF FONTAINBLEAU . . . 170 
 
 16. THE LANTERN OF DIOGENES (Si. CLOUD) . . . .180 
 
 17. TOURNEY ON THE WATER (FETE OF JULY) . . . . 183 
 
 18. THE FAMILY CONCERT , 223
 
 THE AMERICAN IN PARIS, 
 
 DURING THE SUMMER, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LEAVING PARIS. 
 
 I WAS preparing to leave Paris ; it was the month of April ; 
 welcome, thou lovely month of April, which restores to us the 
 spring, and takes me back to my native land ! Farewell, 
 winter ! farewell, Paris ! Paris is the city of gloomy months, 
 of gardens without flowers, of trees without verdure, of skies 
 without sun. To enjoy Paris, you must have splendid fetes by 
 the light of wax candles; balls, concerts, plays, love, intrigues. 
 Paris must have the angry murmur of politics, and the buzz of 
 witty conversation. Paris exists especially upon little calum- 
 nies, private slanders, projects, romances, vaudevilles, jests ; 
 all of them, things which belong to the winter. Take from this 
 city, the fine arts, the geniuses, the popular beauties, the names 
 of the generals who have gained such famous battles, the
 
 2 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 nothings of winter, the large fires on the spacious hearths, the 
 drawing-rooms filled with chatting and wit, the brilliant re- 
 unions, the diamonds and the floating dresses, the flowers and 
 the pearls, and you will see what remains of this immense city, 
 so populous, and so well filled ! Nothing, but those institu- 
 tions which are common to all the nations of the world ; for 
 instance, the Bourse, the Palais-de-Justice, the Chamber of 
 Deputies, the schools, the restaurateurs, the lawyers, and the 
 manufacturers of newspapers; all, things of the rarest and most 
 exquisite interest; all, things which I shall find again in New 
 York. We must return home ; only we will take as a re- 
 membrance of this delightful visit, the journal which we have 
 written with so much joy ; an incomplete book, no doubt, but 
 one which abounds with true sentiments, tried passions, and 
 deeply felt emotions. A book written with the pen, and at the 
 same time with the graver. A simple tale, without pretension, 
 without malice, without any thing which contributes to the 
 success of those pages, upon which the crowd seize, that they 
 may find food for their wicked propensities. Indeed, it was 
 our wish that the four months of the last Parisian winter, 
 should be reproduced in all their native elegance. You re- 
 member that long succession of chapters, in which Eugene 
 Lami, the incomparable draughtsman, had difficulty in fol- 
 lowing us, while Mr. Heath, the eminent English engraver, 
 could scarcely keep pace with Eugene Lami ? Each of us 
 walked with a joyous step, through the various smiling aspects 
 of the Parisian world, and the struggle was, which should un- 
 derstand them the best. What happy descriptions we unitedly 
 supplied ; the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysees, the Cafe 
 Tortoni, the Soiree at the Duke of Orleans', the Pantheon ! 
 And the beautiful children in the Tuileries gardens, the future 
 generation; and the dances in the brilliant saloons, the varied 
 apparitions so dazzling and so beloved, but all vanished so 
 quickly! But what does it signify? I have for my conso-
 
 THE CENTRE OF FRANCE. 3 
 
 lation, the lines of my countryman, Wadsworth Longfellow, the 
 poet: 
 
 " Sweet April ! Many a thought 
 
 Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
 Nor shall they fail, till to its autumn brought, 
 
 Life's golden fruit is shed." 
 
 So saying, I prepared to leave. Not that, if I honestly con- 
 fessed the truth, my resolution was immoveable ; on the con- 
 trary, the nearer the hour of departure approached, the more 
 sad and undecided I felt. 
 
 Paris may well be called the good city, for however little 
 a traveller may be prepossessed in its favor, yet when 
 once he has penetrated some of these elegant mysteries, it 
 is not without a certain anguish of heart, that he resolves 
 to leave it. In this vast world of Paris, there is every 
 thing to know, every thing to learn, every thing to guess. 
 The whole history of France and its different provinces is 
 enclosed within these formidable walls. He who was tho- 
 roughly acquainted with the great city of Charlemagne and 
 of Napoleon, would be, at the same time, the wisest antiquarian, 
 the greatest politician, and the best poet in the universe. His 
 book would be at once, a poem equal to the Iliad of Homer, 
 a comedy worthy of the master-pieces of Moliere, and a 
 romance so wonderful, that even the Gil Bias of Lesage could 
 not be compared to it. Imagine yourself placed upon some 
 high mountain, whence the whole of France displays itself before 
 you. At first your dazzled eyes perceive only, an assemblage 
 of confused and boundless grandeur; the Alps, the mountains 
 of Auvergne, the gloomy forests, the Cevennes, the Pyrenees, 
 are only the ramparts of this kingdom, of which Paris is the 
 centre. Rivers descend from these well loved mountains ; 
 the Loire and the Garonne, the Saone, and the Rhone; and 
 they flow here and there, spreading around them fertility and 
 abundance. By degrees, this confused mass of inestimable 
 
 B 2
 
 BRITTANY. PROVERB. 
 
 wonders assumes a certain form ; by degrees, each province 
 detaches itself from this vast whole, and turns towards Paris, 
 from which it waits, not without a secret trembling, the mighty 
 impulse. First, we see Brittany, a country entirely Gallic, 
 which has given to France, many a bold and brave defender, 
 many a celebrated philosopher ; Duguesclin, Latour d'Au- 
 vergne, Abeilard, her greatest poet Chateaubriand, and her 
 most terrible revolutionary M. de Lamennais. You recognise 
 the rude province by her rude language, her old names of 
 the ancient nobility, her faithfulness to the creeds of former 
 days, the austerity of her manners, her indigent pride. She 
 remembers her battles, she recalls all her griefs. She has 
 taken centuries, to learn the little of modern language which 
 she has consented to speak. At the same time impelled 
 towards Paris, by that immense power which urges every thing 
 to the centre, present themselves in succession, Anjou, the 
 country of the Plantagenets, who have given so many kings to 
 England ; Poitou, the vast field of battle, traversed by Clovis, 
 by Charles Martel, and the Black Prince : Champagne, the 
 country of Turenne; Auvergne, which gave birth to the two 
 Arnauds, and the lofty mountains of which, still remember 
 Pascal. In its turn, comes the South, to salute the great 
 capital ; and you should see how prostrate Toulouse and Bor- 
 deaux fall, before Paris. You recognise Provence by its festive 
 appearance, the flowers which compose its garland, the wit and 
 poetry by which it is surrounded. It is in fact the cradle of all 
 the poetry of the French nation. From the twelfth century, 
 the Provencal troubadours have been celebrated throughout 
 Europe; they remodelled the language which they found; 
 rebellious as it was, they forced it to obey certain laws, certain 
 harmonious rules, which practical good sense dictated to them. 
 There also, more than one great orator has commenced his career. 
 Massillon was a Proven9al ; Cardinal Maury was a Provencal; 
 and Mirabeau, the great leveller, whence did he appear, armed
 
 BURGUNDY. NORMANDY. 5 
 
 with such passions and such vengeance ? He sprang, as did M. 
 Thiers, from the depths of Provence ! Such are the men sent 
 to Paris, by the rest of France, as soon as their genius has 
 developed itself. Of such choice minds, gathered from all 
 parts of the kingdom, is the Parisian city composed. The city 
 belongs to each and to all ; few are born there, all pass 
 through it, not one remains in it. Thus Dauphiny has sent 
 to Paris, Condillac, and Admiral Lalande. You may think 
 these taxes and tributes difficult to pay, and yet they are 
 paid, by every part of France. Next you behold Lyons, re- 
 membering the Romans ; and Burgundy, the country of Saint 
 Bernard, of Bossuet, of Buffon, of Bichat the physiologist, of 
 M. de Lamartine ; and Champagne, the home of the Villehar- 
 douins, of the sires de Joinville, of Cardinal de Retz. And that 
 province worthy of being a kingdom, the subject of such inex- 
 haustible history, Normandy, the country of so many wise 
 legislators, so many brave soldiers, so many husbandmen. To 
 grateful France, Normandy has given the great Corneille, 
 Flanders has given her Froissart and Philippe de Commines ! 
 Where will you find a more extensive prospect ! Where a 
 more beautiful sight ! The Seine, that river celebrated among 
 all the rivers of the world, would, of itself, suffice for contem- 
 plation during a whole year. Who can tell all the activity, all 
 the labor, all the poetry of this great river; all the land that 
 this water fertilizes; all the flocks that it nourishes; all the 
 fruits and the flowers : all the old castles and modern houses, 
 which it gently lulls by the sound of its undulating wave ? 
 Who can tell the thousand arms that it puts in motion, all the 
 wheat that it crushes under the mill-stone, the wool which it 
 converts into cloth, the iron of which it makes ploughs and 
 swords, and the trades which are incessantly pursued in its 
 industrious billows ? On its passage, and in proportion as it 
 needs more strength, the noble river summons to its aid, other 
 powerful rivers, the Marne and the Oise, and thus it reaches
 
 6 THE SEINE. 
 
 Paris triumphantly, like those great men of whom we have 
 just spoken. The Seine is the pride of Paris. The city has 
 banished her most beautiful houses to a distance, the better to 
 see its course, she beholds herself in its waters, she plants the 
 finest trees upon its shores, she builds magnificent bridges 
 above this flood, which passes to a distance with regret. From 
 Paris to Havre the river flows in triumph ; every one salutes 
 it when it passes ; every one blesses it. The cities, the villages, 
 the sunny islands, the clocks which sound the angelus, the 
 herds, the boatmen, the husbandmen, the soldiers, follow with 
 a tender look the mysterious and solemn river, which is about 
 to carry beyond the ocean, to the most distant shores of 
 America, I'idee Frangaise. 
 
 Paris, then, is the history of all the provinces, of all the 
 men, of all the passions of France. There, universal wit and 
 genius have taken refuge. Between the porches of Notre 
 Dame and the court of the Sainte Chapelle, has sprung up all 
 the scepticism, all the citizen-like good sense, which preside 
 over the nineteenth century, after having shaken and tho- 
 roughly overturned the eighteenth. Do you ask what won- 
 derful minds Paris has produced ? It has raised them all to 
 its own attainments ; but besides this, it has produced hijp who 
 may be called French genius par excellence, the comic poet, the 
 profound philosopher, the ever laughing, and yet serious, Mo- 
 liere; besides Moliere, it has given you Voltaire : ask no more. 
 All the other Parisians, strictly speaking, even those who are 
 born in Paris, re-assume, more or less, the particular genius of 
 some one of the provinces of France. For instance, D'Alem- 
 bert, the head of the Encyclopaedia; D'Anville, the geographer; 
 Saint Foix, the antiquarian ; Bachaumont, the half crazy poet ; 
 Bailly, the astronomer ; Despreaux, with his good sense and 
 satire; Bouhours, the wit under the waving robe of the Jesuit ; 
 Charles Lebrun, the painter of Louis the great and Alexander 
 the great ; the clever Guillaume Budee ; Marivaux the historian
 
 CELEBRATED PARISIANS. 7 
 
 of the fashionable world of the Regency; Nicolas Catinat, 
 with his courage, simplicity, and virtue ; Chardin, the traveller 
 to Persia ; Pierre Charron, the friend of Montaigne ; La 
 Chaussee, the Thespis of the weeping drama; the well 
 known avocat, Henri Cochin ; these are so many children 
 of Paris, born in the midst of the Parisian city; but, never- 
 theless, not one of these celebrated men has the purely 
 Parisian genius ; there is not one, whom it would not be 
 easy to place in some province of France. They were born 
 in Paris by chance, and because one must be born some- 
 where, but the only thoroughly Parisian geniuses are Moliere 
 and Voltaire, each placed at the two extremities of French art. 
 Besides, how few Parisians there are in Paris ! how few even 
 amongst the princes and kings of the French monarchy, are 
 born in Paris ! The prince de Conde, however, was born in 
 Paris ; the witty prince de Conti, the schoolfellow of Moliere, 
 was born in Paris ; the other princes of the house of Bourbon 
 were born at Versailles, at Fontainebleau, at Saint Germain, at 
 Saint Cloud, at Bellevue, even at Palermo, in the kingdom of 
 Sicily, every where except in Paris. In point of Parisians, 
 you have the three Coypels, and Madame Deshoulieres, a 
 charmjng Parisian of the Place Royale; and Dorat, the 
 coxcomb, with too much wit; and Pierre de 1'Etoile, the 
 historian of the reign of Henry the third ; and the clever 
 family of the Estiennes, Robert, Henri, Charles, Robert- 
 Estienne, Henry-Estienne, the celebrated printers; true Pa- 
 risians these, workmen of Paris, scholars of the Sorbonne, 
 and the University of France. The worthy friend of Fenelon, 
 the Abbe Fleury was a Parisian ; the king's very witty valet de 
 chambre Dufresny, who so loved flowers, extravagance, and the 
 fine arts, Dufresny was born in Paris, and what is better still, 
 he died there, regardless of his poverty. Jean Goujon, the 
 worthy rival of the best Florentine sculptors; Helvetius, one 
 of those empty reputations of which so many are made in
 
 8 MOLIERE AND VOLTAIRE. 
 
 Paris; Houdard de la Motte, the lyric poet, as well as J. B. 
 Rousseau, the Pindar of the great age, were so many children 
 of Paris. Place also upon your list those names worthy of all 
 our sympathy and respect ; La Harpe, the useful author of the 
 Cours de Litterature ; M. de Lamoignon, the honor of the 
 ancient parliament ; M. de Malesherbes, the defender of King 
 Louis XVI., who was worthy to die the death of his royal 
 client ; Lancelot, the most artless and clever man of Port 
 Royal des Champs; Lavoisier, the great chemist, to whom 
 Robespierre's executioners would not grant eight days' respite, 
 that he might finish some experiments which he had com- 
 menced ; Ninon de Lenclos, the coquettish problem, of whom 
 so many impossible fables are told, which are simply true ; 
 and the Marchioness de Lambert. But enough of this 
 again I repeat that, strictly speaking, in all this assemblage 
 of clever minds and strong wills, there are but two real Pa- 
 risians ; two men, who could never have been born or died in 
 any other city Moliere and Voltaire, the author of the Tar- 
 tufe, and the author of the Essai sur les Mceurs ; the one, the 
 best, the most devoted, and the most simple of men; the other, 
 the most bitter, the most licentious, and the most treacherous 
 of wits. The former, simple in his life, a kind, benevolent man, 
 seeking the vices of his fellows, only to correct them by ri- 
 dicule; the latter, brutal, malicious, sarcastic, and exulting 
 whenever he could throw in the face of the human species, all 
 the sting of his mind, all the venom of his heart. The first, 
 who employs the foolish or serious, but comparatively innocent, 
 scenes, of comedy; the second, who knows only of violence, 
 wounds, bites, and stabs, and who would be very sorry if 'he 
 corrected the smallest vice, without substituting in its place, 
 some hideous monstrosity. Moliere, always serious, even in his 
 most foolish scenes ; Voltaire, always a clown, a cruel, pitiless 
 clown, even in the boldest ferocities. Moliere who pardons, 
 Voltaire who is merciless: Moliere who dares to attack reli-
 
 A GREAT MISTAKE. 9 
 
 gious hypocrisy, the most shameful and dreadful of hypocrisies; 
 Voltaire the cowardly and insolent poet, who knows nothing 
 better than to cover with mud and dirt, in a poem full of 
 licence, scandal, and blasphemy, the young girl who defended 
 and saved France, the Maid of Orleans. 
 
 And this is the city which I imagined I had seen, studied, 
 and understood ! Really, because I had described some of its 
 features in two or three hundred pages, I fancied myself a great 
 politician, a profound observer, a learned antiquarian. Fool 
 that I was ! 
 
 I have heard it very gravely told, that Lord S , one 
 
 day, wished to visit Rome, the eternal city. He arrived in 
 Rome in the month of January; he remained there six 
 months, and during the first two days, was busily occupied 
 in perambulating the place. This done, he began to feel 
 the need of rest, and immediately he stopped sight seeing. 
 Play, idleness, letters to read, letters to write, lounging walks 
 in the fine weather, music in the evening, in the drawing- 
 rooms, and the fetes of the banker Torlonia, made the well 
 filled days appear to him very short. He already forgot that 
 he was in Rome, a foreigner and even a heretic, when suddenly 
 arrived the hour of departure. Important interests recalled our 
 traveller to the Upper House, of which he is one of the most 
 silent members. Already the post-chaise was standing beneath 
 the windows, the horses neighed, the postilion cracked his 
 whip, the passers by stopped to look, the young flower girl of 
 the street, the beautiful, black eyed Transteverine, with her bold 
 step, and proud, but yet graceful look, held in readiness, her 
 
 farewell nosegay. At that moment, Lord S thought he 
 
 would open his album, to see if he had omitted any thing in 
 his projected travels. He found that he had omitted nothing, 
 or almost nothing; only, -in the midst of a blank page, the 
 father of the young lord had written in large letters, Do not 
 forget to visit St. Peter's at Rome. But our traveller had en-
 
 10 ST. PETER'S AT ROME. 
 
 tirely forgotten the basilic and the dome of Michael Angelo, 
 and the frescoes of Raphael, and all that vast and inestimable 
 treasure of Christian art. 
 
 Lord S was much vexed ; but what should he do ? He 
 
 was the more embarrassed, because he had yet to take leave 
 of a beautiful Venitian lady in the neighborhood. Then, 
 bravely coming to a decision, John, said he to his valet, go 
 quickly, and visit a church called Saint Peter's at Rome, and 
 on the road you can tell me what I ought to think of it. 
 
 You laugh, my reader ; nevertheless, such is my position in 
 the midst of this Paris, of which we have scarcely seen the 
 surface. In very deed, on the point of finishing my delightful 
 task, the blood rushes to my face, at the mere thought of the 
 great things which I have forgotten. I now, at the moment 
 of my departure, understand that Paris is the kingdom, the 
 history of France : it is the heart of this great body ; it is the 
 universal rendezvous of all the passions, all the remembrances, 
 all the ideas, of this noble people. From these ramparts, which 
 are raised so hastily, as if such a world needed citadels to 
 defend itself, issues the movement of each day ; thence come 
 submissions and tumults ; Paris is the deadly cloak, which 
 contains in one of its enormous folds, peace and war ! Seek 
 only in Paris, the genius of this people, the eloquence of the 
 Burgundian, the irony of the Champagnese, the warlike 
 courage of the Lorrainese, the bold and sincere self-will of 
 the Franche Comtian, the fanaticism of the Languedocian, the 
 sharp petulance of the Gascon, the conquering spirit of the 
 Norman, the careless indolence of the Fleming, the obstinacy 
 of the Breton. Paris is the vast sea, in which mingle the 
 various living and deep sources of French mind. United in 
 the common centre, all these different men recognise, observe, 
 and study each other, until well assured that they are the 
 children of the same country. In vain, when the Fleming 
 is in Flanders, does he remember Germany ; in vain, when the
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 11 
 
 Gascon is at Bordeaux, does he think of Spain ; in vain, when 
 the Provencal is in Proven9e, does he recall Italy; all these 
 remembrances, which are not regrets, vanish as they enter 
 Paris, and those who once indulged them, become French 
 just as the rivers lose their own existence, in mingling with the 
 ocean, and thenceforth form a part of the ocean itself. Unity 
 is the mother of Paris, she is its boulevard, its mighty power. 
 Unity has produced the beautiful French language, the polished 
 society, the court of so many brave, acute, benevolent kings. 
 Unity is the mother of the academies, the schools, the theatres, 
 the powerful works, the ever recurring revolutions which leave 
 Paris daily, to impose their laws upon the rest of France. 
 What a madman then was I, who thought to enclose this great 
 epic machine within the covers of a volume in octavo ! Then I 
 began to recall that merry pleasantry, so completely French, 
 the Ouverture de Don Juan of Mozart, arranged for two flage- 
 olets. Without M. Eugene Lami, my painter, and Mr. Heath, 
 his worthy translator, I should have thrown my manuscript to 
 the winds, you may rest assured. 
 
 And besides, said I to myself, what strange Paris hast thou 
 been studying? The Paris of nosegays and velvet, the Paris of 
 balls, of the Opera, and the Italian boulevards ! The dull city, 
 made up of deputies, dancers, poets of the French Academy, 
 monuments of yesterday ; nothing romantic, nothing curious, 
 nothing which recalls past times, any more than the savage and 
 picturesque manners of former days. Ah ! it is not thus, like a 
 happy well dressed man, whom every thing obeys, and who 
 walks much less than he drives, that the author of Notre Dame 
 de Paris has viewed the great and turbulent city which it has 
 been my wish to describe. Ah ! it is not thus, in perfect indif- 
 ference, in the midst of a gilded saloon, or upon the threshold 
 of some fashionable restaurateur, that the terrible poet has 
 studied the city of his adoption and of his love ! No, no, he 
 would never consent to follow on foot, the children playing in
 
 12 LOVE OF THE HORRIBLE. 
 
 the walks of the Tuileries, the soldiers whom the king reviews 
 in the court of the Carrousel, the peers of France walking 
 under the trees of the Luxembourg. Fye ! he pass through 
 these beautiful gardens, adorned with flowers, water, and sing- 
 ing birds ! He lose his time over the happy spectacle of the 
 boulevards, where the loveliest crowd passes and repasses in its 
 most elegant dress ! He amuse himself in the streets brilliant 
 with light, and washed at every hour of the day ! You do not 
 suppose it, Americans as you are ! No, no, this is not the 
 Paris of M. Hugo ; he must have the Paris of mud and dark- 
 ness, of the pillory, and the Cour des Miracles, the Paris of 
 gipseys, and thieves, and gallows. Let people murder, and cut 
 one another's throats ; let the king on one side, and the people 
 on the other, abandon themselves to every kind of violence, this 
 is what suits the taste of this wild poet ; murders, blows, mud, 
 drunken soldiers, priests enervated by luxury; all these dis- 
 graceful things, and in the midst of the most menacing frenzy, 
 the river which carries lank living corpses in a sack; in a 
 word, La justice du roi qui passe, this is the true sight, the 
 real Paris. The rest is void of interest, the rest belongs to the 
 citizen, to the National Guard, to the Chamber of Deputies, to 
 the prefect of police, to the manufacturers of asphalte and 
 bitumen pavements. Fye ! The lighted gas, which robs the 
 night of its profound darkness can you think of it ? The 
 brilliant shops filled with valuables, protected only by a slight 
 glass which a mere nothing would break can you think of it ? 
 Where is the beautiful, where is the picturesque, where is the 
 wonderful in all this ? Let us cover our heads, and submit, 
 the good King Louis XL is dead ! 
 
 And yet this is the city, which M. Hugo and the architects in 
 his suite, would fain rebuild ! How many tears shed, upon 
 these frightful ruins which no longer exist ! What would they 
 not give, to recall these ancient scenes ? Dark houses, pas- 
 sages without air, an entire absence of the sun, thieves in every
 
 ANCIENT PARIS. 13 
 
 street, hungry wolves at each gate of the city, anguish every 
 where, hope returned to heaven, which refuses again to restore 
 it to the earth. Long life then to the black, gothic, muddy, 
 feverish city ; the city of darkness, and disorder, and violence, 
 and murder, and misery ! 
 
 Nevertheless, from the height of his elevation, with his arms 
 crossed upon his chest, the poet admires, at his ease, this beau- 
 tiful, marvellous Paris of the fifteenth century, his passion and 
 his dream. Come, we will be younger by some hundreds of years ! 
 Paris, which was at first only an island, crossed the Seine with 
 the kings of the first race ; Philip-Augustus long afterwards 
 built walls and fortresses, around which all sorts of houses 
 raised themselves, melancholy, deep, above all high, pressed 
 one against the other, like houses which are afraid, and shrink 
 into nothing, to escape from the tyrant. Not one open square, 
 not one street, in which two can pass abreast ; no air, no sun. 
 Were not these men very happy, and very well lodged ? How- 
 ever, by degrees they quit the masses of ill shaped stones, the 
 gloomy houses exposed to the weather, which nothing enters ex- 
 cept the rain of heaven; they dare to look at the sun; but alas! 
 they must take care not to go too far, for in default of enemies 
 beyond, the city itself is full of ambuscades and slavery ; for in 
 this miserable place, all kinds of privileges, powers, and usurpa- 
 tions dispute with each other, the ownership of the body and 
 the possession of the soul. Look carefully, and you will 
 recognize these different powers, by their prisons, their citadels, 
 their fortresses, their dungeons, their convents, their various 
 jurisdictions. The Grand-Chatelet, the Petit-Chatelet, the 
 Tournelle, the Tour de Nesle, the Tour des Bois, the Louvre, 
 the Hotel-de-Ville, the Sorbonne, the Pre-aux-Clercs, the 
 Palais de Justice, and to crown the whole thing properly, 
 the gibbet of Montfau^on. Oh, what a beautiful and touching 
 sight ! And at each entrance of the city, a tower, a fortress, 
 a bastille, the tower de Billy, de Saint-Antoine, the tower of
 
 14 STRANGE THINGS. 
 
 the Temple, the tower Saint-Martin, Saint-Denis, Montrnartre, 
 Saint-Honore. Each tower has its fosse, each fosse its armed 
 soldiers and its liquid mud ; when night comes, every thing is 
 closed and barricaded ; chains are laid in the river .... oh, 
 it was charming and delightful to see ! it was not a city, it 
 was a labyrinth, or better still, it was a net, to make use of 
 an expression that M. Hugo has borrowed from some honest 
 woman ; in fact, an inextricable net ; each mesh was a street, 
 and all these numberless streets crossed each other, mingled, 
 and were so confused, one within the other, that you would 
 have supposed it a dance of witches, on some festival night. 
 Streets, count them ! spires, domes, bridges, banks, strands, 
 rivulets, chapels, churches, banners, count them, count 
 them ! There was nothing but gables, pointed roofs, dungeons, 
 arabesques, fantastical towers, dwarfs and giants, whims, fan- 
 cies, and deformities. The old roofs were covered with a 
 yellowish moss, blackened lead, or half broken slate. You 
 would have said, to see them from a distance, on stormy 
 days, that these sharp, pointed stones were about to fight, 
 to wrestle, to destroy each other. As for the Seine, that 
 sparkling stream, it disappeared beneath the houses, the filth, 
 the bridges, laden with wretched cabins. In the streets, the 
 uproar was frightful; scholars, artizans, washerwomen, old 
 soldiers, uttered, each in his own way, the cry of his pro- 
 fession; without reckoning the all powerful and respected 
 monks, before whom suddenly fell back the whole mob ; the 
 Bernardines, the Genovefians, the Mathurins, the Benedictines, 
 the Cordeliers, the Augustines ; each of them having his tower, 
 his justice, his prison, his church, his chapel, and his blessing, 
 to bestow upon the heads which bow as they pass before him. 
 And the churches, who can count them ? Saint Jacques de 
 la Boucherie, Saint Jacques du haut Pas, Saint Magloire, 
 Notre Dame des Champs, Saint Germain des Pres ; and the 
 pillory, and the tile kiln, and the public oven, and the
 
 NOTRE DAME DE PARIS. 15 
 
 lazaretto ; for to all the singular beauties we have already 
 named, you must add the leper. You have also large hotels 
 occupied by insolent and merciless noblemen ; the hotel de 
 Jouy, the hotel de Sens, the hotel Barbeau, and the hotel des 
 Tournelles, and the hotel Saint Paul, where dwelt as many 
 as twenty-two princes, each as powerful as a king. There 
 were also the hotels of the Abbe de St. Maur, du Petit Muce, 
 du Comte d' Etampes, and each of these hotels had its bravos, 
 its stronghold, its large prison, its fortifications. Towers, 
 battlements, and terror ! Arrows, little bells, weathercocks, 
 spiral staircases, turrets, flags ; and do you see that accumulated 
 mass of black towers, where the drawbridge is always raised, 
 the portcullis always lowered ? It is the Bastille, surrounded 
 by cannon. And all this, bounded by ditches, walls, ravines, 
 gibbets, extended chains, by monks and executioners, by 
 cemeteries, filled with the dead ; by sewers and sepulchres ; 
 by holes in which lived recluses ; by intersections of 
 houses, blind alleys, mazes, cross ways ; by large muddy 
 places, inhabited by beggars, a horrible nation, the different 
 names of which were as horrible as its language ; cripples, 
 the humpbacked, the lame, the maimed, impostors, lepers; 
 bellowings, clappings, shoutings ; in a word, the Cour des 
 Miracles. The Cour des Miracles, that Pandaemonium, that 
 hideous sewer, that collection of all the refuse which the 
 church, the university, the city, the Jews, the Spaniards, the 
 Mahomedans, and the 50 called Christians could produce. 
 There, each province, each people, each misery, each vice 
 has, most certainly, its faithful representative. Such was the 
 decoration ; such were the actors ; houses of mud, comedians 
 of the most depraved character. And yet great contemporary 
 minds have tried to prove to us, that this was beautiful Paris ! 
 They ridicule the well paved, brilliantly lighted city, so care- 
 fully guarded, and so well washed every morning. Stupid 
 Parisians of 1843 and some preceding years, who prefer a
 
 16 THE PICTURESQUE. 
 
 good municipal guard to the footmen of Clopin Trouillefou, 
 king of Tunis, successor of the great Coesre; ungrateful 
 citizens, who sleep more quietly under the prefect of police, 
 M. Delessert, than under the surveillance of Mathias Hun- 
 gadi Spicali, duke of Egypt and Bohemia ! O justice ! for 
 an honest fireman, waiting to throw himself into the midst of 
 the flames, this Paris citizen would, without hesitation, give up 
 Guillaume Rousseau, emperor of Galilee, and his archisuppots ! 
 The picturesque ! when you have said that, you have said all. 
 Art, taste, fireside comfort, the peace of the domestic roof, the 
 gentle warmth of a well closed house, the friendly chatting by 
 the bright fire, the clear glass which suffers the light of day to 
 enter without admitting the cold, the Aubusson carpet under 
 your feet, the walls covered with beautiful engravings, the 
 well bound, well chosen books ; the child who bids you good 
 day, the dog who jumps upon you, the young, well dressed 
 servant, the eager valet, the threshold of the door so clean 
 and well guarded, the quiet street, the public place over- 
 shadowed by fine trees, the Greve without a scaffold, Montfau- 
 gon without the gallows, the king's hotel without a drawbridge; 
 in the churches, prayers, instead of blasphemies ; in the body 
 guards, honest soldiers, and not night robbers ; on the throne 
 a constitutional king, the promoter of peace, the enemy of war, 
 the happy and respected father of a delightful family, and not 
 a tyrant stained with blood ; in the shops, sworn citizens, 
 electors, national guards, who judge, and govern, and defend 
 themselves, and not slaves, obeying, at the same time, the 
 nobleman, the bishop, the city, the university, the monks, 
 their wives, and the whole world. What is the use of all 
 this happiness, which has no distinctive features ? All such 
 details of happy life have the great misfortune of not being 
 picturesque ; the picturesque is the rags under which the poor 
 wretches shiver, and not the prosaic cloak which shelters 
 from wind and rain ; the picturesque is the naked foot, the
 
 POWER OF IMAGINATION. 17 
 
 ill combed hair, the panting chest, the miserable look, the 
 soiled velvet coat, the dirty brocaded dress. Do not tell us 
 of a beautiful cheek, washed, and blushing but of skin, the 
 very touch of which seems poisonous; do not tell us of pretty, 
 little, delicate hands, but of large, coarse, hard ones. A 
 citizen who pays taxes, is so ridiculous ! Tell us, on the 
 contrary, of beggars, of subjects in the kingdom of argot, 
 of the free citizens of the kingdom of Tunis, who have neither 
 to pay for cleansing, nor lighting, nor the poor. And the well 
 dressed ladies, who take their lovely children to the Tuileries 
 gardens, to walk under the blossoming chesnut-trees, can you 
 compare them to the female beggars, Collette La Charonne, 
 Elizabeth Trouvain, Simone Jodouyne, Marie Piedebou, 
 Thonne la Longue, Berarde Fanouel, Michelle Genaille, 
 Claude Rouge Oreille, Mathurine Giroron, Isabeau la Thierree; 
 do not these names sound well, is not this all real ? 
 
 Most, certainly, a powerful imagination was necessary, not 
 only to invoke the ancient Paris of king Philip-Augustus, 
 and of king Louis XL, in all its ugliness, but still more to 
 render supportable, to an attentive look, this darkness piled 
 upon barbarism. And what a mind was necessary, to declare 
 that the Paris of Charles X., and of Louis-Philippe, was only 
 the ill shaped and discolored shadow of the Paris of former 
 days ! Fye ! if you will believe the king of the picturesque, 
 the city of the Parisians is now only plaster; they change 
 their houses just as they change their old clothes, and put 
 on new. If by chance they determine to raise some monu- 
 ment, which is not to be an edifice of plaster or wood, look 
 seriously at this monument when once it is built, and see if 
 you can find any thing more ridiculous. The Pantheon, is 
 a cake from Savoy ; the palace of the Legion d' Honneur a 
 palace of pastry; the Halle aux Bleds, a cap, and better 
 still, the cap of an English jockey ! What are these two 
 large clarinets, surmounted by a crooked stick of menacing 
 
 c
 
 18 IS THE BOURSE ROMAN OR GRECIAN? 
 
 size? They are the towers of Saint Sulpice, and their top 
 the telegraph. To what architecture does the Bourse belong ? 
 is it Roman, or is it Grecian? Really, those people are very 
 obliging who pronounce it a fine building. As for the best 
 streets in Paris, where the inhabitant of the city walks so 
 peaceably and so proudly, the Parisian has never been more 
 absurdly foolish, than in admiring these vast openings, filled 
 with air, motion, space, and sun. For instance, can you 
 imagine any thing more tiresome than the Rue de Rivoli, 
 where you may walk without wetting your feet, where you 
 are sheltered from the rain in winter, and the dust in summer, 
 where the most splendid shops vie with each other, in offering 
 you the treasures of the world, where the garden of the 
 Tuileries displays its most smiling appearance, whilst at your 
 right, the Arc de Triomphe de 1'Etoile rises in all its majesty ? 
 But what is the use of interfering with the fancies of poets ? 
 The historical paradox has never had more intrepid defenders. 
 Innocent and courageous men ! if you press them closely, they 
 will maintain, (always aiming at the picturesque) that it is a 
 great pity that men are no longer broken on the wheel, on the 
 place de Greve, or hanged at Montfauon ; and that the old 
 church of St. Germain 1'Auxerrois, now so silent, and in such 
 good order, no longer tolls, from time to time, the funeral 
 knell of Saint Bartholomew !
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 17401840. 
 
 THUS indignant was I, with these paradoxes in favor of 
 times past, for if the fifteenth century is worthy of so much 
 admiration and praise, most certainly we, who so much admire 
 the present century, who pay to it such homage, who publish 
 such elegant books in its praise, must be simpletons and nin- 
 nies. Nevertheless, without going back so far as Philip- 
 Augustus, perhaps it would not have been unworthy of a real 
 traveller and his conscience, to inform himself, at least, as to 
 the state of Paris in the last century. The age of Voltaire 
 and Louis XV., of Louis XVI. and the National Convention, 
 doubtless deserves our attention and our respect; it was the 
 liberal and turbulent age which so much assisted America, 
 which gave her General Lafayette, which restored her great 
 citizen Franklin, better instructed in the various movements, 
 passions, and interests of Europe. On this account, the Paris 
 of which I speak, ought to interest us children of America, 
 much more than modern Paris. And besides, was not last 
 century the century of elegance, of the fine arts, of fashionable 
 vices easily overlooked, of innocent rebellions, the century of 
 
 c 2
 
 20 PARIS A VAST INN. 
 
 the Encyclopaedia and the Social Contract? Yes, I now feel 
 conscious that I ought, above all, to have set myself to the 
 study of this vanished society, so that my New York friends, 
 for whom this book was written, finding in it all the high 
 sounding names, which are even more familiar with us, than 
 they are in France, might recall former hopes and struggles. 
 An American in Paris ! Unhappy man ! How little of Paris 
 did I see ! And if I could not see all, in the short visit I 
 at first contemplated, why did I not extend it, that I might 
 devote more time to this long study ? 
 
 Imagine this great capital, some years before the French 
 
 Revolution ; the court is still at Versailles, the people are 
 
 masters of the city; in this immense crowd you will find 
 
 living samples of every nation in the world. From the heart of 
 
 Asia, and the snows of Lapland, men have come, expressly to 
 
 study this civilization which pervades every thing. The Arab, 
 
 the Hottentot, the Indian, the Negro, the Persian, the Brahmin, 
 
 the Faquir, the Greenlander, are all represented in this vast inn, 
 
 open to all ; and once within these inspiring walls, all these 
 
 people change their appearance ; intelligence comes to them 
 
 through every pore. No sooner have they arrived, than they 
 
 begin to study, to understand, to hear, to know : nothing of 
 
 their original nature remains to them, except their dress and 
 
 some few childish customs. This is the sense in which it may 
 
 be said, that intelligence circulates in the streets. Intelligence 
 
 circulates in the streets, just like air and water, and noise, and 
 
 the smoke of the tall chimneys ; and by its side, walks science 
 
 with a rapid step. Paris is particularly the city, in which the 
 
 most common and the most difficult sciences are equally 
 
 taught. A verse of Virgil will occupy a professor for a week ; 
 
 an hour will be sufficient for another man to explain to you the 
 
 whole mechanism of the human frame ; this one passes his 
 
 life in analysing bodies ; that one loses his mind in analysing 
 
 ideas. Next to teaching, the great curiosity of these people
 
 POWER OF THE MODISTES. 21 
 
 is the theatre ; there they unite, there they become excited 
 to overturn every thing; there they revive their passions when 
 they have subsided ; there they caper like young men, and 
 meditate like old ones; the theatre is the great joy and the 
 great pride of the French nation, which has not yet been 
 called to give its opinion upon the affairs of the world. Until 
 the year of liberty 1789, Paris had no place of free discussion, 
 except the pit of the theatre, or the midst of the cafe Procope ; 
 but he would have been a most imprudent man, who had dared 
 to impose silence on the Parisians, in these two retrenchments. 
 After the manufacture of plays, (and this is the case even 
 at the present day), the great manufacture of Paris, the most 
 active, the most powerful, indeed invincible, the excellent, 
 transitory production, always new in the morning, and always 
 sacrificed in the evening, was the new fashions. The Parisian 
 fashions have done more for the popularity and universality of 
 France, than even the French language. The modistes of the 
 Rue Vivienne conquer more rebellious spirits, than the most 
 beautiful verses of the greatest poets, or the prose of the 
 boldest inventors. A little gauze, a cap, a flower, a ceinture, 
 a bonnet, a knot of ribbon, a waving feather, a dress, a shoe, 
 a pair of gloves, here is enough to stop more than one war, 
 which would have been interminable without the intervention 
 of European coquetry. And then the Paris of a hundred 
 years ago, was, without contradiction, more amusing than 
 modern Paris, from the invincible power of contrast. Now 
 no one is rich in Paris, but at the same time, no one is poor. 
 You would be troubled to find men in rags, but you would 
 be equally troubled to find them in embroidered coats. All . 
 the inhabitants of this great city, all without exception, have 
 a carriage at their command ; the omnibus, that moving island, 
 which for a very small sum, incessantly perambulates every 
 quarter of Paris; but then, on the other hand, there is not 
 a single danseuse at the opera, who has any other carriage than
 
 22 THE GARRET AND THE MANSARD. 
 
 the omnibus. The different stations allow themselves nearly 
 the same luxury. In what house, for instance, will you not 
 find a Venitian mirror, a China vase, lace from Malines, an 
 Italian painting, one of Erard's pianos ? Where will you 
 not find the productions of America, of Africa, of Asia, of 
 every part of the world ? Necessaries are for all, superfluities 
 for none. Do you speak of the picturesque ? The eighteenth 
 century was the age for the picturesque. There was then, 
 under the roof of every house, a hole, burning in summer, 
 freezing in winter, and in this hole usually lived the poet, 
 the politician, the Utopian dreamer, the philosopher, the artist, 
 those mendicants of art and science. But since then, these 
 mendicants have come down to the first floor, where they 
 think themselves much more suitably accommodated. The 
 picturesque has lost in this, but equality has gained. The 
 garret is never pleasant nor beautiful, except at the age of 
 twenty ; at that age it does not interfere with the slight 
 attachments, the poetical fancies, the inspiration which ani- 
 mates and even colors misery; twenty years later, the garret 
 makes the noblest hearts bad ; the most benevolent, malicious ; 
 believers, sceptical ; the loving, indifferent ; the bravest, cow- 
 ardly ; the boldest, timid. There are no garrets in the modern 
 houses ; this is good legislation and good morality ; only 
 instead of the garret, they build pretty and very inhabitable 
 mansards. The mansard is a first floor, placed under the 
 roof; with the same luxury, the same riches, the same orna- 
 ments. What a vast and immense city is this Paris, filled, 
 agitated, sceptical, and furious ! / would burn it, said Peter 
 the Great, if I were king of France. Admirable and prophetical 
 words, when it was written, that sooner or later, this immense 
 head would involve the fall of the great body ! 
 
 Around Paris are extended, like so many open pits, all kinds 
 of stone quarries, where the workman has not left a single 
 piece to pick up ; from these profound caverns Paris has come
 
 FORTUNE HUNTERS. 23 
 
 out whole. You may judge of the extent of the city, by the 
 depth of the abyss whence it has sprung, and vice versa. And 
 to think of studying all these stones in so short a visit as mine ! 
 Without going back more than a hundred years, each man 
 in this immense city, had his coat, his badge, his look, his 
 character, which was peculiar to himself, just as each artizan 
 had his banner, each tradesman's company its rallying word. 
 This active and turbulent crowd was met each moment, by 
 all kinds of gentlemen, who had come to seek their fortune 
 in Paris, no longer finding it either at home, or at the court ; 
 they entered the city by the forty-five barriers raised at the 
 expense of the farmers of the public revenue, who thus com- 
 pelled more than one laborer to reside in Paris. Once arrived, 
 each took up his abode, according to the money in his purse, 
 or the whim of the moment, in the faubourg du Roule, in the 
 Rue Blanche, at the barriere des Martyrs, at Belleville, at 
 Saint Mande, on the boulevard Saint Jacques, at Sevres, 
 wherever lodgings were cheap, wherever they could patiently 
 watch the growing of the trees, and listen to the singing of 
 the birds ! The boldest among these honest fortune-hunters 
 dwelt in one of the islands of the Seine, the knights of Saint 
 Louis in the island of Notre Dame, the petitioners in the city ; 
 but all avoided, as much as possible, the quay of the hospital. 
 Poor men ! lost in this abyss, they knew not what to do, what 
 to become ; every door was closed against them, every house 
 was forbidden to them ; they exhaled I know not what odor 
 of ruin and misery, which surrounded them like a solitude. 
 And yet it was necessary to repair once or twice a week to 
 Versailles, to pay court to the king, or to salute the ministers. 
 Poor men ! any thing like trade was forbidden them, under 
 penalty of losing caste ; thus they would have thought them- 
 selves dishonored, if they had set foot upon the slate wharf, 
 or the corn wharf, upon the wharfs devoted to the sale of 
 coals, cider, wood, iron, hay, fish, or salt. Some of them,
 
 24 FAVORITE RESORTS. 
 
 however, when they met devoted friends, grey or black mus- 
 queteers, would allow themselves to be led to the wine or 
 tobacco wharf. In the savory smoke of the never ending 
 matelot, which is made in these favorite resorts for wine and 
 good cheer at a cheap rate, the poor wretches forgot their 
 ruined castles, their uncultivated lands, their children without 
 clothes, their daughters without husbands, and their idle 
 Penelopes who were hoping for their return. 
 
 Or else our gentlemen, discouraged, a"nd loudly denouncing 
 the reigning ministry, commenced visiting the curiosities of 
 Paris ; the pump on the Pont Notre Dame, the Samaritaine, 
 the Machine de Chaillot, the Aqueduc d'Arcueil, and by 
 degrees, after walking, dreaming, and sighing aloud, they 
 ended by thoroughly knowing the eleven hundred and nine 
 streets, the hundred and twenty blind alleys, the eighty- 
 two passages, the seventy-five places, and the five hundred 
 and fifty hotels, in the city. They had a walk for each 
 day in the week. Monday they spent in the garden of the 
 Arsenal, which still remembered M. de Sully, the best friend 
 and most faithful servant of Henry the Great; Tuesday, in 
 the garden of the Apothecaries, where grew the choicest of 
 flowers; Wednesday, in the park de Mousseaux Mousseaux, 
 that spacious park, celebrated for mysterious and foolish ad- 
 ventures, fabulous anecdotes, and impossible meetings ; Thurs- 
 day belonged to the garden of the Luxembourg; and the 
 following days were spent at the Jardin des Plantes ; at the 
 Champs Elysees, in the Alice des Veuves, or the Cours la 
 Reine ; and in the Champ de Mars ; as for the garden of the 
 Palais Royal, our gentlemen were there at all hours, but es- 
 pecially at mid-day, to hear the cannon fire. 
 
 You will easily understand, that if there were in Paris at 
 that time, so many poor fellows without money, and almost 
 without asylum, there were also, in this city of equality, the 
 largest fortunes. No one can now imagine, even in France,
 
 THE OLD NOBILITY. 25 
 
 what it was, in the palmy days of the monarchy, to be a king 
 of France, or simply a great lord. He who spoke of a duke 
 and peer, spoke of a man who possessed four or five duchies, 
 two or three millions of rent, and estates as large as a province. 
 This nobleman considered it to be one of the duties of his 
 station, to spend more than his revenue ; for his vassals, his 
 servants, the gentlemen in attendance upon him, the convents 
 founded by his family, the churches which contained the tombs 
 of his ancestors, had equal claims upon his fortune with him- 
 self. Moreover, it was by no means the same kind of life as 
 that of the present day. Recall the wars, the battles, the 
 long sieges, and on their return, the fetes, the pleasures, the 
 amusements, the elegancies of which appear to us now, as 
 so many fables. The chase, for instance ; how nearly is this 
 amusement abolished ! how almost forgotten is this passion, 
 once so strong ! His majesty king Charles X. took with him 
 into exile, that which yet remained in France of former luxury. 
 The people of 1830 made an incursion, gun in hand, into the 
 royal forests; for once they thoroughly enjoyed them; the 
 beautiful pheasants, the flying purple which throws gold and 
 azure into the air the deer, that timid and charming race 
 the stags of seven years old, the pride of the forest, fell be- 
 neath the blows of the conquerors of a whole dynasty. I 
 know one man who is a great huntsman, and at the same 
 time a moderate revolutionary. He troubles himself very little 
 about the reigning king, but has all his life been interested in 
 any thing which concerned hunting. While all Paris seemed 
 inclined to fight, our friend went out softly, and reached the 
 forest of Compiegne ; the king had just fled ; the family of 
 the old Bourbons had bade adieu to its last domain ; the 
 forest was once more silent ; the happy sportsman brought 
 down at his pleasure the richest game ; as he saw these 
 brilliant tenants of the forest pass before him, and fall, utter- 
 ing cries of alarm, the intrepid poacher was overpowered with
 
 26 FOREST OF COMPIEGNE. 
 
 joy ; he was so happy, that he thought himself the plaything 
 of a dream. While he was thus engaged, an old guard, 
 who could but ill understand, why the king had set out with 
 so much haste from Compiegne, seeing this murder, yes, that 
 is the word, at last summoned courage, and advancing with 
 a military air, " By what right," said he, " do you hunt the 
 king's game?" "The king," replied the sportsman, "is the 
 people, now I am of the people, therefore I am the king." 
 So saying, he brought down the finest stag in the forest. 
 
 Immense forest of Compiegne ! never disturbed at this day, 
 except when, from time to time, some young prince in the 
 family of the king of the French, when he is not absent 
 in his father's service, when he is not at the African war, or 
 on the distant seas, allows himself to let loose the hounds 
 in these gloomy depths ; then the forest, aroused for a moment, 
 thinks itself restored to its former days of happiness ; echo 
 repeats with delight the barking of the dogs, the sound of the 
 horn ; eager youths join the train of the sportsmen ; for a 
 moment the old passion re-appears ; but it is with these tran- 
 sitory huntsmen as with the Master of the Buck-hounds in the 
 forest of Fontainebleau ; an invisible phantom ! which causes 
 far more alarm than real mischief, to the game in the forest. 
 
 At the present day, then, allusion is scarcely made to such 
 amusements as these, except in the Royal Almanac of former 
 times. Perhaps you would not be sorry to know, what becomes 
 of the old almanacs. To a philosophical traveller, an old alma- 
 nac is a prolific source of morality, wisdom, and learning. 
 
 In these little books, which each year carries off, just as the 
 wind of autumn carries away the leaves of the forest, you will 
 find, expressed in the simplest terms, all the grandeur and all 
 the vanities of the world. Do you know any thing more 
 lamentable to read, than the almanacs which contain the most 
 glorious names of this house of Bourbon, which has not its 
 equal under the sun ? To each of these names before which

 
 THE ROYAL ALMANAC. 27 
 
 the earth bows, the French might reply, died upon the scaffold! 
 The king ? the queen ? Madame Elizabeth of France ? died 
 upon the scaffold ! After these august names, the royal alma- 
 nac inscribed upon its proud list, all the great dignitaries of 
 the church and the court, the cardinals, the archbishops, the 
 bishops, the lay abbots, beheaded, robbed, banished, crushed 
 beneath the wrecks of the temple and the altar ! Then came 
 the parliaments, the supreme courts, the members of the royal 
 household, the king's secretaries to the number of nine hundred, 
 who were enjoined to be faithful amanuenses ! After which 
 shone out most brilliantly the royal order, the noblest and most 
 admired of the orders of Europe, with those of the Garter and 
 the Golden Fleece, the order of the Holy Ghost and the order 
 of Saint Louis, and those of Saint Lazarus, of Jerusalem, and 
 of Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, and that of Saint Michel, 
 which was instituted by Louis XI., a plebeian and citizen 
 knighthood, like the king who founded it. 
 
 What excitement there was, at that time, about occupying 
 but one line of the royal almanac, and what anxiety, to know 
 on what page, and on what part of the page, they were to be 
 placed ! Important battles, of which the sovereign judge, next 
 to the king, was M. Cherin, a man who knew the ascendants 
 and the descendants, the children and the kindred of all the 
 noble families in France, at least as far back as Adam ! No 
 one was skilful or bold enough to ask an injustice of M. 
 Cherin ; he gave to each and to all, exactly the authority and 
 respect to which they were entitled. This one, named yester- 
 day, scarcely obtained from M. Cherin the title of Messire ; 
 at the most they were addressed as M. le chevalier, M. 
 fecuyer. Those who had been lately ennobled, were the 
 lowest upon the ladder of nobility ; then came, already more 
 important in the peerage of France, the members of the twelve 
 parliaments of the kingdom, of the court of exchequer, the 
 court of aids, and the cour des monnaies, the masters of requests,
 
 28 M. CHERIN. 
 
 the great bailiffs, generals, governors, military lieutenants gene- 
 ral. If you aspired to the highly envied honor of riding, for 
 once in your life, in the king's carriages, which would give you 
 a right to follow the king to the hunt, and to be presented at 
 court, M. Cherin would demand proofs of your nobility, certain, 
 authentic, uninterrupted proofs, from the year 1400 at least. 
 Were you happy enough to trace your ancestors back another 
 century, M. Cherin would give you a low bow into the bargain. 
 When the question was about things less important than riding 
 in the king's carriages, there was not so much strictness exer- 
 cised. For instance, to be a page of the great or little Mews, 
 to be a page of the bedchamber to the king, nay, even to the 
 duke d'Orleans, the prince de Conde, or the duke de Pen- 
 thievre, only two hundred years of nobility were requisite. 
 
 At that time dress made a great distinction amongst men. 
 Now the black coat is the universal one; master and servant 
 wear nearly the same. Formerly, there were as many different 
 costumes, as there were different, professions, and almost as 
 many, as men. Royalty had made of the slightest distinctions, 
 so many privileges ; witness the close coat worn by warrant of 
 Louis XIV.; witness the red heels of the CEil-de-Boeuf. The use 
 of the red heeled shoe was restricted to the highest noblemen, 
 dukes, counts, and marquises ; some barons might wear it, but 
 not all. The whole history of France in the brightest days of 
 the monarchy, would be found, by him who understands how 
 to read it, in the royal almanac. 
 
 The copy of which I speak, and which I take back to my 
 native land, to show my fellow citizens, in how small a space 
 can be contained royal majesty, with all that it has most pom- 
 pous and magnificent, still bears the arms of the royal family of 
 France, the fleurs de lis surrounded by the collar of the order 
 of the Holy Ghost. This book, sparkling with gold and heral- 
 dic emblems, I bought for threepence on the parapet of the 
 Pont Neuf, from among the heap of literary dirt, on which
 
 THE OLD MISER. 29 
 
 rain, sun, dust, and the north-east wind incessantly beat, as if 
 the more quickly to overcome this vile refuse of the human 
 mind. This then, is the misery for which thou wast reserved, 
 poor royal almanac, fallen from the throne with thy master ! 
 Thou art now only a name, a fragment, a wreck, of the silken 
 vanities of former times. An old worm-eaten book ! and yet 
 this worm-eaten book has been the manual of the king and his 
 nobles ; at the court of Versailles, it was consulted night and 
 day ; the curious people learned in these now faded pages, the 
 names, titles, and dwellings of their masters. All were found 
 there, from the princes of the blood down to the criers at the 
 Chatelet. If you were not in the royal almanac, you were 
 nothing, you could be nothing ; you had scarcely a name for 
 your baker and your butcher. And yet equality commenced 
 even with ths royal almanac ; in that, no one occupied more 
 space than his neighbour ; the recorder had his line just like 
 the first president; the police officer with his short dress just like 
 the gentleman of the bedchamber. In Fontenelle's opinion, it 
 was the book which contained the greatest number of truths ; and 
 it was in the hands of all. It told the position of each and of 
 all ; thanks to its pages, you knew the courtier with whom you 
 were connected ; whence any man came, who he was, what he 
 was, what he was worth. Mercier called the royal almanac 
 the vampires' almanac. 
 
 There recently died, in a lone house of an obscure street at 
 Fontainebleau, a wretched woman, nearly a hundred years old : 
 this woman lived on brown bread and unwholesome water, and 
 was covered with tatters. The rivulet of the street became 
 more muddy when she ventured to cross it, the smell of the 
 sewer more poisonous. It was dreadful to see the abominable 
 creature, thus crawling along in the filthy attire of the most 
 abject avarice. Her house was not a house, but a fortress, built 
 of freestone, cemented by iron plates ; for in it were contained 
 immense riches. There this miserable being, with whom
 
 30 VALUABLE HOARDS. 
 
 neither alms nor charity had any thing in common, either to 
 give or receive, had heaped, not only gold, diamonds, and 
 pearls, but the choicest furniture, the most exquisite marbles, 
 the rarest paintings, the most charming masterpieces of every 
 art. The smoky hole in which this woman, on Sunday, cooked 
 her food for the whole week, contained the finest and most 
 delicate chefs d'ceuvre of the Flemish masters; the Dutch 
 enchanters, the joyous fairs of Teniers, the elegant scenes of Van 
 den Berg, the whims, caprices, and beautiful countenances of 
 Gerard Dow; more than one simple and whimsical drama of 
 Jan Steen's, more than one beautiful heifer of Paul Potter's, 
 more than one fresh and glowing landscape of Hobbinia's, more 
 than one sweetly lighted forest of Cuyp's or of Ruysdaal's ! 
 
 These beautiful works which had been the ornaments of the 
 palaces of Marly, of the great and little Trianon, or at least of 
 the galleries in the Palais Royal, were dying for want of air 
 and sun. Smoke, cold, and time, which consumes every thing, 
 overpowered with their formidable tints, the splendid colors, 
 which but lately had rivalled the wonders of creation. So that 
 the stupid rage of this woman crushed, at pleasure, the joy of 
 the future, the glory of past generations, the ornament of the 
 present time. In her fits of ill humor, oh shameful abuse ! the 
 horrible old woman struck with her abominable foot, these deli- 
 cate gems of the fine arts, she treated them as she would have 
 treated lovely, chattering children, as if she could have heard, 
 for her delight, their groans and sobs. How many did she 
 break ! what numbers did she destroy ! Did she want a board 
 to hold her breakfast of onions, she made a table of some 
 pannel of Watteau's ; did she want a piece of copper to mend 
 her saucepan, she took a little painting of Vandyke's. The 
 rarest cloth served her to mend the tapestry which hung on the 
 poisonous walls. The same abuse was found in the smallest 
 details. The mug from which the toothless hag drank her cold 
 milk, milk weakened by dirty water, was nothing less than a
 
 INCONGRUITIES. 31 
 
 beautiful porcelain vase of the Sevres manufacture, on which 
 was yet visible, though cracked, the noble and beautiful like- 
 ness of the queen Marie Antoinette. Oh, profanation ! that 
 such a mouth should touch the edge of the limpid vase, on 
 which had rested the soft lips of the greatest and most lovely 
 woman in the world ! Such was the frightful and startling 
 confusion of this house. A dirty apron stained with the blood 
 of some unhappy pigeon fallen in this dwelling, ignominiously 
 concealed the richest laces, magnificent remnants from the small 
 apartments at Versailles ; a golden spoon, graven with the 
 arms of a Montmorency or a Crillon, was put into a wooden 
 porringer. When the hag returned to her hole, she extended 
 her limbs upon the gilt sofas which she had bought at the 
 revolutionary auctions ; she placed her half-broken sabots upon 
 marble brackets, she looked at her wrinkles in the finest Veni- 
 tian glasses, she covered her hair with a greasy hood, but round 
 this frayed cap she hung, in derision, pearls large enough to be 
 envied by the princesses of the blood royal. Around her, all 
 was gold and dirt, purple and the coarsest cloth, the finest art, 
 and the commonest utensils. She put her vinegar in cut glass, 
 and frightened away the bold flies that rested upon her fore- 
 head, with a fan that Greuze himself had signed. Her bed, or 
 rather her pallet, was covered with the richest brocades ; the 
 straw upon which the monster sought sleep was inclosed in 
 embroidered velvet ; but sleep did not come, remorse took its 
 place ; during the sad nights, the life of the miserable creature 
 unrolled itself before her, her life of luxury and ftes, of vices 
 and crimes, of shameless profligacy, for she had even put profli- 
 gacy to the blush. A melancholy dream was her's, and sad 
 was every awaking ! Dreams carried her through an endless 
 turmoil, in which mingled, blows and caresses, good fortune and 
 misery, brown bread and Champagne. At the same time, to 
 amuse her for a moment, to draw from her a smile, (always in 
 her dream,) she had at her service, poets who sang loudly of
 
 32 REVERSES OF FORTUNE. 
 
 wine and love ; she had at her table, hungry philosophers, who 
 attempted to show that Providence was an idle name ; she 
 surrounded herself with men, whose aim it was to prove, that 
 the soul was not immortal. It was to amuse such women that 
 Voltaire wrote Candide; that J. J. Rousseau, the simple orator, 
 told the melancholy story of Saint Preux and Heloise, without 
 reckoning young Crebillon, who, every morning, placed upon 
 Madame's toilette, his little page of wickedness and vice. 
 
 Thus she lived on the purse of some, the license of others, 
 the impiety of all. Miserly among the spendthrifts, skilful and 
 prudent among the dissipated, the sole desire of this depraved 
 creature, was to enrich herself with the spoils and sophisms of 
 all these men. She swallowed up every thing ; she was like 
 the north sea, in which nothing re-appears after a shipwreck. 
 Thus, in the great shipwreck of former times, she alone sur- 
 vived. She saw all her admirers, one after the other, depart for 
 the scaffold, or for exile ; they left without a louis in their 
 pockets, a coat upon their backs, or a hat upon their heads, 
 and yet it never occurred to her, to lend them so much as her 
 coachman's cloak. She saw crawling to the baker's door, 
 those, whose husbands she had ruined by her extravagance ; 
 and for these poor, weak, emaciated beings, she had not even a 
 piece of black bread ! Even in 1792, this woman could think 
 of counting the money in her strong box ! Even in 1793, 
 when distracted kings listened to the noise of the falling axe, 
 she counted her gold ! She was accumulating heap upon heap ! 
 She went round the scaffolds, to collect the last garments of 
 the victims; she entered the deserted houses, to buy for a mere 
 nothing, the spoils of the absent masters. She would not 
 trust land, even to buy it cheap, for land is faithful, and often 
 returns to its owners; but she trusted gold, which is a vaga- 
 bond and a traitor, like herself ! It was her delight to carry 
 off to her closet, the beautiful ornaments and master-pieces of 
 former days, and to insult them in her own fashion ! This was
 
 GENERAL ABHORRENCE. 33 
 
 her way of revenging herself upon those good ladies, who would 
 have washed their hands immediately, if they had happened in 
 passing, to touch the cloak of this despised creature. 
 
 Such had been her life, and this life was repeated, set in 
 remorse, every time that she attempted to sleep. But after 
 these frightful slumbers, she again became the pitiless harpy, 
 whose very name, for three leagues round, made people tremble 
 with fear. The poor who passed, turned from the house, lest 
 a tile should fall to strike the beggar ; the child who sang in 
 the street became silent, at the sight of that livid wall; the 
 most joyous bird hushed his warbling, when he flew above the 
 court of the house. In the garden, the lilac had no flowers, 
 the bush sprouted reluctantly, the turf withered under her 
 footsteps, the indignant fruit escaped from her soiled hand, at 
 the approach of the monster the tree was tempted to fly ! Her 
 dog would not eat what her hand presented to him ; he would 
 rather have died of hunger, than to have gnawed the bone 
 which she had picked with her iron-like gums. The poisonous 
 caves, the avenues of which Virgil speaks, the pestilential seas, 
 are nothing compared to this green sink, where even the toad 
 refused to show himself. The very thieves, when this heap of 
 treasures was named, shrugged their shoulders with an oath; 
 they preferred stealing a crown from an honest man, to at- 
 tempting all this woman's money. She was as effectually 
 protected by her baseness, as if she had been surrounded 
 by the cannon of the Invalids. The miserable knew this 
 universal horror, and after having rejoiced at it, finished by 
 discovering that men were right in overwhelming her with 
 hatred. She hated all the world, but she could despise no one; 
 it was in vain to attempt it, although this would have been 
 some consolation. 
 
 What a life and what a death ! what a dreadful old age ! 
 She, to whom vice was as necessary as money, had been sud- 
 denly arrested in her career, by a revolution, and this revolution 
 
 D
 
 34 A THUNDERBOLT. 
 
 had startled from their sleep all honest minds, soldiers, magis- 
 trates, princes of the blood ; it had despised only women like 
 herself, and had left them in the depth of their degradation. 
 Suddenly was arrested the life of foolish joys, intoxication, and 
 delirium, which had so long prevailed ; suddenly the storm had 
 lowered, which restored these young and old men to duties too 
 long forgotten. Madmen ! during these days and nights of 
 dissipation, they had left royalty defenceless ; they had aban- 
 doned to insult, the altar of God, just as they had overturned 
 the king's throne ; they had allowed ancient prepossessions to 
 be sacrificed to that ardent wish for novelty, which is only 
 satisfied with murder and suicide; they had abused every 
 thing. But now a thunder-bolt had restored them to them- 
 selves. By the light of this ominous fire, they had found a 
 little of their good sense; they were alarmed at so many 
 disorders ; they had come to themselves, in this fatal night of 
 their wandering intellects ; they had cried out, Help, help ! 
 then, panting for breath, without finishing the half emptied 
 cup, with scarcely time to place upon the table, the ivy crown 
 of the drinker, or the rosy crown of the lover, they rallied at 
 once round the throne of France, to fight and to die ; and there 
 they fought, and there they fell. And when the good king 
 of France, Louis XVI., had left this world, not one of the 
 men who had led such a life, could recall without shame and 
 remorse, that forgetful ness, which had caused the ruin of every 
 thing. But with such feelings this woman had no sympathy. 
 
 The utter neglect which she now experienced, produced no 
 good effect upon her mind ; she was still as despicable as 
 ever, in the midst of her ill gotten fortune, amongst the trea- 
 sures she had heaped up, with so much of rage and despair. 
 Sometimes she felt jealous of those unhappy beings who, 
 feeling their sin and misery, began to think of repenting and 
 turning to God ; but these were transient rays in the hideous 
 darkness ; in all the bitter language of remorse, there was one
 
 THE COUNT D'ARTOIS. 35 
 
 word, which this woman never could, and never would, pro- 
 nounce, the word repentance ! 
 
 Dead to the world, dead to all human joys and affections, 
 overwhelmed by public contempt, which weighed upon her 
 heart, as heavily as the earth of her tomb now weighs upon 
 her body, she nevertheless had strange and sudden fits of 
 anger. It is said, for instance, that when Charles X. hunted 
 in the forest of Fontainebleau, she was in the habit of seating 
 herself in some crossway of the forest, in the middle of the 
 road, and there she waited till the king passed. Then she 
 would stand up, shaking her rags ; she would gaze intently at 
 the howling pack, who uttered plaintive groans on their road ; 
 then, when it was the king's turn to pass this woman, he 
 would hesitate, become pale as death, and shiver from head 
 to foot. Alas ! she recalled to the king of France, now old 
 and threatened on every hand, the folly and madness of the 
 young Count d' Artois. 
 
 But at last this woman is dead ; she died alone, in her 
 remorse, without one charitable hand to close her eyes, with- 
 out the voice of a priest to impart to her any instruction. Her 
 agony was silent and terrible, the agony of a venomous being 
 who has no longer any thing to bite. During the ninety-two 
 years that she had been upon the earth, this woman had found 
 no one person and no one thing, to love or to help; not a child, 
 or an old man, not a poor nor a wretched woman, not an inno- 
 cence, nor a virtue. And so, in dying, she left nothing to any 
 one, but her strong and powerless curse. All those treasures 
 of art which would have formed the pride of the noblest man- 
 sions, she had broken; all the masterpieces of the greatest 
 painters and sculptors, she had annihilated ; her gold, she had 
 melted ; her notes of the bank of France she had burned. 
 What would she not have given, to have been able to take 
 with her, her land and her house ? Or, at least, if she 
 could have cut down the trees in her garden, destroyed the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 EUPHROSINE THEVENIN. 
 
 hope of the next autumn, crushed in their nests the eggs of 
 the singing birds, poisoned the fish in her ponds ! If she 
 could have set fire to her crops, and herself disappeared in the 
 flames ! But she had hoped to live longer, and now she had 
 not breath, to light the spark which would have devoured all. 
 
 It was necessary to break open the door to find the corpse, 
 which was stretched upon the ground, where it had lain some 
 days; a volume was by her side; it was the poem in which 
 Voltaire covers with slander the sainted Joan of Arc, the 
 purest and most heroic glory of the history of France. The 
 last rattle of the depraved woman was a blasphemy. 
 
 She was thrown into a hole, away from consecrated ground, 
 and upon the dishonored pit was found, written in a bold 
 hand, this funeral oration, Here lies the courtezan who has 
 dishonored even her own trade. Oh that this woman may be 
 the last of such a character ! 
 
 She was called Euphrosine Thevenin, Euphrosine, the name 
 of one of the Graces, and if you ask me why this recent 
 history occurs to me, apropos of the royal almanack, it is 
 because this strange being was in the habit of requiring from 
 each of her lovers, that his name should be inscribed in the 
 royal almanac. 
 
 I return to my description of Paris. Doubtless, at the 
 moment of quitting the noble city, perhaps never to return 
 to it, it is rather late to remember these notes taken at the 
 time ; but it is natural to the human mind, to return with the 
 liveliest feelings to those recollections which we are about to 
 leave. The few months I spent in Paris, amidst the excitement 
 of fetes and pleasures, did not leave me sufficient calmness to 
 enter at the time, into these details, which are nevertheless 
 not without interest. The great misfortune, I had almost said 
 the great vice, of all travellers to Paris, is, that they imme- 
 diately seek those things which are most brilliant and striking. 
 That to which they first turn their attention, even before the
 
 THE OPERA. 37 
 
 history and the manners of a people, is noise, entertainments, 
 trifling amusements ! The Opera takes precedence of the 
 cathedral, of the Hotel de Ville, of the Hospital, of the Cham- 
 ber of Deputies, and the Chamber of Peers. When you have 
 named the Opera, you have named all ; that delightful spot, 
 that rendezvous of Parisian causerie. Even now, I hear 
 Eugene Lami, the tempter, calling me to the splendid en- 
 closure. " Come," says he, " come, the saloon is brilliant 
 with light; the ladies are beautiful and well dressed; in one 
 corner of the orchestra, you may see sparkling with fire, the 
 black eye of Meyerbeer ; in that little box above, that young 
 and beautiful woman is the happy wife of the author of 
 La Juive, and of Charles VI. What an attentive and de- 
 lighted ear she lends to these sweet melodies inspired by the 
 honey moon ! Come then with us to the Opera, and leave be- 
 hind you your ancient Paris ; you will find it again tomorrow !" 
 And I, who like nothing better than to yield to the per- 
 suasions of this happy painter of every kind of elegance, I 
 accompany him wherever he wishes to take me. I find in the 
 same place all the beauties of last winter; but already health has 
 reappeared upon those lovely countenances, the fire has re- 
 turned to those sparkling eyes ; a few fine days in the month 
 of May, have proved sufficient to recruit these beautiful ladies 
 after their fatigue. The first songs of the nightingale, which 
 Madame de Sevigne calls the herald of spring, have restored 
 calm and repose to these minds, distracted by the excitement 
 of the ball and the fete. But, before taking their final flight 
 for distant climates, to Italy (o the borders of Father Rhine 
 to old ruins in the young provinces to the midst of the 
 sweetest landscapes with which they are already so familiar, to 
 the shores of the roaring sea or simply to the neighborhood 
 of some celebrated forest to Ermenonville, for instance, 
 they wished to lend an attentive ear to the delightful and 
 touching melodies of the new opera,
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PAKISTAN CHURCHES. 
 
 AFTER having listened, admired, and applauded, the next 
 day, I returned anew to the study of that Paris which I have 
 learned so much to love. But, however, the greatest difficulty 
 in all this, is, not to study the city which is before one's eyes, 
 but to give an account of what it was, previous to a revolution 
 which has changed its laws, its customs, its passions, its man- 
 ners, its habits ; which has changed even the names of the 
 streets and the public places. A few, however, of the old ones 
 have remained, through that involuntary homage which the 
 present generation always pays to that which is past. Above 
 all, what is most difficult to change, with a nation that respects 
 itself, is the form of its temples, the names of the saints that it 
 has venerated, the patrons of the churches in which its ances- 
 tors have been buried. Even when the bones of their fathers 
 have been violently taken from their last asylum, the people 
 remember the holy patron once supplicated within the walls. 
 This is the reason that you still have, in Paris, the saints of 
 former days under their popular designations ; Saint Pierre aux 
 , Saint Pierre aux Liens, Saint Jacques le Mineur, Saint
 
 THE SWISS. 39 
 
 Jacques le Majeur, Saint Jacques la JBoucherie, Saint Jacques 
 F Hopital, Saint Jacques du Haut Pas. The very people who 
 have overturned every thing, will not forget the old calendar of 
 their forefathers ; they hold more strongly to their superstition 
 than their belief. A changeable and inconstant people, it is 
 said ; and yet, in the same muddy streets, gloomy houses, close 
 passages, unwholesome places where they were born, you will 
 still find them crawling from century to century. There 
 are certain streets so dark, that the lamp burns in them at 
 all hours of the day. I have seen, in the Rue du Roule, a 
 passage so narrow, that the owner of the house, being com- 
 pelled to keep her bed, by an accident which had happened 
 to her leg, increased in size so much, that when her leg was 
 cured, it was impossible for her to go out, and thus by her 
 own embonpoint, the poor woman found herself condemned 
 to an endless seclusion. She passed her time at the window, 
 and you may guess whether she was a gainer, by the permission 
 to become so disproportionately large. On the other hand, 
 you enter the neighboring houses by large ports cocheres. 
 The door was formerly kept by a Swiss, ornamented with a 
 large shoulder-belt, on which were engraved the arms of his 
 master. On your entrance, the Swiss whistled to give notice of 
 your arrival. The Swiss played an important part in the 
 intrigues of Monsieur and Madame; the less he understood 
 the language of the country, the more was he valued as a 
 good and faithful servant. At any rate, he was better than 
 the abominable porters, who exercise their noisome industry 
 at the bottom of each modern house. 
 
 Now while I think of it, and while the city already appears 
 in that distance, which is so favorable to observation, it seems 
 to me, that I have not rendered justice, to those remembrances 
 which rise in crowds, beneath the feet of travellers in this 
 immense city, throiigh which have passed the greatest and 
 the worst characters recorded in history, the most horrible
 
 40 ASSOCIATIONS OF PARIS. 
 
 crimes, and the rarest virtues. You cannot take a step, in 
 the streets which but now appeared so terrible, without 
 meeting one of those names which make the heart beat with 
 joy. At the Observatory, you are at once reminded of Colbert, 
 that great man, whose memory, throughout France, is equally 
 honored with that of Louis XIV. Farther on, that house, 
 the refuge of such children as the city will not protect; orphans, 
 whom their own mothers have rejected from the bosoms so 
 well able to nourish them, that dark and melancholy abode, 
 where even infancy is serious, will recall to you the greatest 
 name in France, Saint Vincent de Paul ; and still more, 
 those walls once formed the abbey of Port Royal, that cradle 
 of the most beautiful French language, that commencement 
 of opposition to the authority of one alone; austere abode 
 of the most austere virtues ! A whole history belongs to the 
 walls which approach so closely to Port Royal des Champs, 
 to Solomon's Song which was chanted night and day in the 
 valley of Chevreuse, by so many hermits of such rare con- 
 stancy, and admirable genius ! In the Rue d' Eufer you 
 will find the king Saint Louis, who gave the whole street to 
 the Carthusian friars; you will find the unhappy La Valliere, 
 sister Louise de la Misericorde, thut poor girl so much beloved, 
 and so quickly sacrificed to the inconstancy of a young king ! 
 How many tears did she shed in that convent of the Carmelites, 
 where she undertook the most menial employments ! Not far 
 from the Rue d' Enfer, rises the institution of the Abbe de 
 1'Epee, the tutor, or more properly speaking, the Vincent de 
 Paul, of the deaf and dumb. Already has commenced the 
 fame of this excellent philosopher, who has drawn speech 
 from silence, and light from chaos, who has made the deaf 
 hear, and the dumb speak ; his memory is as much honored 
 as that of the most renowned upon earth ; his name is blessed 
 and welcomed by the generations of poor children, whom his 
 genius and charity have saved. I have myself been present at
 
 THE VAL DE GRACE. 41 
 
 the birthday fete of the venerable de 1'Epee, and no one can 
 describe all the joy, the pride, and the eloquence of these 
 deaf and dumb children, kneeling before the bust of their 
 father and their benefactor ! At a little distance, nearly oppo- 
 site the delightful gardens of the Luxembourg, beautiful 
 verdure blue and transparent sky shrubs, rose-trees, large 
 park white statues rises the dome of the Val de Grace 
 separated from the gardens by a long succession of frightful 
 houses. The dome recalls to you Anne of Austria, the queen 
 with the beautiful hands, the wife of king Louis XIII., the 
 mother of king Louis XIV. Francois Mansard was the ar- 
 chitect of the Val de Grace, Mignard was its decorator. In 
 the depth of these sunless streets, queen Blanche, the mother 
 of Louis IX., resided ; queen Margaret, the wife of the sainted 
 king, there founded an abbey, and here her young daughter 
 Blanche died. Great princesses, humble virtues, noble re- 
 membrances, which preserve these wretched houses from con- 
 tempt ! The Parisians are surprisingly well acquainted with 
 the history of their own city. In this church, reposes a 
 whole generation of kings ; James II., king of Great Britain, 
 Louise Marie Stuart, his daughter, and all the faithful Fitz- 
 Jameses, who have come to lay themselves down at the feet 
 of their buried monarchs. Here lies Marshal de Lowendal, 
 a descendant of the old heroes of Denmark. The Jardin des 
 Plantes alone, that oasis lost in the darkness, that spot of 
 refreshment and repose, placed at the top of that beautiful 
 hill, would be sufficient to fill a large volume. The whole 
 world appears to be contained within its vast enclosure. 
 Listen, and you will hear the singing of every bird in the 
 air, the roaring of every beast in the forest; the lion and the 
 humming bird ; the giraffe and the wild cat ; the whole family 
 of the monkeys ; all the plants of the south and the north ; 
 all which lives, all which has lived ; the animal and its skin, 
 the feather, and the hair, and the shell ; the color and the
 
 42 SANTEUL. 
 
 form ; the skeleton and the embryo ; all suit this vast assem- 
 blage of all the beauties, all the curiosities, and all the pheno- 
 mena of nature. Neither are great names wanting, and those of 
 the most celebrated; Buffon, Daubenton, Jussieu, Tournefort, 
 Vaillant, Linnaeus, and Cuvier who presides over them all, 
 by the extent of his mind and genius. Let, us, then, leave 
 the poets to their ill humor; with a sweeter and serener 
 philosophy, it is always easy to find, even near the refuse of 
 the noble city, a consolation or a hope ; by the side of a 
 hospital, a garden ; by the side of a ditch, a fountain ; on 
 the edge of a precipice, a flower. What is there more de- 
 lightful ? and yet what more natural ? 
 
 Here we have now the abbey Saint Victor, which recalls to 
 us one of the greatest poets of France, the poet Santeul, a 
 wit in Latin. The church still sings, on her high days, the 
 beautiful hymns of the poet of Saint Victor. The old fountains 
 which throw their scanty shadow, across the richest ornaments 
 of the stone or marble of Jean Goujon, bear on their fronts 
 the sweet lines of Santeul ; he was, like a Christian Martial, 
 always ready to lend the scanned grace of his poetry, to the 
 slightest event in his beloved city. No Parisian has had more 
 wit in French, than the poet Santeul displayed in Latin. 
 Read, for instance, this beautiful distich written upon the 
 fountain near the library of Saint Victor. 
 
 Quae sacros doctrinse aperit domus intima fontes, 
 Civibus exterior dividit urbis aquas. 
 
 " Beneficent house ! Enter, you will here find all the 
 sources of science; whilst without, she gives to each, the limpid 
 crystal of its waters." 
 
 It seems to me, that this consecration of the beautiful monu- 
 ments, by Latin poetry, was not devoid of charm and grace ;
 
 PARIS WHITE AND PARIS BLACK. 43 
 
 and besides, it was an elegant way of recalling to the great 
 French city, its Roman origin ; whether the word Lutece 
 comes from Luteum, which is found in Ccesars Commentaries, 
 or whether the word Paris is derived from Paratridos, the 
 origin is certainly ancient and heathen. Only, in opposition 
 to the meaning of Lutece, the muddy city, Strabo, in his pic- 
 turesque language, calls it the white city, Leukotokia. It has 
 required not less than nineteen centuries, to place the white 
 city in its present beauty, opposite the muddy city ; the former 
 having been long governed by the latter, until at last Leu- 
 kotokia has taken precedence of Lutece. Two distinct cities 
 in one ; Lutece stands cold, melancholy, and serious at the 
 summit of the hill of Saint Genevieve ; Lutece, learned and 
 pedantic, and still remembering the emperor Julian and the 
 emperor Charlemagne : my dear Lutece, as Julian called 
 it. There stood his Palais de Thermes, and near it had 
 risen the Sorbonne, two ruins which we must salute with 
 respect. The other city, Leukotokia, has long since shaken 
 off the dust of former ages. Upon sites covered with beautiful 
 trees, and gardens in flower, she has built herself exquisite 
 houses ; she has made a gracious and delightful appeal to the 
 light, the sun, space, green turf, clear fountains, and the 
 beauties of the Parisian world ! These two cities, so different 
 from each other, are at the two extremities of the capital ; 
 between them flows the Seine, stands the Louvre, and rises, 
 in all its grandeur, the tower of Notre Dame. In the new 
 city, it is in vain for you to search, you will not find one 
 vestige of past times, not one remembrance of Caesar or of 
 Chilperic, not one relic of Captain Labienus or king Childe- 
 bert. All is new in the white city, the city of yesterday ; the 
 very temples have a festive look, the houses are coquettish 
 and elegant, the sculptures belong to the modern school, and 
 not to the ruined temples of Ceres or Vesta. There, you will 
 neither hear of Jupiter, nor of Vulcan, nor of Velleda, cutting
 
 44 LEUKOTOKIA. 
 
 the misletoe from the oak with her golden pruning knife ; nor 
 of Mercury, the god of the city, nor of Ma'ia, his mother ; or, 
 at least, if these deities are named, from the boulevard de 
 Gand to Notre Dame de Lorette, it is apropos of a ballet 
 at the Opera, or a lesson in mythology. In Leukotokia, 
 there is nothing serious, nothing solemn ; all is entertainment 
 and pleasure ; love is the great occupation of this isolated city. 
 There, you will find neither a college, nor a convent, nor any 
 thing resembling the School of Law, the School of Medicine, 
 or the Sorbonne. Not a remnant of the Circus, or the Amphi- 
 theatres, or the Forum-, not a trace of the old Capetian palaces; 
 not one saint of the long list who walks at night, carrying his 
 head under his arm, as did Saint Denis the martyr, on the 
 top of Montmartre. No, no ; the new city would be afraid 
 of these gothic palaces ; scarcely does she think of the future, 
 much less of the past; for her, the principal business, the im- 
 portant action, the all powerful interest, is the present moment; 
 it is the hour which sounds on these pendulums, the signal of 
 pleasure and of love; this is the supreme law. In this beau- 
 tiful part of the city, you will find neither judge, nor notary, 
 nor attorney : savings' banks are here considered fables. The 
 only institution of ancient Paris which would have been wel- 
 come in Leukotokia, was the Pre aux Clercs, a delightful spot, 
 where the youth of past ages, for the past was once youthful, 
 vied with each other in coming to drink, fight, and talk non- 
 sense. Carelessness is carried to such an extent in these 
 privileged places, that no one thinks of death; there is not a 
 single doctor, not a single nurse. The one healer of all ills 
 in this city of sybarites, is the fashionable milliner ; an 
 eminent dressmaker, a skilful hair dresser, a beautiful Cash- 
 mere shawl, a handsome ornament, or at least a good supper, 
 these are the grand remedies, the universal panacea. Who 
 talks of dying? They do not even know what old age is, 
 here. In this little corner, under the ever blue sky, all the
 
 SAINT GENEVIEVE. 45 
 
 ladies are twenty years old, sometimes less than twenty years, 
 but never, under any pretence, one day more ! 
 
 The only one of the beliefs of ancient Paris that has passed 
 into the new city ; oh ! who would guess it ? is the belief in 
 Saint Genevieve, the patroness of the city, the virtuous and 
 courageous patroness, who announced long beforehand, another 
 heroine equally dear to France, Joan of Arc, the Maid of Or- 
 leans. Thanks to the remembrance of Saint Genevieve, 
 thanks to this popular name, the city of grace and gallantry 
 has not been left without a saint to invoke, on those days 
 which to her are heavy with clouds and remorse. Modern 
 Paris even prefers Saint Genevieve keeping her flocks, to 
 the repenting Magdalen, whose temple forms a boundary to 
 the new city, so long predicted by Saint Augustin. But let 
 us return a little to ancient Paris ; do not let us neglect that, 
 for the one so fond of display; let us seek respectfully the 
 traces left in the old streets, by the kings of the third race. 
 On the site of Hugh Capet's palace, that terrible count of 
 Paris, who gave his son for a tutor Richard duke of Nor- 
 mandy, has been built a dancing room; this room is called 
 the Prado, and here come almost daily, students and grisettes 
 to dance ; the student thinking no more than the grisette, of 
 the most important articles of that civil code which he pro- 
 fesses to be studying. 
 
 In the church of Notre Dame, that immense work, which 
 is a whole poem, entire generations have been buried. How 
 many eminent men were interred there, between the reign of 
 Childebert and that of Louis XIV ! 
 
 Alas ! when once you have abandoned history to that time 
 which devours all things, you will find, that of all histories, 
 that of tombs is the most fruitful. The dust which one dis- 
 turbs, throws around it solemn lessons; the great names of 
 former days hold an imposing place, even in the disordered 
 scrap-books of the passing traveller. How is it that I
 
 46 THE SORBONNE. 
 
 scarcely escaped from Parisian fetes, I who have pursued so 
 warmly these incredible elegances, I, the hero of the Opera 
 balls and concerts, now find myself occupied in reading 
 upon these half broken stones, names carried away by death ? 
 Where are ye, O ye heads of science, and ye masters of 
 the people ? Guillaume de Champeaux, Abeilard, and you 
 also, Heloise ? But we have wandered far away from our 
 point. 
 
 Not so far, however, but that we have arrived opposite that 
 curious monument called the Sorbonne ; that monument now 
 filled with profane eloquence, impatient minds in the pulpit, 
 rebellious minds around the pulpit, youth whom even M. 
 Saint Marc Girardin, that man of extraordinary talent, of 
 ingenious intellect, of eloquent composure, has so much 
 difficulty in restraining. In this school, which has no longer 
 any barriers, you will vainly seek some vestige of the re- 
 vered Sorbonne ; scarcely will you find the scattered and 
 half effaced remembrances of that venerable institution, the 
 theology of which, in former times, was all its science. In 
 bygone days, whoever named the Sorbonne, named the three 
 theological virtues, minus charity and hope. The Sorbonne 
 was, so to speak, a parliament without appeal, where all 
 questions relative to the Roman Catholic belief, were gravely 
 and severely discussed. And, as, at that time, faith was every 
 where, in the smallest pamphlet of the writer, in the slightest 
 word of the orator, in the confidential letter, it follows, from 
 this ubiquity of faith, that the Sorbonne also was every where, 
 that it entered every conscience, and had the right to inquire 
 into books and ideas, which are now most foreign to it. 
 
 It was, in truth, a kind of religious inquisition, which, in 
 case of need, had its dungeons and its funeral piles ; more 
 than once it employed even the executioner, against persons 
 and books. But compared with other inquisitions, that of the 
 Sorbonne was benevolent, and even enlightened. It summoned 

 
 THE 8ORBONNE AND THE BASTILLE. 47 
 
 around it, the noblest minds, the greatest names, and the bold- 
 est and most courageous men ; it was afraid of nothing but 
 innovators. With the Sorbonne, novelty was in all things the 
 worst of schisms. Thus even to the end, this grave and learned 
 institution, which had heard the prince de Conde and Bossuet 
 support within its enclosure, their theological dogmas, remem- 
 bered the instructions of its illustrious protector, Cardinal 
 Richelieu. It defended itself as bravely as possible, from all 
 the rebels against authority, which the end of the seventeenth, 
 and the whole of the eighteenth, century produced. It de- 
 fended, step by step, the moral dominion which the Romish 
 church had confided to it ; and when at last it was compelled 
 to give way, it did so honorably, after having stood alone 
 against all, alone against Voltaire, alone against the whole 
 Encyclopaedia. What do we say ? It had stood alone against 
 M. Arnauld and against Pascal ! 
 
 Undoubtedly, when the hour of desolation comes, it is well 
 to fall as nobly, as did the Sorbonne. The Sorbonne fell like 
 the royalty of France, like the nobility, like all that belonged 
 to past times, with courage and resignation. The revolution 
 entered its gaping wall, nearly in the same way as the First 
 Consul Bonaparte entered the orangery at Saint Cloud ; all 
 the old doctors of the old Romish faith were driven from it, 
 as the straw is driven away by the wind. 
 
 There is yet one thing to be said of the fallen Sorbonne, 
 and that is, that long before 1793, it was a power conquered 
 for ever. When once it had been defeated, in its duel with 
 the Emile of Jean Jacques Rousseau, with the Dictionnaire 
 Pkilosophique of Voltaire, with the (Euvres of Montesquieu, 
 with the whole Encyclopsedian school, the Sorbonne was as 
 effectually conquered, as was the Bastille, for instance, a month 
 before July 14, 1789. 
 
 When the Bastille was taken, there was only a nominal 
 governor ; when the Sorbonne was attacked, its walls enclosed
 
 48 THE RESTORATION. 
 
 nothing but a few old Latin theses upon the bull Unigenitus, 
 or perhaps for and against Aristotle; thus it may be said, 
 that the old Sorbonne, when it died, had fulfilled its mission; 
 the liberty of minds and the slavery of consciences had no 
 longer any thing to hope or to expect from it. The Sorbonne 
 had uttered its last fiat in the world of ideas, just as the 
 Bastille had issued its last lettre de cachet; and therefore, 
 when the Restoration wished to refound the Sorbonne, it 
 foolishly attempted a thing as impossible, as if it had desired 
 to rebuild the Bastille, and again put in force the lettres de 
 cachet. 
 
 But the Restoration failed in foresight; it was as obstinate 
 as it was benevolent ; it wished for the past ; the whole past, 
 alas ! and nothing but the past. The emigrants and the 
 priests, people, for the most part, quite indifferent to the 
 religious doctrines of which they were incessantly talking; 
 had so long said that the throne was the altar, that the 
 obedience of the people was founded upon faith, that the 
 sum of Saint Thomas ought to take precedence of the Charter, 
 that Saint Gregory was a greater orator than Benjamin 
 Constant, and that General Foy himself was nothing com- 
 pared to Saint Jean Chrysostome ; the old Bourbons had 
 been so often told and retold, that they could only extricate 
 themselves from their difficulties, by the help of the old 
 casuists, and that the Chamber of Deputies would one day 
 vanish in smoke, before the holy councils, that the imprudent 
 kings began to dream, amongst other restorations, of restoring 
 the Sorbonne. By their order, the edifice was repaired, the 
 pulpits, in which dogmas were to be taught, were re-esta- 
 blished ; they blew upon the extinguished cinders, they awoke 
 the old echoes, they raised all that learned powder, which had 
 formerly darkened the sun. The tomb was renewed, a bad, 
 vulgar Latin, a melancholy, proscribed cant, was recalled to 
 those walls, which had once resounded with so elegant a
 
 LECTURES RE-ESTABLISHED. 49 
 
 Latinity. So that, on account of this revived Sorbonne, the 
 theologians, princes of the blood, noblemen, and ministers, 
 the whole right side of the Chamber, sang the most short- 
 sighted of Te Deums. 
 
 They thought the monarchy was saved, since the Sorbonne 
 was restored to it. They clapped their hands at the new 
 faith, which would so soon flourish again. Vain efforts ! use- 
 less hopes ! cruel deceptions ! For, no sooner was the Sor- 
 bonne re-opened, no sooner had it been announced that the 
 Abbe Such-a-one would speak upon grace, Veneris die, Venus s 
 day ; the Abbe Such-a-one upon confession, Mortis die, Mars' s 
 day ; the Abbe Such-a-one on cases of conscience, die Mercurii, 
 Mercury's day; than immediately, by the mighty power of this 
 invincible revolution, against which the Restoration was gather- 
 ing, the new philosophy, the German eclecticism, the Voltairian 
 scepticism, all the ideas of this revolutionary age, against which 
 they endeavoured to raise this theological school, themselves 
 intruded upon the restored Sorbonne. Philosophy took pos- 
 session of the pulpits where the theologian was expected ; 
 history rilled with its lessons, the oak seats placed for doctrine. 
 The abbes appointed for the instruction of youth, had nothing 
 better to do than to be silent and fly, seeing themselves with- 
 out audience and without echo, so that Saint Sulpice thought 
 itself but too happy, to take back, safe and sound, the theo- 
 logical professors and the theological auditors, whom they had 
 lent for this solemn juncture, as a man lends his cloak to a 
 friend who has pawned his own. But it was well worth 
 while truly, to re-establish the Sorbonne for the comfortable 
 accommodation of the three men, who had the greatest power 
 over the young minds, by whose aid, the revolution of July 
 was about to be planned and accomplished. 
 
 Even to those who are most foreign to every thing belonging 
 to modern France, it is unnecessary to repeat the names of the 
 three eloquent and impassioned professors, who have held in
 
 50 REVOLUTIONARIES. 
 
 their hands the destinies of the new Sorbonne : their words 
 have produced upon the young spirits of the Restoration, the 
 same effect as lighted torches thrown among sheaves of wheat. 
 They have defeated, day by day, those slow moral repairs 
 which the Restoration attempted so painfully, by the aid of a 
 conquered sect, and an exhausted nobility. They have no 
 love for each other, and have therefore never come to a 
 mutual understanding, and yet, by their joint, though not 
 united efforts, they have baffled all the attempts of the 
 royalist and religious party. These three professors, the 
 honor of public instruction, you have already named, M. 
 Guizot, M. Villemain, and M. Cousin. 
 
 I know what answer will be given me, and that at first 
 sight you will be much astonished to hear me call them 
 revolutionaries; you will tell me I flatter them; but notice, 
 I beg of you, that it is even on account of their apparent 
 moderation, and by the mighty power of their real prudence, 
 that the instructions of these three masters have been, and 
 in fact must be, so formidable. If they had possessed more 
 courage or less prudence, if they had concealed less skilfully, 
 the dominion which they had acquired over the mind, the 
 government of the Restoration would have been upon its 
 guard, and would have defended itself with all its power ; 
 it would have closed these traitorous schools, and thus have 
 obtained some respite in an open war. This war, however, 
 was any thing but open ; on the contrary, the three champions 
 brought to this daily combat, each according to his own pecu- 
 liarities, the most judicious limitations ; they enveloped them- 
 selves in all kinds of marvellous circumlocutions, never avowing 
 their hopes, even those most distant. They wished to see a 
 revolution accomplished ; but they dreaded, as much for their 
 fellow citizens as for themselves, the disorders, the misfortunes, 
 and the ambitions, that all new revolutions bring with them. 
 Even in their anger, they were cool ; even in their revolts,
 
 THE ORATORS OP THE 8ORBONNE. 61 
 
 they chose to have right on their side. But in the general 
 struggle of parties, in the general stir of opinions, in the 
 tumultuous and turbid mixture of political feelings, these are 
 just the men to fear ; it is these who are strong because they 
 are prudent, who are dangerous because they are wary, who 
 attain their point because they walk with a slow, sure step ; 
 defeat renders them popular, victory makes them powerful ; 
 if conquered, they are laden with praises ; if conquerors, they 
 know at once where victory ought to stop. 
 
 In point of revolutions and revolutionaries, the dangerous 
 man is not he who talks and agitates, it is not he who openly 
 lavishes his slander and his insult, it is not he who uses the 
 poison and the dagger ; it is not the demoniac in the news- 
 paper, or the fanatic in the tribune ; these are well known ; 
 people know how to defend themselves from them ; to oppose 
 them, there are the king's attorneys, the gendarmes ; they may 
 be imprisoned, or bribed ; at the worst, they can be let alone. 
 But the others, the revolutionaries who respect the law, the 
 eloquent men whose speech is as ingenious, as it is high- 
 sounding and impassioned, the faithful subjects, who, under 
 pretence of shaking the throne, in order to rouse the king 
 from his lethargy, plunge into the same abyss both throne 
 and monarch; all these revolutionaries, whom no one sus- 
 pects, and who do not themselves know the full power of 
 their minds, these are the formidable ones, depend upon it. 
 
 And yet to such men, the restored Sorbonne was about to 
 yield itself. 
 
 It must be owned, that a long period will elapse, before three 
 orators of such strength will again be assembled within the 
 same enclosure. They had, between them, the materials for 
 composing an orator, more powerful and more terrible than 
 even Mirabeau, when he was surrounded by the first tokens 
 of the greatest revolution which has ever astonished the world. 
 The first leaned upon history, attaching himself simply to facts, 
 
 E 2
 
 52 POWER OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 from which he drew all the clear, positive consequences which 
 he needed for his system ; the second, on the contrary, was by 
 turns, and according to the necessity of the case, an excited 
 fanatic or an obscure German, wrapping himself in exhalations 
 from beyond the Rhine, a luminous column, exhibiting only its 
 shady side. He usually spoke loud, and as if fully convinced 
 of his position; a harlequin philosopher, whose coat was 
 composed of all kinds of brilliant rags, torn from Plato, 
 Aristotle, Kant, Herder, and even Condillac, for he borrowed 
 from every body : the third and last, the most admirable and 
 inspired of rhetoricians, with the greatest powers of extempo- 
 raneous speaking, giving dazzling but fugitive periods, to which 
 the delighted ear readily yields itself, with lively wit, and irre- 
 sistible grace, so that he might have become, if he would, the 
 most eloquent and the most interesting of orators. 
 
 Such were these three orators ; and although divided upon 
 all points, and although the learned and grave historian 
 thought but little of the eloquent jugglery of the philosopher, 
 whilst the professor, pre-occupied with form, scarcely knew, 
 when absent, what was said by his two rivals, the historian 
 and the philosopher; yet such was the mighty power of the 
 ideas which they advanced, that without ever having held any 
 communication, they understood each other wonderfully. 
 They were like three workmen, laboring, each at his own 
 post, to overthrow a rampart, and who, without having met, 
 strive which shall give the most furious blows of the axe, 
 until the wall being pulled down, the three recognise each 
 other, astonished, and almost frightened at the devastation 
 they have made. Or, if my first comparison alarms you, 
 these three professors, each speaking to the youths who un- 
 derstood them with half a word, represent to you the three 
 terrible orchestras of Don Juan during the violin scene. Each 
 orchestra sings, in its own way, its complaint or its anger, 
 without disturbing itself as to the neighbouring orchestra,
 
 M. GTJIZOT. 53 
 
 until they all three burst into the same malediction. Alas ! 
 who would have thought it? this anathematized Don Juan 
 was his very Christian and very benevolent majesty, king 
 Charles X. ! 
 
 To be able to form a just idea, of the power of these men 
 over the fine youths of the restoration, who lent to them such 
 attentive ears, you must have heard them; for their lessons 
 written out in haste, like the analyses which have been made 
 of them, bear no resemblance to their speech, so animated, 
 so warm, and which exhibited so strongly all the marks of 
 sincerity and conviction. M. Guizot, for instance, reached 
 the pulpit with a firm and somewhat solemn step. At his 
 appearance, the restless and agitated crowd became silent ; 
 he began to speak immediately and without hesitating, his 
 voice was clear and short, he was authoritative and cutting 
 in his discourse, his sentences were abrupt, but little flowery, 
 and often wanting in elegance, but what was lost in elegance, 
 was gained in power and energy. The person of the orator 
 answered exactly to his discourse. It was the proud, dull 
 look, which only sparkled at rare intervals, like fire concealed 
 beneath the ashes. It was the sombre hue which nothing 
 alters, neither joy, nor melancholy, nor the pride of triumph, 
 nor the vexation of defeat. It was the broad, intelligent fore- 
 head, upon which were exhibited none of the passions of the 
 inner man. In this ancient Sorbonne, which had defended 
 with armed hand the holy purity of the Romish doctrines; in 
 this religious echo, which still remembered confusedly, but 
 not without emotion and respect, so many eminent doctors 
 of the Sorbonne, defenders, executioners, and martyrs of the 
 Romish faith ; M. Guizot, the Protestant, was animated with 
 an indescribable feeling of triumph, which, in such a spot, 
 formed a large part of his eloquence. It was a source of great 
 delight to him, that he should be permitted to speak aloud 
 between the two statues of Fenelon and Bossuet, opposite
 
 54 MADAME GTJIZOT. 
 
 the likenesses of Massillon and Pascal ; that he, the convinced 
 child of Luther, should give such a contradiction to the His- 
 toire des Variations ! And, as in this vast city of Paris, every 
 one is acquainted with all that regards these heroes of the 
 mind; people knew that M. Guizot was poor, that he had 
 fallen under the displeasure of the monarchy, to which, while 
 yet young, he had given the most loyal proofs of his devoted- 
 ness and his zeal. It was said that he had an old mother, a 
 matron of primitive times, of great tenderness, and inflexible 
 duty, whose life was modelled from the Bible, and that before 
 this old mother he knelt every evening, saying to her, " Bless 
 me !" It was known that he, with his wife, who was a clever 
 woman, passed night and day, in earning a livelihood by 
 literary labors, accepting all that was offered, articles to 
 write in the newspapers, the Memoires de VHistoire d'Angle- 
 terre to arrange, the bad translation of Shakspere by Latour- 
 neur, to be revised, corrected, and explained. v Madame Guizot 
 rectified, with admirable patience, the misconstructions and 
 grammatical faults of Latourneur, whilst her husband wrote 
 at the head of all Shakspere's tragedies, short prefaces, 
 which are masterpieces of penetration and good sense. A 
 melancholy occupation, say you, for such a man, for such a 
 politician, who was one day to hold in his hands, the destinies 
 of France and of a revolution ! A melancholy occupation, 
 to be on hire to M. Ladvocat, the bookseller ! But what 
 could be done? The greatest comic poet of ancient Rome 
 was glad to turn a mill-stone in order to live ! Thus all 
 admired M. Guizot for his modest and laborious life ; his 
 patience was taken for resignation ; he was valued for what 
 he dared to say in his course, and above all, for what he did 
 not say. In a word, he was loved like a man who shows 
 you only half his thoughts; for since torture has been abo- 
 lished, all agree that this is the greatest punishment which 
 can be imposed upon him who writes or speaks. Indeed,
 
 M. VILLEMAIN. 65 
 
 even to the religious conviction of M. Guizot, even to that 
 belief which was not the Romish belief, there was nothing 
 in him which the youth of the Sorbonne did not admire. 
 Ah ! you wish these young people to be Catholics. Ah ! 
 you would bring back the Jesuits to Saint Acheul, and 
 you would re-establish the Sorbonne. Ah ! you would for- 
 cibly expel by every means, even by the eloquence of M. 
 Lamennais, Voltairian scepticism ! Well ! you shall see 
 what a contradiction we can give you. We will attack you 
 on your most sensitive point ; we will applaud, not doubt, 
 but schism ; not only will we deny as strongly as possible 
 the religious belief of the house of Bourbon, but we will 
 honor, in every conceivable way, the protestantism of M. 
 Guizot. And really these young men, in their rage for oppo- 
 sition, were clever to reason thus, for there was one man, 
 whom the French clergy hated still more than Voltaire, and 
 that man was Luther. But who would have said at that 
 time, and when the restoration aroused at last, but too late 
 closed the course of M. Guizot, that this protestant, ap- 
 plauded in open Sorbonne, because he was a protestant, 
 would one day become minister of public instruction of the 
 French kingdom, just like the Bishop of Hermopolis ? 
 
 Let us turn to the other orator, to the other minister of public 
 instruction, M. Villemain. The latter exhibited in a far greater 
 degree than his colleague, all the freedom of a man whose 
 principal concern was to breathe classic air, and who troubled 
 himself but little about the future, so sure was he, that Latin 
 and Greek, and beautiful Ciceronian periods, would not fail 
 him for the rest of his life. M. Villemain was, if you please, 
 a man in the opposition, but by no means violent in his feel- 
 ings ; on the contrary, he was one of those cautious opposers, 
 who can to-morrow, without meanness, advocate ministerial 
 measures. Far from being isolated, like M. Guizot, and 
 given up to barren labors, M. Villemain had around him
 
 56 POPULARITY OF M. VILLEMAIN. 
 
 to love, protect, and defend him, some of the powerful jour- 
 nals, a part of the Council of Public Instruction, the whole 
 Academy, all the graces of his speech, all the fascinations of 
 his mind. The public had long been accustomed to love him, 
 for, from his first successes at the university to his first success 
 at the French Academy, from his beautiful translation of 
 Cicero's Republic, happily refound, to his formal opposition 
 to M. de Villele, M. Villemain had been without intermission 
 the hero, what do I say? the spoilt child, of popular favor. 
 And yet more, what had been done for General Foy, had 
 just been done for him, a national subscription had been 
 made, to recompense him for a dismission, warmly given, at 
 the very moment when the greatest minds in France separated 
 from the old monarchy. Thus supported by all which con- 
 stitutes power, M. Villemain cannot in any way be compared, 
 for credit and position, with M. Guizot; for in proportion as 
 the latter stood alone, poor and without support, just so the 
 former was surrounded by encouragement and powerful friend- 
 ships. The one, out of his pulpit, had much difficulty in 
 ranking amongst those rare ideologists who have since become 
 the doctrinaires, and of whom he is now the sovereign master; 
 the other, on the contrary, was the mind, the speech, the 
 counsel, sometimes even the energetic and lively style, of this 
 opposition, which was already mistress within and without, 
 and which finished by becoming the revolution of July, ten 
 years later. 
 
 Imagine that on some Monday, on one of those grey, dull 
 frosts in the December of a Parisian winter, the neighbor- 
 hood of the Sorbonne is filled with an unusual crowd ; people 
 run from all parts of the city, in all kinds of costume, some 
 on foot, some in carriages, for amongst the impatient and 
 shivering multitude, the prince of the blood must wait till the 
 doors are open, as well as the student of one year's standing. 
 At eleven o'clock, the immense court of the Sorbonne is filled ;
 
 HIS ORATORY. 57 
 
 at twelve, the doors are opened. In a moment, the vast hall 
 is entirely occupied ; they push and jostle each other ; the 
 least space on the oak seats is eagerly disputed; the crowd 
 choose that the doors should remain open, and those who 
 arrive late are kept at the foot of the staircase, only too 
 happy to seize on their passage, some of those powerful 
 vibrations which announce the presence of the master. At 
 the appointed hour, and by a certain entrance, which is, like 
 all the rest, obstructed by numbers, a man creeps with great 
 difficulty, and makes his way to the pulpit amidst a thunder 
 of applause; he takes his seat in any thing but an elegant 
 posture, generally he crosses his right leg over his left; he 
 leans his head upon his shoulder, like many of the great 
 men of antiquity. But let us wait, he will soon raise 
 his head, his animated look will run over the attentive crowd, 
 his speech will become as animated as his look, and sud- 
 denly, the first hesitation passed, you must prepare to follow 
 the orator, in the most impetuous caprices of his thought. Ah ! 
 what a wonderful literary labyrinth, what a bold mixture of the 
 soundest sense and the wildest flights of imagination ! an ad- 
 mirable collection of philosophy, history, and literature, in 
 which the most different geniuses, the most opposite talents, 
 are found blended and confused with incredible skill ; Bossuet, 
 by the side of Saurin, Shakspere by the side of Moliere, the 
 Telemaque of Fenelon by the side of the Utopia of Sir Thomas 
 More. And through the thousand flowery labyrinths of his 
 thought, it was curious to see how this man contrived to 
 make use of present literature; to summon to the aid of the 
 ancients, whose mighty power and energy he proclaimed, the 
 contemporary works which he subjected without remorse to 
 his ironical analysis. You should have seen with what en- 
 thusiasm, and at the same time with what good sense, he 
 spoke of the old master-pieces, which he made one love ; of 
 the great writers, whom he surrounded with respect, and how
 
 58 ELOQUENCE OF M. VILLEMAIN. 
 
 he made the youthful assembly support every thing, even the 
 praises of Louis XIV. Thus you would follow him, in the 
 literary history of the three great centuries to which Francis 
 I. gave the signal. The auditors of this animated professor 
 would, in imitation of him, pass from Montaigne and Rabelais 
 to Madame de Sevigne and La Fontaine, from Saint Evremont 
 and Fontenelle to Montesquieu and Massillon, until he has 
 suddenly stopped before J. J. Rousseau and Voltaire, to whose 
 cause he has not been false, even in open Sorbonne, any more 
 than in open Sorbonne, M. Guizot has been false to the cause 
 of Melancthon and Luther ! 
 
 I may perhaps be mistaken, but I do not think human 
 speech ever caused to a younger audience, more powerful and 
 more sudden emotions. Once having flung himself into this 
 literary arena, which he had made so vast, M. Villemain 
 hesitated no more ; he became intoxicated with his own 
 words, as a man becomes intoxicated for a moment with 
 champagne, and once in the reelings of poetical drunkenness, 
 he had all its hallucinations, all its giddiness, but also all its 
 conviction and power. How beautiful it was, to hear him 
 defending, in spite of himself, the past, which he loved for 
 its style and its genius, and suddenly arresting himself in the 
 midst of his praises, for, from his sincere admiration for the 
 literature of former days, he would not, that you should draw 
 the political conclusion, that the past might yet return. Be- 
 cause he frankly acknowledged the moral authority of Cardinal 
 Richelieu, he would not that you should draw from this, the 
 inference that he would accept M. de Villele ; and when he 
 knelt before the eloquence of Bossuet, he quickly rose again, 
 remembering that in the midst of liberal France, missionaries 
 were walking, whose unpleasant, and ignorant doctrines were 
 troubling every conscience, and burning upon the funeral 
 pyre the whole of Voltaire's works. Thus divided between 
 his loyal admiration for the past in France, and his sincere
 
 M. COUSIN. 59 
 
 opposition to the restoration of so many things, the restoration 
 of which was impossible, M. Villemain, to those who knew 
 how to listen to him, was doubly interesting ; you were curious 
 to watch how he obeyed these two contrary feelings, how he 
 could be faithful, at the same time, to his admiration and his 
 dislike, how the respectful, devoted subject of Louis XIV. 
 could maintain his opposition to Charles X. Assuredly, it 
 was no easy task; but with his usual skill, or what is yet 
 more skilful, with the good fortune of his whole life, M. 
 Villemain would accomplish his double purpose, without being 
 false either to his admiration for the past, or his dislike of 
 the present. He remained that which he chose to be, in 
 literature, as in politics and religion, a critic of Boileau's 
 school, who admired Shakspere and M. Schlegel ; a passionate 
 enthusiast for Bossuet, who acknowledged Diderot and Vol- 
 taire ; a chamberlain of Louis XIV., who would have been 
 proud to make the king's bed with Moliere, and who was 
 nevertheless able, in all loyalty, to clap his hands at the 
 final departure from France, of the very Christian grandson 
 of his very Christian majesty the great king. 
 
 As for the third orator, I can say much less of him than 
 of the other two, for I have only heard him speak two 
 or three times. There are some rebellious minds which 
 cannot enter into the finest things, and who would give the 
 whole of Plato for one ode from Horace. What is called 
 philosophy, strictly speaking, seems to them a kind of dream, 
 without poetry and without reality, that is to say, the most 
 melancholy of all dreams. I own, for my part, that I am 
 of the number of those blind, rebellious persons, who shut 
 their eyes lest they should see the truth ! M. Cousin has 
 always been to me, a sort of enigma without answer, and I 
 would give all the labors of his life for one hour of M. 
 Villemain's speech, or M. Guizot's teaching. And yet it 
 must be confessed, that M. Cousin was as popular when he
 
 60 A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT. 
 
 spoke in the Sorbonne as his two fellow-laborers. He pos- 
 sessed that wonderful copiousness, which never recoils before 
 any obstacle, and provided he spoke, it signified little to him 
 what he was about to say. Philosophy has its effrontery 
 .as well as eloquence, and in this, the boldness is so much 
 the easier, that neither your audience nor yourself attends 
 precisely to the particulars of your discourse ; they must 
 accept the medley, whatever it may be, whether it comes from 
 ancient Greece, or modern Germany. And the more so, be- 
 cause, a man of the world, M. Cousin had used and abused 
 this philosophical redundancy, in which he excelled. He 
 spoke with surprising facility, he had the gesture, the voice, 
 the animation, the furious accent of a very demon ; you would 
 have said that he fought, like Hamlet, with some invisible 
 phantom ; and it was amusing to see his violent stabs in the 
 air. I remember one day happening to enter his class, in 
 which so many strange ideas were brought forward. At the 
 moment of my entrance, the professor struck the pulpit with 
 his two fists, and foaming at the mouth, with his hair stand- 
 ing on end, and his eyes flashing fire, he cried, "No! no! 
 we were not defeated at Waterloo!" At this extraordinary 
 announcement, judge whether his young audience did not 
 clap their hands with delight, and partaking of the enthusiasm 
 of the philosopher, repeat vehemently to themselves, " No ! 
 no ! we were not defeated at Waterloo." The great secret 
 of M. Cousin consisted in this ; he found it much easier and 
 much more convenient, to address himself to the passions of 
 his hearers, than to their intelligence and good sense. By a 
 stratagem which is very old, and which will yet always be 
 new, when the enthusiasm of his class languished, like a 
 true statesman, he called to his aid, and made to vibrate, 
 those great, immortal, and inexhaustible names of liberty, 
 country, national independence. When his pupils were tired 
 of the Sorbonne, he led them to the borders of the Rhine,
 
 SOPHISTRY. 61 
 
 and thence showed them the royal limits which France has 
 lost, not forgetting to tell them at each lesson, that there 
 he had been a captive, which placed him on a false equality 
 with General Lafayette, who had been a prisoner at Olmutz. 
 In this way, the success of M. Cousin, equal to that of his 
 two brothers, M. Guizot and M. Villemain, was, if not less 
 loyal, at least more easy to merit, to obtain, to preserve. In 
 the present day, M. Cousin has opened that fatal road of 
 political flatteries, in which more than one honest man in 
 the Sorbonne has gone astray. Strange ! here is a writer 
 who speaks, an historian who teaches, a philosopher who 
 disputes; the writer is self-possessed, and entirely under his 
 own control ; the historian governs his audience without 
 granting them any thing : of the three men, one only is 
 carried away ; it is the philosopher, and this very impetuosity 
 forms his whole power. If you ask me by what course of 
 reasoning, M. Cousin proved that the French were not de- 
 feated at Waterloo, I cannot very well tell you. I understood 
 that it was in some such way as this. When two armies fight 
 in a plain, it is not men who come to blows, but ideas. But 
 in the battle of Waterloo, the French idea remained erect, 
 surrounded by the dying and the dead; ergo, the French 
 were not defeated at Waterloo. 
 
 A little stratagem, you will say, and a pardonable one, if 
 eloquent. But then it was so easy to answer, that at Waterloo 
 it was the imperial idea which was at stake, and that, there- 
 fore, the French were defeated at Waterloo ! After which, 
 M. Cousin might have been told that he put a chorus to his 
 philosophy, as Beranger did to his songs, for that this pre- 
 tended victory had been shown, before he even thought of it, 
 by Gonthier at the Gymnase, and by Verne t at the Varietes, 
 in the Soldat laboureur. 
 
 A fourth power in the Sorbonne of that day, whom we have 
 not yet named, a concealed power, it is true, but respected
 
 62 M. LAROMIGUIERE. 
 
 even on account of his modesty, was a man who had taken 
 as much trouble not to be known, and not to belong to the 
 French Academy, as is taken by all men who write prose or 
 verse, to become celebrated and to join the Academy. The man 
 to whom I refer, possessed in his single mind, as much learning, 
 ingenuity, and talent as these three speakers, who made so much 
 noise around his silence. He despised fame as strongly as ordi- 
 nary men esteem it; he descended from his pulpit as soon as he 
 had no more to say, and his last lesson finished, nothing could 
 make him resume the course, so great was his dislike to repeat- 
 ing on the morrow, what he had said the day before. This 
 man, concealed as he kept himself, was one of the greatest cha- 
 racters of the time ; his talents were astounding, and had he 
 possessed the slightest wish for it, he might have reigned at 
 that period by his speech, just as M. Royer Collard did by his 
 silence. His character was good, his integrity strict, his friend- 
 ship sincere, his self-denial great. After having shone for two 
 years in the revived Sorbonne, all the nothings of which he well 
 knew, he retired from the philosophical arena, without ever 
 having wished to make of his own opinions, a sort of dogma 
 without appeal, as has happened to all other philosophers, past 
 and present. This man, whose name you have already guessed, 
 you who have so surrounded him with friendship, devoted- 
 ness, and respect, was M. Laromiguiere. 
 
 You can best judge, if he was not a great writer, an honest 
 moralist, an ingenious philosopher, an admirable pupil of Con- 
 dillac's, who could never have hoped for such a pupil. He 
 had reached doubt by all the paths which lead to belief, and 
 within this indulgent doubt he inclosed himself, without osten- 
 tation, without vanity, naturally, and simply, as he has done 
 in every event of his life. Such as he was, immoveable and 
 silent in that Sorbonne which was agitated by so many dif- 
 ferent passions, M. Laromiguiere was, for all, for the scho- 
 lars as well as for the masters, a ^useful, an excellent lesson.
 
 M. GUIZOT AS DEPUTY. 63 
 
 By his personal resignation, he taught the scholars endurance 
 and patience, which are the two great conditions of honorable 
 life ; by his modest and unassuming habits, he taught the 
 masters loyalty, self-denial, and devotedness. But alas ! these 
 noble lessons were lost, upon pupils as well as masters ; the 
 pupils did not understand them, the masters refused to listen 
 to them ; and M. Laromiguiere is now dead, leaving 
 behind him, an admirable book, without one single disciple 
 who was worthy, or who would have accepted the permission, 
 to replace this illustrious and excellent master. And now, what 
 has become of the pupils of the three celebrated professors 
 of the Sorbonne ? and what has become of the professors 
 themselves, M. Guizot, M. Villemain, and M. Cousin? The 
 pupils have amused themselves in bringing about a revolution, 
 that they might immediately afterwards, settle down again as 
 good citizens and good national guards, like their fathers ; the 
 professors were first made deputies, and finding themselves 
 deputies, each of them hoped at last to become a great orator. 
 Most certainly, this was an attempt in which M. Guizot did 
 not fail. He has proved himself as eloquent a politician, as a 
 man of his stature could be, and ought to be, in the most 
 difficult circumstances. All the hopes to which he had given 
 rise in the historian's pulpit, M. Guizot fulfilled in the French 
 tribune; he has governed by his speech, he has preserved the 
 peace which M. Thiers did not desire ! M. Villemain was 
 rather slower than M. Guizot in becoming a political speaker ; 
 he hesitated long ; he was like an exquisite singer, who cannot 
 catch the tune of a new piece of the new opera. At last, 
 however, M. Villemain recovered his rapture, his brilliancy, 
 his enthusiasm, his irony ; it was the Chamber of Peers which 
 performed this wonder. As for M. Cousin, once out of the 
 pulpit, he pronounced with difficulty some confused words, 
 to which men listened, on account of his past eloquence. But 
 to return; how well has M. Guizot proved, that he was in fact
 
 64 FETE AT THE SORBONNE. 
 
 born for the serious struggles of politics ! How suddenly he 
 took upon him the positive tone of a member ! and, indeed, 
 what talent and what courage were necessary, for the professor 
 of the Sorbonne to oppose, as he did, M. Thiers, who had but 
 just arrived in the arena, who had sworn obedience to no 
 royalty ; a clever plebeian, sprung from the fruitful republican 
 dust, which Caius Gracchus hurled as he died. 
 
 Such was the Sorbonne in 1825 ; it was powerful, honored, 
 respected ; dreaded for its words, dreaded for its silence. It 
 was proud of these three men, who spoke so wonderfully in its 
 newly revived pulpits, whilst at the top of the edifice, under its 
 burning or frozen roof, in its disordered library, it had M. 
 Laromiguiere, whose pleasant irony was more expressive than 
 the longest discourses. Thus were frustrated the most confident 
 hopes of the Restoration, thus were baffled its most natural 
 plans. It had said that it would raise altar against altar ; that 
 it would oppose the Sorbonne to the College of France ; that 
 within the enclosure of philosophy and literature, if the College 
 of France represented the left side, the Sorbonne should re- 
 present the right .... Alas ! the left side was found every 
 where, by the expiring monarchy. Omnia pontus erat, as Ovid 
 says, speaking of chaos. 
 
 One of the fetes which brings summer into the Sorbonne, 
 a brilliant fete for the child who is about to become a young 
 man, is the distribution of the prizes, among all the colleges 
 of Paris and of Versailles. This is the hour anticipated 
 throughout the whole year, by young minds, impatient for 
 the future. Shall I tell you the expanding pride of the 
 mothers, the animation of the children, the grave indifference 
 of the professors, the number and the splendor of the crowns ? 
 At this fete of the princes of youth, you may hear mentioned 
 with applause, all the great names of Paris, in politics, in 
 literature, and in the arts; for the children of 1804 have be- 
 come in their turn, fathers of families, and the son nobly
 
 CATHEDRAL OF SAINT DENIS. 65 
 
 recalls at the Sorbonne, the name and the glory of his father. 
 But again we are far from the point whence we started. You 
 can scarcely take one step, without the appearance of the 
 monuments around you, recalling to remembrance the men 
 who built them, or the men who gave rise to their renown. 
 But this is one of the all powerful charms of Paris, which is 
 so filled with facts and ideas, with emotions and recollections. 
 How many singular histories, how many incredible stories, 
 have I picked up, in running here and there, somewhat at 
 hazard, as the city was built ! The mere recital of the hosts, 
 or rather the lodgers of the Parisian Pantheon, would make 
 one fancy he was in the midst of a fool's dream. And yet 
 vanity of glory ! false and cruel popularity ! scarcely had 
 the people placed there, their great men of a day, than they 
 came to take them away again, that they might throw them 
 in a ditch. Fye, then, fye ! upon this tarnished glory ! Better 
 far, to remain unknown all your life, better far to repose in 
 some peaceful village churchyard, beneath a wooden cross, 
 where your children will come to pray to God ! Woe to the 
 dead whose tombs thus become the toy of political storms 
 Ludibria ventis ! 
 
 And also, woe to the nations which do not respect even the 
 tombs of their dead, the vanished centuries, the great men who 
 have prepared the future by their courage, their science, or 
 their genius ! Shame upon the people, woe to the ungrateful 
 men, who tear from their ancestors the last rags of their wind- 
 ing sheets ! Saint Denis, the city of the royal dead, the last 
 asylum of this conquered majesty ! to these sacred vaults, 
 Philip the Hardy brought upon his shoulders, the bones of his 
 father Saint Louis, walking barefoot from Paris. Once de- 
 stroyed, the church was rebuilt by Sainte Genevieve, finished 
 by king Dagobert, protected by the Abbe Segur, that wise poli- 
 tician, of such unruffled genius. The holy basilic acknowledges 
 as its trusty and well beloved founders, king Pepin, and his
 
 66 TOMBS OF SAINT DENIS. 
 
 son Charlemagne, who was himself present at its consecration in 
 775, so that not one of the great names in French history, was 
 absent from these noble stones. The gothic art never imagined 
 any thing more perfect and more magnificent. Never did 
 higher vault shelter more royal tombs. The first of the kings 
 of France who wished to repose there for ever, was Dagobert. 
 A part of the race of Pepin was, for a long time, buried there ; 
 king Pepin himself, slept his last sleep, in these vaults by the 
 side of Queen Bertha his wife, and not far from Louis and 
 Carloman, the sons of Louis the Stammerer. Near these, you 
 will find statues in stone of Clovis II. and Charles Martel. 
 There are also cenotaphs to Philip the Hardy, and his terrible 
 son Philip the Fair, the conqueror of the Normans, who had 
 more than once pushed their insolent ravages even to the abbey 
 of Saint Denis. 
 
 Shall I tell you all the names of this ancient history ? 
 by means of respectful care you will find them all, half 
 effaced by revolutions, upon some of the old stones which 
 still groan beneath the agony of kings ; Eudes, Hugo 
 Capet, Robert, Constance d'Arles, Constance de Castille, 
 the second wife of Louis the Young, whose first wife, after 
 her divorce, furnished so many enemies to France, and so 
 many kings to England. Salute with respect, Louis the 
 Gross who increased the liberty of the commons, Louis 
 X. the Mutinous, and the wife of Saint Louis, Margaret of 
 Provence. But is it your pleasure to invoke, as in a funeral 
 dream, all these kings and queens of history? Hermintrude, 
 Jane d'Evreux, Charles VI 1 1., Philip the Long, Charles the 
 Fair, Jane of Burgundy, Philip of Valois, and the Count of 
 Paris, Hugo the Great, the friend of the Normans, and Charles 
 the Bald, the only one of these kings who was an emperor, 
 broken crowns, and sceptres, ashes scattered to the winds ! 
 Who else in this funeral list? Philip Count of Boulogne, 
 Marie de Brabant his daughter, John Tristan Count de
 
 SACRILEGE. 67 
 
 Nevers, Charles V. and Jane of Bourbon, Charles VI. and 
 Isabella of Bavaria, (re-united in death,) Charles VII. ; 
 women, children, old men, kings who have died, kings who 
 have lived ; and amid this royal dust, a few great men, carried 
 there for having saved France ; Bertrand Duguesclin, for in- 
 stance. There also, was interred Louis XII., the father of his 
 people, in those unhappy times when the people knew only 
 how to suffer and to die. There, in his splendid mausoleum, a 
 masterpiece of the art of the sixteenth century, reposed Francis 
 I., as magnificent after his death as he had been during his life. 
 All the tombs of the Valois hang together, as if with a presen- 
 timent of coming revolutions; Henry II., Catherine de Medicis, 
 and their eight children, eight children to leave no posterity 
 upon the throne of France ! You may recognise Henry II. by 
 the richness of his sarcophagus. Certainly, Philibert Delorme 
 had passed over these tombs to protect them with his genius. 
 Then came, for they were ticketed, race by race, the tombs 
 of the house of Bourbon, which had not its equal under the sun ; 
 to count only from Louis XII. to Henry IV., there were thirty- 
 one corpses ! Without reckoning Louis XIII., who so long 
 expected upon the cold stones, his son Louis XIV. ; without 
 reckoning Louis XIV., who so long expected his grandson 
 Louis XV. This latter was also expecting ; at last, one day, 
 there was an arrival ; it was not the sexton, it was the people 
 who came. The stone of the royal tomb was broken, not 
 raised, and the king interred there, was thrown into his grave, 
 with all the other kings of all the other races, the innocent 
 and the guilty, fathers of the people and tyrants, children, 
 and women, and soldiers, and even the good Henry, and even 
 M. de Turenne, who was treated by the people with b'ttle more 
 respect, than Saint Megrin himself, whose bones still smelt of 
 the musk and amber, with which the favorite was impregnated 
 during his life. Ashes scattered to the winds ! majesty in- 
 sulted in death ! tombs profaned ! even the bones of their saints, 
 
 F 2
 
 ISLAND OF SAINT DENIS. 
 
 the relics, the nail hanging to the cross, the hair of the Virgin, 
 the crown, the sceptre, and the hand of justice of Henry the 
 Great, the cup of the Abbe Segur, the golden eagle of king 
 Dagobert, the crowns of Louis XIII. and Anne of Austria; 
 and the head of Saint Denis the martyr, the same head that he 
 brought to this place in his two hands ! O profanation ! the 
 cloak of Saint Louis, still covered with the ashes which served 
 for a funeral bed to this great king, and his hand of justice, 
 which was his support under the oak of Vincennes, and the 
 coronation crown of Louis the Great, and the rich manuscripts 
 upon vellum, and the golden cross of Charles the Bald, and the 
 seat of Charlemagne, and his crown, and his sceptre, and his 
 sword, and his spurs, the fragile crown of Henrietta of Eng- 
 land, the coronation dress of Louis XIV. ; all these relics, 
 sacred and profane, all these marvels disappeared, thrown by 
 the same senseless anger, to the same winds and the same 
 abominable tempests of a revolution !' 
 
 But after you have visited the tombs of Saint Denis, when 
 you have saluted the last Conde in his bier, when you have 
 crossed the vast space which the funeral arrow occupies in the 
 heavens, do not forget to seek out a beautiful, little spot, the 
 way to which, the Parisian so well knows, that he could go 
 there with his eyes shut. This place of pleasure and amuse- 
 ment is the island of St. Denis. A thorough boatman in a 
 straw hat will take you into his bark, and if you fancy the 
 voyage, you may make with him the tour of the island, which 
 is covered with turf and white houses. Assuredly, each of 
 these little houses is inhabited by a fisherman. The greatest 
 manufacturer of nets, sweep nets, lines, and all kinds of tackle 
 for fishing, lives in the island of Saint Denis. A long belt of 
 poplars surrounds the island with its waving verdure. Here is 
 nothing but songs, fetes, lover's appointments, endless gaieties. 
 Once in the island of Saint Denis, you enjoy perfect liberty. No 
 one recognizes his friend. It is neutral ground, every one is at
 
 STRONG CONTRASTS. 69 
 
 home. The son does not acknowledge his father ; the father 
 turns away his eyes, that he may not see his son. How many 
 husbands who do not recognise their wives ! But then how 
 many are there, who speak to each other no longer, when they 
 have once quitted the island of Saint Denis ! 
 
 Thus, at all times and in all places, we find the same con- 
 trasts. Flowers growing upon ruins; trees in the most gloomy 
 spots ; the smiling landscape not far from the most melancholy 
 parts of the city ; Saint Genevieve at the Pantheon ; the 
 freshest and happiest youths within the old walls of the Sor- 
 bonne ; the Prado by the side of the Sainte Chapelle ; and 
 not far from the insulted tomb of so many kings, the joyous 
 cries, the merry dances, the savory matelot of the island of 
 Saint Denis; it is always, as I told you in the early part of 
 this chapter ; Paris white and Paris black !
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CAFE PROCOPE. 
 
 IT seems to me, that I have wandered far from the spot 
 where we found ourselves just now, far from the Sorbonne, 
 where we heard those three celebrated orators ; indeed I 
 imagine that before repairing to the vaults of Saint Denis, we 
 stopped at the door of a public saloon, as famous in literary 
 history as the French Academy. 
 
 In fact we were upon the threshold of the Cafe Procope, 
 now calm, silent, and stupid ? like all the cafes in Paris. What 
 a change ! The large room is almost deserted; two disciples of 
 Hippocrates are playing dominos with a more important air, 
 than if they were settling the destinies of an empire. Piled 
 upon a table, lie unhonored, all the newspapers of the week ; 
 poison and honey, bites and caresses, the slang of the markets 
 and the most beautiful French language, art and taste mingled 
 with scandal and calumny ; such is this work of light and 
 darkness. It is a Pandemonium, the danger of which is passed 
 at mid-day, for this single reason, that it will recommence to- 
 morrow. And yet this calm spot, this deserted room, these 
 tables, around which there is no longer any agitation, all this
 
 ITS FREQUENTERS. 71 
 
 silence is the cafe Procope, it is that spot in this immense city, 
 where French causerie has exhibited its most lively impatience, 
 its most dangerous zeal ; all its briefs, all its paradoxes, all its 
 scandals, all its resistance, all its opposition. To the cafe Pro- 
 cope resorted, as to a common rendezvous of wit, eloquence, 
 and vivacity, the men, who, in their play, have overthrown a 
 religion and a monarchy ; Voltaire, Piron, Diderot, d'Alembert, 
 the Baron d'Holbach, the Baron de Grimm, the bold and 
 intrepid Gilbert, J. B. Rousseau, who made himself hated for 
 his hateful satires, and sometimes, J. J. Rousseau himself, 
 when, overcoming his natural timidity, he dared to meet the 
 rapture, wit, and raillery of these men. There was so much 
 noise you could not hear yourself speak, there were Utopias 
 beyond all imagination. People talked of every thing and 
 many things beside. The one party proclaimed liberty, equality, 
 and natural rights ; while their opponents violently defended 
 established order, and repulsed with all their power the ad- 
 vancing revolution. Useless efforts ! the revolution was to 
 become the strongest, and to draw with it, all men, the con- 
 quered and the conquerors, the feeble and the strong, those 
 who were in advance of the age, and those who were far 
 behind it. Of all the intellect expended in the cafe Procope, 
 of the eloquent, overflowing abundance of Diderot, within these 
 four walls, what now remains ? A glass of eau sucree, a marble 
 table, and a game of dominos ! 
 
 I have also, not without emotion, traversed the whole island 
 of Saint Louis, an unknown neighborhood, a city forgotten 
 within the city. At the point of the island, formerly stood, 
 disdainful and proud, the hotel Lambert. The ceilings were 
 covered with the rarest specimens of art, the walls were laden 
 with the noblest paintings. The palace of Farnese, the work 
 of the Caracchi, is not more splendid and magnificent. All 
 the great artists of the great age counted it an honor, and a 
 duty, to embellish this rich dwelling O profanation ! the
 
 72 THE HOTEL LAMBERT. 
 
 gallery of Lebrun has become a deposit for military beds ; the 
 rich cabinets where you might behold the most wonderful 
 remains of Lesueur's genius, the vast saloons, the cabinet of 
 love, the cabinet of the muses, the beautiful works of Herman 
 Van Swanevelt, the magnificent chambers by Francois Perrier, 
 Francois Romanelli, Patel; the interminable refectory where the 
 whole city used to dine, where all that was young and beautiful, 
 and witty, and powerful, and rich, was welcome; this rendez- 
 vous of art, and taste, and genius, and imagination, which 
 makes something out of nothing, this elegant dwelling bought 
 by Voltaire, but never inhabited by him, through which J. J. 
 Rousseau passed, when the hotel Lambert belonged to M. 
 Dupin the farmer general, that Gallery of Hercules, in which 
 Napoleon held his last council during the Hundred days, is 
 nothing but a ruin, open to every wind that blows. Singular 
 Paris ! singular misery ! strange society ! what strange men ! 
 they go here and there, picking up the slightest, toys of former 
 times; they buy at an extravagant rate, worm-eaten furniture, 
 pieces of broken porcelain, the least relics of former license and 
 grandeur ; the possession of the smallest canvas of Watteau's, 
 of Lancret's, or of some dauber of the last century, is disputed 
 with fury by the amateurs ; but if the question is to save an 
 exquisite gallery, adorned by the best and most illustrious mas- 
 ters in all the arts, not one purchaser presents himself, not one 
 man who will accept this glory, for which the artists would so 
 warmly thank him ! But perhaps they ask a high price for the 
 hotel Lambert ? This noble house, built and filled with these 
 beautiful works, would be sold, for what is barely the price of a 
 few metres of land, on the Place de la Bourse, or near the gal- 
 leries of the Palais Royal. 
 
 There were also splendid paintings in the hotel Breton- 
 villiers, which is falling into ruins just like the hotel Lambert. 
 All these noble houses, once inhabited by so many honorable 
 magistrates, now shelter, although in very small numbers, some
 
 ANTIQUARIANS. 7,3 
 
 of the poor creatures, who are too poor to pass their lives in the 
 dark, unwholesome streets, in the narrow, dirty houses, in the 
 noisy crossways, in all the joys of the Parisian. A melancholy 
 abode this island of Saint Louis, with so goodly a prospect, so 
 well placed on the borders of the river, so well surrounded by 
 water and verdure ! But silence, repose, sleep, are joys which 
 appear so many torments, to our gentlemen the inhabitants of 
 Paris ! 
 
 It must also be acknowledged, that, for the most part, the 
 eager Parisian antiquarians whom you meet at the sale of na- 
 tional antiquities, the amateurs who tear from each other, by 
 the power of gold, these fragments and rags, are, in fact, urged 
 onwards, not by science, not by a veneration for past times, not 
 by a platonic love for historical things, but simply by the 
 fashion, by vanity, by the pitiful desire to ornament in an 
 original way, their bed-rooms, their parlors, their little bou- 
 doirs, which are a thousand times unworthy of such precious 
 relics. Tell them of a curious morceau which will stand upon 
 a chimney-piece or a bracket, the antiquarians of the Chaussee 
 d'Antin are all excitement; they will go and pay dearly enough 
 for this middle-age so easily transported. Tell them, of a 
 really beautiful thing to save, at twenty leagues' distance from 
 the Rue du Mont Blanc, or even on the other side of the 
 Seine, you speak to the deaf, you question the dumb, you 
 address yourself to the blind ! True antiquarians are very rare 
 in this city of gewgaws, of vanities and caprices, the city with- 
 out recollection, without veneration, without respect ! She has 
 no forefathers, she will have no grandsons. She has made of 
 past times a diversion, a declamation : she will be the play- 
 thing, or more properly speaking, she will be the first oblivion 
 of the future. Those antiquarians, who yet remained to 
 Paris, the enthusiastic friends of the great French artists 
 whose names they taught to their century, Jean Goujon, 
 Jean Cousin, Germain Pilon, Philibert Delorme, Jean Bullant,
 
 74 M. LENOIR. 
 
 Paris lost in the same year ; M. du Sommerard, the master 
 of the hotel Cluny ; and especially M. Lenoir. Two men of 
 very different destiny ! M. du Sommerard was the rich anti- 
 quarian, active and faithful, who obeys a passion, and has the 
 means of satisfying it, even to the end : M. Lenoir was the 
 poor, timorous, discontented, unhappy antiquarian, much to be 
 pitied, whose passion has twice failed him, and who at last died 
 alone, deprived of the most beautiful things, not purchased with 
 money, but which he had saved at the risk of his life. 
 
 The death of M. Alexandre Lenoir was a great misfortune, 
 for on that day, the arts lost, if not their most eminent, at least 
 their most courageous, defender. In those times of shameful 
 memory, at the fatal moment when the whole French society 
 was murdered upon the scaffold, the wretches who regretted 
 that France was not comprised in one single head, in order 
 that it might be cut off at a single blow, began to attack the 
 oldest monuments of this great and living history. They com- 
 menced a crusade against chefs d'oeuvre, axe in hand, cutting 
 down without remorse, the altar of God, the throne of the king, 
 the tomb of the dead ; and yet in the general stupor, riot one 
 voice was raised against the bloodthirsty profaners. It will be 
 told to the dishonor of the age, and to the shame of the 
 country ; statues were suffered to be mutilated, as if they were 
 only living heads ; museums were dispersed, as if nothing but 
 the relics of saints ; from the books of the royal library were 
 torn the covers stamped with the fleur de lis, too happy if they 
 escaped forming a large fire. Alone, in this multitude of 
 cowards, a poor man, who was nothing but an antiquarian, 
 followed the track of these sad profanations. Alas ! he could 
 prevent nothing; he could not preserve from destruction, a 
 single one of those chefs d'oeuvre which were so basely injured, 
 but he could groan aloud, but he could follow the spoilers 
 closely, and of this France in shreds, he could gather up some 
 remnants, with a pious respect. This is exactly what he did ;
 
 ROYAL TOMBS. 75 
 
 this man who showed himself to be more courageous than 
 even Madame Roland ; he disputed, piece by piece, morsel 
 by morsel, all these brutal spoliations ; he assembled in his 
 house, all these melancholy remnants of the great centuries, 
 the stones condemned to death, the massacred marbles, the 
 emblems, the paintings, the virgins, the kings and queens, the 
 ancient honor of history ; the constables, the admirals, the 
 chiefs of the magistracy; notched swords, broken sceptres, 
 torn ermines, a frightful assemblage of mutilations and out- 
 rages. Yes, he dared to pick up these relics, even before the 
 multitude, in the very presence of the executioners themselves. 
 It was he, he alone, who dared to defend, in full Sorbonne, the 
 tomb of Cardinal Richelieu. This tomb was the master-piece 
 of Girardon, the well-loved sculptor of Louis XIV. A blow 
 from a bayonet, stretched M. Lenoir at the foot of Richelieu's 
 tomb ; but, as he fell, he thanked his tormentors, for the beau- 
 tiful marble was saved. You cannot doubt, that, although the 
 only one amongst the honest people of France, he yet assisted, 
 at the insolent opening of that great royal ditch called the 
 abbey of Saint Denis. He was the witness of that dreadful re- 
 action of the populace against the kings, which commenced 
 with Dagobert, and finished with Louis XV. And you may 
 judge of his dismay, when all these royal races, withdrawn 
 from the funereal night, strewed with their remains the sepul- 
 chral flags. Well ! in these frightful circumstances of modern 
 history, M. Lenoir's courage did not fail him; he gathered up 
 the scattered bones, and as the crowd stopped respectfully 
 before a soldier, whose grey moustachio they thought they 
 recognised, M. Lenoir pronounced the name of Henry IV. ; at 
 that great name, all the red caps bowed. From the abbey of 
 Saint Denis, the ruffians went to all the churches in Paris, to 
 Notre Dame, to Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois, to Saint Eustache, 
 to Saint Germain des Pres, overthrowing and demolishing every 
 thing in their passage. But always, after these bands, arrived
 
 76 M. DU SOMMERARD. 
 
 the worthy antiquarian, collecting, saving, protecting these 
 spoils, and when he could save nothing, he returned home, his 
 hands empty, his heart swelling with grief; he had lost his day. 
 Poor man ! no one admired him for his devotedness, or his 
 courage; no one, not even the lawful monarch, thanked him for 
 the many wrecks he had saved; and yet the little that France 
 knew, of the facts and the monarchy of former days, it owed in 
 part to M. Lenoir. 
 
 The other antiquarian whom France lost, shortly after the 
 death of M. Lenoir, was M. du Sommerard. All those, through- 
 out intelligent Europe, who take an interest in ancient poetry, 
 in the manners, the habits, the furniture, the costumes of 
 former days, know the name of M. du Sommerard. He was 
 one of the first honorably to reinstate the thorough and 
 minute study of the history of France. Of the nameless shreds, 
 the worm-eaten remnants, the dust of ages collected at so great 
 a price, M. du Sommerard composed at once a poem and a 
 history ; a poem full of ingenious fictions, a history in positive 
 proofs. M. du Sommerard was avowedly the man of his fa- 
 vorite passion. Although now by a recent law, the French 
 Chamber of Deputies have adopted this noble museum, of 
 which they have made a national glory, M. du Sommerard had 
 never felt the ambition of forming a museum, but simply an 
 admirable collection of all kinds of forms, of relics, of tatters, 
 which he alpne could understand. Before becoming a museum, 
 his house was at first an immense accumulation of things, the 
 future value of which, he well knew. 
 
 History will doubtless tell you, and with much more anger 
 and indignation than we do, by what a succession of profana- 
 tions, all the past of France was thus injured and destroyed, in 
 the year 1793. With equal certainty, when arrived at this sad 
 chapter of murder and ravages, history will consult the notes 
 that M. du Sommerard has collected; the statues and bronzes 
 sold by auction, the populace assembling tumultuously around
 
 A FRENCH BISHOP. 77 
 
 the cathedrals, and with horrible delight making a bonfire of 
 the paintings and the images; the church of Sens deprived of 
 its statues ; Saint Etienne du Mont robbed of the bas reliefs of 
 Germain Pilon ; at Mayence, the Descent from the Cross by the 
 same artist broken in pieces ; at Gisors, the windows of the 
 church reduced to dust by blows from stones ; at Strasburg, the 
 statues of the cathedral falling by thousands ; every where, in 
 fact, wherever art and civilization had passed, at Meudon, at 
 Soissons, at Marfontaine, at Port Malo, at Saint L6, at Cou- 
 tances, at Port Briene, spoliation, and ravages, the most sense- 
 less and the most melancholy fury had left traces of their 
 passage. " The Vandals of the fifth century never destroyed 
 so many master-pieces," often repeated M. du Sommerard. 
 Now you can believe, that it was a great act of courage in these 
 frightful days, to dare only to pick up the smallest fragment, 
 which had escaped the rage of the Vandals, the Visigoths, and 
 the Ostragoths of the Reign of Terror. 
 
 Apropos of M. Lenoir and M. du Sommerard, I have heard 
 it said of a learned bishop, the honor of French episcopacy, 
 that one day he was walking with much alarm, in the garden of 
 Versailles. How the gardens were changed ! The beautiful 
 turf, which the greatest beauties of the court scarcely pressed 
 with their delicate feet, had been faded by the trampling of a 
 vile and furious populace; the solitary alleys where walked, 
 formerly, Bossuet and the great Conde, had beem devastated 
 and ruined by the hundred armed Briareus; in the basins, the 
 waters plashed sadly around Naiads whose urn was broken; 
 through that still half-opened window, the alarmed eye could 
 discern the violent mutilations of the canaille. In the garden 
 all was silent. The crowd had gone with the king and queen 
 of France, carried off in the same tornado. Our pious bishop, 
 then young, walked sadly through the desert, when amongst 
 the wrecks with which the ground was strewed, he discovered a 
 decapitated head Do not be alarmed, it was a marble
 
 78 A LUCKY ESCAPE. 
 
 head ; some beautiful countenance of a severe and chaste 
 antique statue, Minerva, Juno, Proserpine, or the mother of the 
 Gracchi, Cornelia. It was so beautiful, even thus, that our 
 young man could not resist the inclination to carry home with 
 him the noble sculpture. From the garden and the palace of 
 Versailles, to pass to a mansard in the Rue Saint Jacques, after 
 having been the guest of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., to inhabit 
 only the chamber of a proscribed priest, of one condemned 
 beforehand ! Such was the history of this beautiful marble ; 
 but at that time happy was he, who knew where to find a 
 hiding-place for the night, sure of becoming a wanderer 
 again on the morrow. 
 
 At last, after much hesitation, the young Levite took posses- 
 sion of the broken head, and concealing it under his cloak, he 
 carried it off, prouder and happier than the chevalier Desgrieux, 
 when the beautiful Manon conveyed him beyond the walls of 
 Saint Sulpice. Arrived at the gate of the garden, our young 
 antiquarian is stopped by a terrorist of the place. " What are 
 you carrying under your cloak, thief? And seeing the noble 
 head which had come from so great a distance, from Rome, or 
 perhaps from Greece, to be thus mutilated after an interval 
 of two thousand years, " Ah," cried the bandit, " here is the 
 queen's head, I must have yours in return." 
 
 And immediately, the trembling abbe is led to the district. 
 "I am ruined," says he to himself; "it will be found out that 
 I am a gentleman and a priest." He enters. The president 
 questions him. Fortunately for him the president conceals a 
 noble heart under his carmagnole, and a clear head under 
 his red cap. " What has this citizen done ? " he asks 
 the accuser. " He has stolen a statue," replies he. " A 
 statue ?" answers the president, " it is impossible. You could 
 not have been carrying a statue ! He has only taken a piece 
 of the tyrant's marble. Let him go, and give him back his 
 marble."
 
 THE HOTEL DE CLUNY. 79 
 
 But to return to M. du Sommerard. By means of care and 
 respectful research, was formed, in the mind of this excellent 
 man, a kind of history in examples, in models, in relics, to 
 which nothing could be compared. He had realized the whole 
 history of France, but of France studied in detail, in the cha- 
 pels, the manors, the palaces of her kings, in the cemeteries of 
 her churches, in the houses of her citizens. This people of 
 France whom the historian shows you in action, in battle, in 
 belief, M. du Sommerard saw, not fighting, not in the action 
 itself; but he knew, the hour before and after it, how the 
 soldier was dressed, and what mail the captain wore, and how 
 the scarf was woven, which the fair damsel waved from the top 
 of her tower, and by whom the tower had been built, and on 
 what instrument the favorite page played, and what sculptor 
 had embellished the high portal. Thus supported by such 
 incontestable examples, he reduced the whole history to a 
 thousand little details of the greatest amusement ; carpets, 
 ribands, garments, windows, halberds, laces, dresses for the 
 ladies, armour for the heroes, books for the learned ; he knew 
 the condition of the people under Charlemagne by their cabi- 
 nets ; he knew the position of the court in the time of Francis 
 I. by their dishes and plates. It was a strange and rare 
 history, of which he had suppressed all the noise, all the 
 movements, all the facts, all the clamor, and left nothing but 
 the external appearance. The hotel de Cluny, thus furnished by 
 three historical centuries, was strictly speaking, the palace of 
 the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. All slept, all passed, all 
 grew old. Our grandmothers would not dare to wear the dress 
 of the young woman lying there ; but suddenly, at the sound of 
 the horn, all this banished past returns to life, and with life, 
 comes grace, strength, youth ; the sleeping lady was but little 
 in the fashion just now, but once awoke, she is young, smiling, 
 and blooming, her beautiful large blue eyes express much 
 astonishment. . . . The sleep of a century is over all reappears
 
 80 CHAPEL OF THE HOTEL DE CLUNY. 
 
 at the first sound of the horn, in this palace of sleep, youth, 
 bloom, and beauty. 
 
 This awakening sound of the horn you have heard, in the 
 histories of M. de Barante, and M. Guizot, and M. Thierry ; 
 they also have restored life and motion to these inert forms, 
 they have thrown light into this profound darkness ; but yet in 
 rendering justice to the historian who animates and forms, let 
 us not forget the patient, skilful, devoted men, who preserve 
 palaces, and castles, and sceptres, and swords, and old furni- 
 ture; all the necessary decoration, all the material of history. 
 
 The hotel de Cluny, thanks to M. du Sommerard, is so well 
 known, that it is useless to repeat a description so often given. 
 The learned and benevolent antiquarian did not wish to keep 
 all his riches to himself; on the contrary, he did the honors of 
 his house very willingly. There was one day in each week, 
 when all the lovers of historical relics were welcome in the old 
 mansion. You first entered the chapel, (1490) which was in 
 excellent preservation ; and there suddenly, among the cano- 
 pies, the wreaths, the grapes, the vine branches, the emblazoned 
 arms of Charles VIII. and Louis XII., you will find yourself in 
 full middle age. Here the altarpiece of the abbey of Everborn, 
 ornamented with the finest Flemish figures; farther off the 
 beautiful portable crosses, the ostensorium, in gilt copper (1304) 
 the cross of red ivory, the chorister's stick, and farther still, the 
 embroidered apparatus of copes, and chasubles, and stoles, and 
 tunics, and the colors of Limoges, and the Grecian encaustic 
 paintings ; the reading desk, and upon it, beautiful manuscripts, 
 one of which bears the arms of Henry III.; the illusion is 
 such, that you inhale the old incense of the oratory, a vanished 
 incense, an obedient and faithful incense, which has returned 
 in the train of all this religious art. 
 
 From the chapel you pass into the chamber of Francis I., or 
 rather of queen Blanche, and here you have before you, an 
 entire collection of all the magnificence, royal or popular, of
 
 CHAMBER OF FRANCIS I. 81 
 
 past ages. The door of this chamber of Francis I. had been 
 the door of the chateau d'Anet ; a discreet door, with a sill 
 of ivory and gold, which remembers Diana of Poictiers and 
 Henry II. The chess board had belonged to Saint Louis. A 
 city of France had offered this rare treasure to Louis XVIII. ; 
 Louis XVIII., who cared for nothing but his throne and his 
 repose, gave the chess board of the pious king to a man in his 
 household, and this man sold it to M. du Sommerard. Vanity 
 of associations and of respect ! 
 
 The bed in this room of Francis I. was in fact that of the 
 knight king. The frieze pannel was painted by Primaticcio, 
 the Christ is by Albert Durer; here are the stirrups and the 
 spurs of the king of France; here is the complete armour, 
 the buckler, the helmet, the armed vizor, the Spanish dagger, 
 the good lance of Toledo, as modern drama has since called 
 it, the haulmes, the morions, the head-pieces, the partisans, 
 the lances, the arquebuses, the gauntlets, the knee-caps, all 
 the apparatus of the soldier and the knight. 
 
 But now comes in its turn, the paraphernalia of the coquette; 
 the mirrors, the worked toilette covers, the wooden distaff and 
 its spindles; the medallion of Francis I., the purses, until at last, 
 in the great saloon, you find the entire collection of ebonies, 
 images, crystals, little figures, Italian, Flemish, and French 
 ivory, mosaics in hard stone, birds, landscapes, cornelians, 
 inlaid work, shells, miniatures, cabinets, china, bas reliefs, jugs, 
 coffers that are named in Brantome, plate, low cupboards, all 
 the apparatus of good living, vases as brilliant as gold, cups, 
 basins, glasses, the massive Flemish side-board, every thing 
 clever or ingenious that has ever been produced by the manu- 
 facturers of Faenza, of Montpellier, of Limoges, of Flanders, 
 and of France, in a word, the finest works of Bernard Palissy, 
 and his pupils. How joyous these banquets must have been ! 
 what bon mots ! what merry jokes ! what Gallic wit ! 
 
 Such was the admirable collection to which the stranger knew 
 
 G
 
 82 DEATH OF M. DU SOMMERARD. 
 
 the way, and of which the Parisian was proud, as he is proud 
 of his Louvre and his Jardin-des-Plantes. By his hospitable 
 benevolence, M. du Sommerard still more increased the interest 
 of his Museum. He did its honors with exquisite politeness, 
 explaining every thing after the fashion of a very learned man, 
 who has not lost his right of imagination and of invention. 
 But M. du Sommerard is dead; he died at Meudon, speaking 
 of the passion which had occupied his life : but he died, not 
 like an antiquarian, in the darkness of the hotel de Cluny, with- 
 in the ancient walls, under the worm-eaten canopies, beneath 
 beams as old as the house of Valois ; no, he had better objects 
 for his last view, trees laden with fruit, leaves still green, limpid 
 water, and a clear sky. Thus vanished, beneath a brilliant ray 
 of the sun, all the clouds, all the mysteries, all the dust which 
 had been the joy of this worthy man. And so, however a man 
 may like to live among antiquities, he prefers to die beneath 
 the trees and the sun. 
 
 But what are we doing ? and what fancy has seized us, 
 ever and anon, to sadden the happy pages of a splendid book, 
 with these recollections of deaths and funerals ? Come, let 
 us no longer talk of these miseries, let us throw off the funeral 
 crape, let us be calm, and happy ! Let us turn to the 
 alley of the Champs Elysees ; it is truly the Carrousel of the 
 spring fetes, and summer pleasures. For instance, the pro- 
 menade of Longchamps, where will you find a more 
 animated sight ? We are in the last days of the holy week. 
 Easter already throws its green palms in the forest, Passion 
 Wednesday is not far off, and yet, there is suddenly a strife, 
 as to which can show the richest ornaments, the newest 
 dresses, the most magnificent harness, the most modern car- 
 riages. This day a trial is made of elegance, of luxury, of the 
 toilette, of brilliancy; the promenade at once assumes a 
 grave and imposing appearance. People are no longer there 
 merely to exhibit themselves, but to be judged. At this moment,
 
 LONGCHAMPS. 83 
 
 every lady trembles for her empire, every cavalier for his horse. 
 She would fain be so beautiful ! He would fain appear so well 
 mounted ! Both the one and the other, in order that they may 
 be better seen, go slowly ; they cross the crowd which looks at 
 them; and amongst that crowd, stand most attentively, for 
 they play an important part in this affair, the milliner who has 
 decorated the bonnets, the seamstress who has trimmed the 
 stuffs, the coachmaker who has fitted up the carriages, the 
 dealer who has sold the horses on credit. They see themselves 
 pass in all their glory, they applaud themselves, they admire 
 their own work. For them, this day will decide the success of 
 the next season; it is a question of popularity or death. In 
 fact, to succeed, here is the whole history of the men, and 
 women, the poets and artists, the orators and soldiers, the 
 merchants and coquettes of the city of Paris ! 
 
 G 2
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PARIS A COQUETTE. 
 
 THE good city of Paris has in every age, contained some of 
 those original dreamers, those singular minds, which often 
 seem to have the art of attaining truth, by all kinds of inge- 
 nious and charming pleasantries. Such were the writers of 
 the satire Menippee, such was Rabelais, and such d'Aubigne, 
 the celebrated author of a book which the French do not suffi- 
 ciently esteem, the Baron de Phccneste ; such was Sainte Foy, 
 one of the most agreeable writers of his time, Duclos, the man 
 at once honest and cunning, as J. J. Rousseau said, and the 
 important author of the Caracteres de ce Siecle, Labruyere, and 
 Moliere, without forgetting the charming railler of such real 
 genius, to whom France owes the Persian letters, that living 
 history of Parisian manners. In all times, the city of Paris 
 has loved that people should speak to her, to herself, of herself; 
 all the writers who have occupied themselves with her manners 
 and history, have been certain of her kindness and indulgence. 
 In this particular, she resembles the coquettes, who love to 
 look at themselves in the glass. Thus, after having read the 
 great novelists, the excellent historians of the Parisian world,
 
 THE YEAR 2440. 85 
 
 I have turned my attention to less celebrated beholders, I have 
 put myself in the track of the street observers, the moralists of 
 the cross way, the legendaries of the Pont Neuf. In Paris, 
 above all, the clever men who talk a little at random, the good 
 patriots, the discontented who ridicule every thing, are nu- 
 merous, and may be found in every place, in the cafes, in the 
 gardens, in the Palais Royal, on the boulevards, wherever 
 people talk, and above all, wherever people listen. Well ! of 
 all these speakers and writers of the eloquent and unceremo- 
 nious race of Diogenes, he whom I prefer, is a man named 
 Mercier. This Mercier, among other very curious paradoxes, 
 which he has lavished, as the prodigal lavishes his gold, has 
 written a book called, The Year two thousand four hundred and 
 forty. I have read this book, and what proves better than any 
 thing we can say, the progress of the Parisian world, is, that 
 Mercier's dream, the fabulous tale, which certainly passed in 
 his own days, for a fool's imagination, is accomplished, not 
 as he barely hoped, in six hundred and seventy-two years, but 
 in less than sixty years at most. What a city, in which if 
 Epimeridus were to sleep twenty years, he would not recognise 
 on waking, the place in which he composed himself to rest ! 
 
 Mercier supposes then, that he goes to sleep in 1768, and 
 that he wakes in the midst of Paris, after having slept six 
 hundred and seventy-two years. You can imagine how com- 
 plete is the surprise of our sleeper; he can see with a glance of 
 the eye, all the streets which are such thoroughfares, all the 
 elegant, well lighted and well aired houses. Almost before he 
 is awake, his old dress annoys him, with its faded and absurd 
 embroidery ; he lays by his sword, his three cornered cap, and 
 takes a round hat, a frock coat, and a cane. He shakes the 
 powder from his hair, which re-assumes its natural color. His 
 neck is warmly wrapped in a good cravat ; his foot is enclosed 
 in handsome shoes or boots; he no longer resembles a marquis, 
 but to make amends for this, he looks like a man. Thus clad,
 
 86 MERCIER'S DREAMS. 
 
 he notices that the streets are neat and clean, that the car- 
 riages are driven carefully, and run over no one ; the streets 
 which bore bad names have received the names of the greatest 
 men in France ; the Pont-au-Change is relieved from the 
 abominable houses which encumbered it. He dreams also, 
 delightful dream ! that the Bastille is demolished, and that its 
 frightful stones are scattered, here and there throughout the 
 world. In the meantime, the garden of the Tuileries is open to 
 all pedestrians; the Hotel Dieu is cleansed; in the purified 
 house of the Bicetre there are no longer cells, in which mad- 
 men are confined like wild beasts; the powder magazine is 
 removed to a distance from the city. Every one throughout 
 France enjoys freedom of speech, and the liberty of writing as 
 he pleases ; a monument is raised to Corneille, to Moliere, to 
 La Fontaine. In the colleges, Latin, Greek, and history, are 
 rarely learned, but the greatest attention is paid to the French 
 language. Having reached the site of the Sorbonne, our man 
 asks himself where is the Sorbonne. There is no longer a 
 
 o 
 
 Sorbonne, that is to say, there are no longer theologians who 
 burn people, philosophers who condemn them. He dreamed 
 also, at that time, that the Ocean and the Mediterranean, that 
 England and Italy, that Prussia and Spain were at the gates 
 of Paris; the dream is accomplished, it is surpassed a hundred 
 times ; steam and railroads have given to Europe, the unity 
 which it previously wanted. Could Mercier now return to 
 the world, how would he start, alarmed and delighted, to find 
 his dreams exceeded by the reality ! 
 
 But night comes upon the city of the year 2440, and imme- 
 diately, thanks to a thousand brilliant fires, it is as light as day. 
 But the clearness which illuminates the streets every evening, 
 the blazing gas which circulates in the air, like water in the 
 stream, this is what Mercier never dared to imagine. He also 
 dreamed, and this is fulfilled, that the city was guarded by a 
 citizen militia, that the sons of the king were educated with
 
 VOLTAIRE OUT OF FASHION. 87 
 
 the children of the people, that the dead man was never 
 removed from his house, until after twenty-four hours of hope 
 and respect, that the cemeteries abandoned inhabited neigh- 
 borhoods, to take refuge upon the heights. Already, even at 
 that time, Mercier dreamed that in the works of Voltaire, the 
 all-powerful king, several useless volumes could be retrenched. 
 They do better than this in France, they no longer read any 
 but the creditable passages of his complete works, no longer 
 do they play Mahomet, nor Rome Sauvee, nor the American 
 Alzire; even the Henriade has scarcely left its name upon the 
 list of epic poems. He dreamed also, good man, (I speak of 
 Mercier) that the writers in the kingdom of wit, would at last 
 put an end to their calumnies and their abuse ; the prediction 
 will be accomplished, but much later, and when the time of 
 which he dreamed is forgotten. One idle day, our man of the 
 year two thousand four hundred and forty went to the French 
 Academy; it had preserved its name, but the number of acade- 
 micians was no longer limited. At that time, to obtain admit- 
 tance into its learned enclosure, it was not enough to be a 
 bishop, a duke and peer, or marshal of France. The proverb 
 which said, " No one can enter the Academy without an equi- 
 page," had been abolished. 
 
 The same changes had taken place in the exhibition of 
 painting sanguinary battles, and the atrocious crimes com- 
 mitted by the children of fable, were proscribed : the heathen 
 divinities remained concealed in their shame. Henry IV. 
 feeding the city which he besieges, Sully, Trajan, Marcus 
 Aurelius, such were the heroes of modern painting. Pictures 
 were no longer exposed, in the street, to every wind, but 
 were placed in the Louvre, in the midst of the vast galleries ; 
 even the Louvre itself was open to foreign artists. At last, 
 France, aroused from its unjust prejudices, acknowledged as 
 great masters, too long neglected, Poussin and Lesueur, 
 and all justice was rendered to them. Allegory was not for-
 
 88 ALLEGORY. 
 
 bidden, but it must be clear, distinct, and lively. Wretched 
 heretics, consumed on the pyre, illustrated the ages of igno- 
 rance and barbarism. The eighteenth century was represent- 
 ed by a beautiful woman, of threatening aspect; her bare 
 neck and arms were loaded with diamonds and pearls ; her 
 cheek was covered with paint, her smile was seductive and 
 deceitful ; two rose-colored ribands concealed the chains which 
 bound her hands ; her dress was magnificent, but the hem of 
 it was stained with mud. This woman had several pale, 
 wretched children; in vain did she try to hide them beneath 
 her purple cloak, the livid countenances of the poor little 
 things appeared through the holes of her mantle. They asked 
 food with cries and tears; the mother, with a sparing hand, 
 gave them black bread. The back ground of the painting 
 represented superb castles, marble palaces, vast forests peopled 
 by stags and deer; the horn resounded from afar; joy, feasting, 
 and abundance were seen in these rich dwellings ; but the 
 surrounding country was badly cultivated, the laborer, worn 
 out with fatigue, died of hunger upon his sheaves of corn; 
 taxes and salt duty devoured the substance of these unhappy 
 creatures. So much for painting. As for sculpture, it had 
 again become the grave serious art, of the palmy days of 
 Greece and Rome. The sculptor would have blushed, to chisel 
 heads without glory, or countenances without modesty ; he 
 reserved his work for great men, and noble actions. He knew 
 that marble is immortal, and must not be abused. Engraving 
 naturally obeyed the two arts which it is destined to render 
 popular; the revolution was the same in all the arts. 
 
 This man had yet another dream; he dreamed that the ladies 
 married without dowry. He dreamed also, and this explains 
 the without dowry, that all the young women were gentle, 
 modest, and patient, that their language was kind and free 
 from affectation, and that all their delight was to bring up 
 their children, and not to appear beautiful and well-dressed.
 
 DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN. 89 
 
 In desperate cases, he summoned divorce to the aid of married 
 people. What is very strange in all this, is, that even in 
 France, this dream of divorce has not been unfulfilled. Di- 
 vorce has visited the laws of these people, and it has left them 
 as it entered them, without making any great change in their 
 manners. 
 
 The chapter on commerce is no less singular than the chap- 
 ter on taxes. Taxes, says our dreamer, will only be paid by 
 willing men. As for commerce, Mercier has ideas upon this 
 subject, which the different custom-houses of Europe have not 
 adopted. He proscribes with one stroke of the pen, tea, coffee, 
 and tobacco, three great sources of revenue, three great causes 
 of pleasure. And here we launch into one of those disserta- 
 tions, which were so dear to the philosophers of last century. 
 The question was thus put, it was a grave one, although it 
 appears ridiculous to us now ; Can a gentleman be allowed 
 to engage in trade ? The Marquis de Lasay, one of the 
 malcontents of the year 1736, the author of several songs much 
 liked by the black and grey musketeers, maintained that 
 trade was the loss of all nobility ; but M. de Lasay was 
 answered by the example of the English nobility ; one of 
 their peers, Lord Oxford, had a brother who was a manufac- 
 turer at Aleppo ; the minister of state, Lord Townshend, was 
 one of the city merchants. It was a great subject of debate ; 
 people stopped at that definition of a gentleman which says, He 
 is a gentleman who can serve his country gratis. Yes, but at 
 least, the country or the king must employ all these servants, 
 even for nothing ; otherwise, what will become of them in 
 idleness ? who will give them the food and clothing of each 
 day ? Leave the nobles in their castles, and they will be 
 besieged there by famine ; and besides, why wish to condemn a 
 whole race to misery ? why forbid them this privilege ? You 
 will make officers of them, say you, but in time of peace, 
 France is contented with seven hundred and twenty thousand
 
 90 POOR NOBILITY. 
 
 soldiers, under the conduct of fifteen thousand officers. Louis 
 XIV. himself, when he made war on the whole of Europe, 
 commanded five hundred thousand men, guided at most by 
 thirty thousand officers. What is this, for so many people? 
 fifteen thousand places to give, in a kingdom of thirty thousand 
 square leagues, without counting Lorraine, and when each 
 square league reckons two noble houses, each house containing 
 six gentlemen, which makes three hundred and sixty thousand 
 officers, fo thirty thousand places at most ! 
 
 And if, to these, you add the nobility of the cities, you 
 will reach the number of five hundred and forty thousand indi- 
 viduals, who dare not confess their poverty, because they are 
 noble. But now, run through these seigneurial estates which 
 cannot support their lords, these farms, the harvest of which is 
 seized beforehand, these castles which crumble to dust, and of 
 which nothing remains but the escutcheon attached to their 
 fronts, and tell us what is to become of so many poor men, 
 crushed beneath their nobility ? Permit them, then, to make 
 their fortunes by trade. It is a useful profession, which returns 
 more than it costs, which needs all arms and all minds. Per- 
 mit these gentlemen to cultivate the land, to drain marshes, to 
 seek throughout the world, the elements of fortune, naviga- 
 tion, agriculture, marriage, kindred, labor, all, things which 
 are connected by a necessary bond ; let the nobility become 
 rich, and they will become great. Commerce has drained the 
 marshes of Holland ; nobility has ruined Poland. Let us take 
 pity on these unhappy gentlemen, who for want of a little 
 money, are deprived even of necessaries ; with difficulty do they 
 keep the portion which returns to them, of the corn and wine 
 which France produces. It is not for them, that Abbeville 
 weaves her cloths, Lyons her silks, Beauvais her tapestry ; it is 
 not for them, that Valenciennes produces her laces, that Paris 
 sends to every place, her glasses and her fashions ; for them, that 
 the colonies cultivate sugar, coffee, and cotton. Luxury is not
 
 THE SEA. 91 
 
 within their reach ; only too happy are they, when they have a 
 coat to cover them. Do not then, force them to confine 
 themselves within the barren limits of their devastated estates. 
 Land fails them in their own country, let them take possession 
 of the sea, that one of all inheritances of which monarchs claim 
 the greatest share, said Cardinal Richelieu, and yet it is the one, 
 over which every man has a right. The real titles of this 
 dominion are might, and not right. And indeed, what a fine 
 inheritance for those who have no other. With one hand, 
 France touches the Mediterranean, with the other, the Ocean. 
 Colbert had thrown a bridge across the sea, but under Louis 
 XV. this bridge crumbled in every direction. England is every 
 where with twenty thousand sail, and a hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand sailors employed in her traffic. But what are our gentlemen 
 about, in this universal eagerness ? They go to Versailles im- 
 ploring favors from the king ; to lawful gain they prefer royal 
 alms. Themistocles said in his time, He who is master of the 
 sea is master of all. Why banish from the sea, the most intelli- 
 gent men in France ? And finally, on which side is honor, 
 decency, importance, dignity, true nobility? on the side of the 
 gentlemen, who spend with equal uselessness their money and 
 their lives, or of the trader who makes his own fortune and 
 that of his neighbors ? 
 
 And besides, every gentleman is a merchant, who sells his 
 corn, his wine, and the wool from his flocks. In vain did 
 Scipio Africanus boast of having bought nothing, and sold 
 nothing ; he had undertaken a difficult problem, to remain at 
 the same time, inaccessible to poverty and fortune. 
 
 Such was the controversy with the gentlemen of the last 
 century; they had a great wish to become citizens, but dared 
 not frankly own their wish. They saw that the activity of 
 those who were not noble, encroached upon them on every 
 side ; they saw that idleness was their ruin and their misery ; but 
 yet, how could they escape from it, how contradict the opinions
 
 92 MERCIER'S FORESIGHT. 
 
 of past times, how acknowledge that they had so long been 
 the dupes of a false privilege ? These uncertainties were cruel, 
 they lasted a long time, too long, for at last the day of awaking 
 proved a terrible one ; they were surprised in their profound 
 idleness, as they were reading Crebillon's last romance, wear- 
 ing their last uniform, driving in their gilded carriages their 
 last mistresses, trying to appease their last creditors ; the 
 revolution took them, and precipitated them into the abyss 
 with a pitiless hand ; it broke the Venetian glasses, tore the 
 Gobelin tapestries, threw down the statues of Coustou, effaced 
 from the brilliant walls the works of Vanloo and of Cochin. 
 With one blow it destroyed every thing, first the throne, and 
 then the duchies, the peerdoms, the marquisates, the earldoms, 
 the baronies. Such a lady, who used to have her jewels reset 
 every year, found herself obliged, in the middle of winter, to 
 wash the linen of her former servant, now become her mistress ; 
 the coxcomb who could hardly carry his sword, became a 
 porter at the door of the hotel once his own : revenge for the 
 past was complete and terrible. It was against such misfor- 
 tunes as these, that our dreamer Mercier wished to guard. 
 He had foreseen all these miseries, he had studied all the 
 follies of the economists, and this was why he carried reform 
 every where ; into the courts, and the interiors of houses ; he 
 surrounded with, respect the father and the mother of the 
 family, he took from the rooms all the fragile toys, the porce- 
 lain, the varnish, the gilding; he required that the con- 
 versation should be grave and useful, that the youths should 
 resemble men and not children ; that the females should be 
 demure, reserved, modest, and busy. He prohibited cards, 
 the harpsichord, and the violin ; but he tolerated the flute, and 
 sweet, human voices. In the city of the year two thousand 
 four hundred and forty, people went to bed early, that they 
 might rise early ; it was as much a point of honor to be in 
 good health, as to be an honest man. A beautiful dream,
 
 VARIOUS IMPROVEMENTS. 93 
 
 as yet unfulfilled, while it appears the easiest of all to bring 
 about; but to make up for this, Mercier imagined improve- 
 ments which have been accomplished ; the telegraph, the 
 science of languages, the cultivating of waste lands, the 
 equality of men. He required also that the state should 
 contract no more debts; that the right of mortmain should 
 be suppressed in all the demesnes of France ; that inoculation 
 should be established ; here the reality has surpassed the 
 dream, vaccination has been introduced. Farther still, he 
 arranged, according to his own fancy, the Ottoman empire, 
 and the empire of Germany. He gave to France, Egypt 
 and Greece; to England, Portugal; and to Russia, Constan- 
 tinople. He imagined that the French wines became the 
 beverage of all the nations of Europe, but then they were the 
 pure, unadulterated juice of the grape. In this way he pro- 
 ceeds in his dreams; he will have no more pensions from 
 the state, each must gain his cwn livelihood, and be prudent 
 on his own account. He goes so far as to predict to France, 
 the future possession of Africa ; and, finally, he maintains, 
 that, one day, which in fact was not very distant, you would 
 be able to walk under the waters of the sea ; in a word, he 
 is a delightful and ingenious dreamer. I own, for my part, 
 that I have read very few books, which interested me as much, 
 as this history of the year two thousand four hundred and forty. 
 The author of this strange dream, so strangely accomplished, 
 dreamed again and this time the thing appeared impossible, 
 that, when he was dead, his corpse would not be thrown to the 
 worms. He said the day would come, when the bodies of those 
 we have loved, preserving their natural form, would be saved 
 from the last outrages of the tomb, and above all from the 
 insults of the embalmer. " No, no ;" said he, " the surgeon 
 will no longer be seen plunging his knife into the mortal 
 remains of so many great men, who have saved, enlightened, 
 and ennobled the French nation ! Better than that, France
 
 94 M. GANNAL. 
 
 will be able to contemplate them after death, such as they 
 were during life. Here the old father will say to his son 
 here is the great captain who gained that fierce battle, I was 
 describing to you yesterday ! Here is the poet who wrote 
 the beautiful verses you repeated to me the other day ! So 
 that, thanks to this preservation of the body, we shall really 
 have a more complete and more ornamented Pantheon than 
 the Roman Pantheon !" 
 
 Well ! even this dream of Mercier's is accomplished a 
 hundred fold. Among the inhabitants of Paris, perhaps 
 there is not one, ill or well, who suddenly, and without 
 understanding its meaning, has not received among his visiting 
 cards, a small piece of badly printed pasteboard, on which is 
 read this simple name, GannaL This funeral card appears 
 to you, among the pieces of white veil im which are loaded 
 with names that you love. Gannal! You rest your head 
 upon your two hands, and say to yourself, Gannal who? 
 Gannal what? J3ah! say you, the porter has made a mis- 
 take, it is a card for my neighbor. No, no; the porter of 
 your house is not mistaken, it is a card for yourself, it is a 
 warning of death, and that concerns yourself as much as 
 your neighbor; death threatens us all. Formerly the Egyp- 
 tians paraded the corpses of their fathers amidst their ban- 
 quets, in order to excite themselves to joy and pleasures. The 
 Parisians are no less philosophers than the great lords of 
 Egypt ; they preserve with care, and as if they feared to be 
 unable to find it again, when it was needed, the card of this 
 Gannal. 
 
 For he is the friend predicted so long beforehand by Mer- 
 cier; he knows immediately those who claim oak coffins, 
 sepulchral stones, and graves to themselves. He has found 
 an infallible means, of giving to all the deceased who apply 
 to him, the immortality of death, and that he may be remem- 
 bered in proper time and place, he sends you occasionally
 
 EMBALMING. 95 
 
 his funeral note, Gannal ! Gannal ! Gannal ! How far this 
 man has a right, to throw this thought of death amidst the 
 delights and pleasures of a whole city, cannot be explained 
 even by the liberty of the press ; but still he makes of each 
 day of the Parisian life, a sort of Ash Wednesday, and no 
 one escapes this unexpected peroration of all the joys of this 
 world. The man is pitiless; incognito, and -without crying 
 Beware ! he throws his ominous threat at the richest and 
 most powerful, at the youngest and most beautiful ; he does 
 not wish to die himself, until he has, in his own way, em- 
 balmed the whole present generation. He is not malicious, 
 and yet he prowls about your life, as the hyena prowls 
 about the cemetery. When he sees you, he says to himself, 
 What a beautiful corpse ! The other day his friend died ; 
 instead of stopping to weep for him, he began to embalm 
 him with marvellous care; and when he saw him quietly 
 laid in the coffin, a smile upon his lips, and the carnation 
 on his cheek, he leaped for joy, as if he had found his friend 
 again. The truth is, he has so much faith in his art, that with 
 him, to live, is to have in one's veins, a good dose of essence 
 of cinnamon, and therefore he did not spare it to his friend. 
 
 This man, who is a great chemist, has, in fact, found an 
 excellent method of giving to the human body an immense 
 durability; and as in this age, every thing must be done in 
 a hurry, and for very little money, the first difficulty of this 
 problem was, to work quickly and cheaply. Now it is im- 
 possible to use more dispatch, or at less cost; Gannal opens 
 the carotid artery, and through this artery, injects the whole 
 body of different essences. Thus the mummy is made, an 
 eternal, unattackable mummy, and which so resembles a living 
 body that it might be mistaken for one. Only, even in pre- 
 sence of the mummy, and in the depth of the tomb, you will 
 find the inequality of conditions. Gannal has essences for 
 all fortunes and for all corpses. The essence of cinnamon is
 
 96 PALACE OF THE QUAI D'ORSAY. 
 
 the dearest, your body will then be worth nearly a hundred 
 crowns. The essence of turpentine is the most common, three 
 or four louis will then conclude the thing. 
 
 What a misfortune for this poor Mercier ! that he could 
 take no part in all these changes which have surpassed his 
 hopes. He died, without having heard of the economical 
 cooking stove, the camp chair, steamboats or railroads; he 
 died, without having pressed with a triumphant foot the bitu- 
 men of Seyssel or of Polonceau, and the wood pavement; he 
 died, without having his last days enlightened by the brilliant 
 gas, or the bougie de I'Etoile, without having been able to read 
 the Memoires de la Contemporaine or the Memoires de Vidocq, 
 without having been present at a representation of the Tour 
 de Nesle or the Saltimbanques ; he died unhappy man ! before 
 M. Gannal could embalm him with spirits of turpentine; when 
 as yet M. Daguerre was far from discovering the daguerreo- 
 type; when the Ruolz process was unknown ; when they were 
 still seeking in this vast kingdom of France, the great art of 
 making coffee from chicory, sugar from beet-root, paper from 
 the beech tree, and tea from the leaves of roses ; he died O 
 sorrow ! even before the first stone was laid, of the palace on 
 the quai rfOrsay. 
 
 At length, after the Parisians had so long forgotten it, as 
 they forget all the monuments which they see commenced, the 
 palace of the quai d'Orsay, released from the ignoble pal- 
 lisading which has surrounded it for thirty years, displays to 
 the astonished beholders, its white walls, and its windows filled 
 with glass. Of this monument, which has so often changed its 
 destination, M. Thiers, who never questions any thing and 
 this is precisely why he is M. Thiers said to himself, one day 
 when he was minister of the Interior, that he would arrange 
 this palace for his own use ; and in fact he had already fitted 
 up the apartments of the minister, in the way which appeared 
 to him most suitable for such a functionary; paintings, statues,
 
 HOTEL OF A MINISTER. 97 
 
 has reliefs, gilded ceilings, nothing was wanted. Once in- 
 stalled in this magnificence, the young minister would soon 
 have proved, that the government of such a country as France, 
 would admirably suit the richest house in Paris. But after all, 
 in doing this, M. Thiers had thought more of future ministers 
 than of himself. But the time for long administrations is 
 passed for France, as is also passed the time, for ministers suffi- 
 ciently disinterested, to lay the first stone of a mansion destined 
 for the successors of their successors. On the contrary, all 
 these transitory, passing agents of a revolution, so long as they 
 feel their precarious position, will easily content themselves 
 with the large furnished houses in the Rue de Grenelle, where 
 they tread the old, well-worn carpets of the Emperor's ministers; 
 and will not even take the trouble to make any alterations in 
 them. It sometimes happens, that for the sake of not being 
 crushed beneath their ruins, they have these crumbling houses 
 repaired ; but if they do add saloons or staircases, they care- 
 fully preserve the old furniture ; there are the same arm chairs 
 formerly gilded, the same paintings representing the Greeks 
 and Romans of the time of M. David. They sleep in the same 
 beds and the same sheets, sad witnesses of many a sleepless 
 hour. Bad furniture, ill closed windows, smoky chimneys, 
 clocks which gain time too faithful emblems of ambition 
 impropriated servants, in these common antechambers, who 
 smile with pity, as they count upon their fingers, the number of 
 their masters, and think that the new minister is a hundred 
 times less certain of his post, than the usher who is at his 
 command. What shall I tell you? cellars badly supplied with 
 wine bought the day before, saloons without intimacy, a study 
 filled with chagrin and perplexing cares, a lobby inundated with 
 newspapers, and consequently filled with insults ; an old worm- 
 eaten carriage; broken backed, broken winded horses, who 
 know by heart the way to the Tuileries; a dirty, ill clad coach- 
 man ; nothing of home, nothing of family enjoyment, nothing
 
 98 ENJOYMENTS OF THE POOR. 
 
 which resembles every day comfort ; this is what is called the 
 hotel of a minister ! Let us continue our route, and take pity 
 on the sad inhabitants of these paltry lodgings, through which 
 have passed so many men of rare talent, and prudence poor 
 creatures, envied, insulted, calumniated in these ruined houses 
 which are open to every affront, and to all the winds of the 
 south and the north ! 
 
 But why do we speak of the winds of the north ? The 
 month of June is here in all its brilliancy. At the present 
 moment, no one remembers what winter is. The poor man 
 happy to live, warms himself in the sun ; he assembles around 
 him, all the ineffable joys of the poor, a beautiful sky, trees, 
 rich foliage, galloping horses, passing liveries, songs sung to 
 the music of the Barbary organ, songs the chorus of which 
 celebrates glory or love, the Emperor or Lisette; little po- 
 pular poems written expressly for the poor, in which the garret 
 is praised, where one is so comfortable at twenty years old. 
 The rich man, on the other hand, is not less happy than the 
 poor creature who watches him passing, with curiosity, but 
 without envy. The rich joyfully quits this city to which he will 
 so gladly return ; he bids farewell to the landscapes copied by 
 painters, that he may enjoy the real landscape of the good 
 Creator, the eternal landscape which returns each year with 
 the spring roses, always younger and more smiling. For the 
 sweet appearance of the hill covered with palace and shadow, 
 the vast forest filled with shade and mystery, for the enjoyment 
 of the morning which commences with cock crowing, for the 
 mid-day fSte which brings to the country all the brilliancy of 
 the sun, for the peaceful and smiling meditations of the even- 
 ing, when you may hear echoing from afar, mingling with the 
 silvery tinklings of the angelus, the song of the nightingale, 
 the lowing of the herds, the thousand heavenly sounds of the 
 plain and the mountain, nothing, no nothing, is equal to the 
 Parisian country ! And do not fail to notice, that the country
 
 THE TAPISSIERE. 99 
 
 is at the very gates of the city, that it is open and accessible 
 to all, to the poorest and the richest ; both are equally the 
 masters of the verdant plains. For the young Parisian girl, 
 equality commences before the thick turf, before the sweet- 
 brier laden with roses, before the rustic blue bell, which poises 
 its pretty head among the wheat. It is especially on Sundays 
 and holidays, that the Parisian yields himself to his love, what 
 do I say ? to his passion, for the country. He has worked all 
 the week, but then, with what joy does he greet the Sunday 
 sun !* All are sure to rise early; the young man makes himself 
 as handsome as possible, the girl assumes her prettiest look ; 
 the father and mother are a little less eager to start, and yet 
 they hasten; this day recalls to them their youth. They break- 
 fast in all haste, the ladies go to hear mass at their parish 
 church, and listen to it with the greatest fervor. Yes, but no 
 sooner have they quitted the church, than they meet again, 
 and together they ascend, by chance, you understand, that 
 chance which makes pleased hearts and happy marriages a 
 large vehicle called a tapissiere. This vehicle is a whole world ; 
 the father, the mother, the children, the young people, the 
 old dog and the puppy, find room upon these seats hung 
 by leather straps ; the whole is drawn by a trusty horse well 
 fed and well beaten, who, by carrying all these people, rests 
 from the hard work of the previous week. They set out 
 at a hand trot to arrive walking. What delight ! what en- 
 joyment ! They salute each other, express their good wishes, 
 
 * Some of our readers, who have never visited France, may fancy that this must 
 be a mistake; but the account given by our Author, is literally true. The day, which 
 was designed for one of holy rest, is devoted by the French to amusement and gaiety; 
 and those conscientious foreigners whose observance of Sunday at home is founded 
 upon principle, and who therefore believe that what is morally wrong in one country 
 is equally so in another, are deprived of the pleasure of seeing some few of those 
 objects which excite the greatest interest, such as the paintings in the Palais Royal, 
 the playing of the waters at Versailles, &c.; for with very rare exceptions, these are 
 exhibited only on Sunday. E. T. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 COUNTRY EXCURSIONS. 
 
 and recount the stones from the old newspapers, a little 
 slander sprinkling the joyous conversation. To each party 
 is sure to be invited a clever man, proverbial for his wit, one 
 of those good fellows who are always hungry, always ready 
 to laugh at every thing, and to amuse the amphytrion with 
 whom they dine. People listen to him, more than they love 
 him. They invite him, because usually he invites himself. 
 Forward then! to what place is the happy caravan going? 
 They know nothing about it, they are on the way, and will see 
 by and by. Thus they go, sometimes to the bois de Boulogne, 
 rather vexed by the fortifications which have cut down so 
 many old oaks ; sometimes to the bois de Vincennes, over- 
 looked by the threatening dungeon ; Vincennes, the state 
 prison which was even more dreadful than the Bastille ! .The 
 oak, under which sat Saint Louis, to administer justice to all, 
 that time-worn and respected oak, does not yet throw a shade 
 sufficiently thick, to cover all the lamentations and miseries 
 which have been shut up within these walls. There, was con- 
 fined the unvanquished Mirabeau, with his delirious frenzy, elo- 
 quence, passion, youth, violent love and what vengeance did 
 he afterwards take, for this abominable captivity ! Stoop, and 
 at the bottom of the fosse, you can still see the place where the 
 last Conde, the duke d'Enghien was murdered in the night, by 
 gunshots. No, the royal oak of Vincennes has not power to 
 blot out this foul stain ! Since that day, the Parisian goes 
 less frequently to the bois de Vincennes. Tell him of the valley 
 of Montmorency, green and tufted, beautiful shadows re- 
 sounding dales, the house inhabited by the author of Helo'ise, 
 the white horse painted by Gerard, the richest sign which 
 ever swung at the door of an inn; but at the time for lilacs and 
 fresh verdure ! for nothing in the world will the Parisian con- 
 sent to go any where, except to the bois de Romainville. Ro- 
 mainville is the watchword of Parisian joy ; it is the country of 
 garlands and rose-colored scarfs, of impenetrable thickets and
 
 THE DINNER. 101 
 
 gay dances ; at Romainville, the Parisian is at home ; there 
 he reigns, there he breathes, these are his lands mea regna 
 videns! You should see with what a joyous step they tread 
 the brilliant moss. They look, they contemplate, they admire! 
 They can hardly distinguish the poplar from the oak, barley 
 from wheat, an apple tree from a pear tree ; but it is just on 
 account of this happy ignorance of all which forms the country, 
 that the Parisian so much enjoys it. Then, at a certain hour, 
 when there is a little shade around the tree, suddenly a whole 
 banquet is drawn from the immense carriage. O happiness ! 
 all that culinary art can prepare, in a citizen's household, is 
 found in this vehicle of abundance ; pies, cold fowls, hams, 
 salad, biscuits, a nice light wine of Macon's, the pelure cfoignon, 
 cherries, nosegays for the ladies, and even hay and oats for the 
 horse. No thing and no person is forgotten. Off with the 
 scarfs ! let us hang on the branches of the hospitable ash tree 
 our new hats! Are you hungry? are you thirsty? Well, spread 
 out the dainties ! The table is ready found, at the foot of 
 the tree ; this verdant carpet will serve us for a cloth ; the 
 singing birds will provide the music of the repast ; they will be 
 paid by the crumbs ! In a moment, every thing is ready ; they 
 take their places, the same places as in the carriage, and, 
 strange to say ! the guests are as eager as the travellers. In 
 less than an hour or two of devouring appetite, two hours of 
 mirth and wild delight, all this food has disappeared, all these 
 bottles are empty, nothing remains but the joy of the repast. 
 Then the gaiety commences anew, the entrain is the same, 
 but more lively; the bon mots of the professed joker are no 
 longer needed, each makes his own bon mots. And if by 
 chance, or by good luck, a fine storm arises, the fete is only 
 the more complete for it ! " Look out for the scarfs and the 
 hats !" The hats are concealed at the bottom of the carriage, 
 the scarfs are put into some prudent hiding-place, and now our 
 young girls return with bare heads, very wet and very happy.
 
 102 SAINT GERMAIN. 
 
 They have breathed air, health, and hope, for a week's work. 
 Thus for real enjoyment, the environs of Paris have nothing to 
 envy, in Paris itself. 
 
 If you knew all the delight of these happy spots ! how the 
 white houses sparkle and shine with new brilliancy, in the 
 month of June, beneath the flowering chesnut trees ! How 
 much art, how much taste, how much mind is shown, in the 
 arrangement of the little chateaux, which you would think 
 painted expressly, by some Flemish landscape painter ! How 
 much intelligence is employed, in laying out these parks of an 
 acre, in which nothing is wanted, neither fountains, nor statues, 
 nor turf, nor the rarest flowers, nor the orange trees which open 
 to the sun. Paris in summer is a fte by daylight. The most 
 delightful gardens filled with foliage, shelter the city with their 
 benevolent shadow. The trees on the boulevard give to this 
 long, living street, almost a country appearance. The Champs 
 Elysees resembles an inhabited wood; the water is clear, the 
 river sings as it glides to a distance; the horse is more lively; 
 the child more joyous; the Parisian lady appears to you 
 younger and better dressed than in the winter. You under- 
 stand that the crowd of beauties inhabit these fairy heights, 
 for the Parisian does not like to go far from his beloved city. 
 At all hours, the railroad, that new servant of every amiable 
 desire, carries here and there whole cargoes of poets, dreamers, 
 lovers, happy idlers, and transplants them, sometimes into the 
 midst of old Versailles, sometimes into the sweet villages which 
 border the Seine as far as Fontainebleau ; most frequently, for 
 it is a favorite resort, the delight of all travellers, it is the 
 forest of Saint Germain. Saint Germain ! the whole history 
 of that past which no longer exists. The vast forest stocked 
 with game, still remembers Henry IV. The old chateau, mo- 
 tionless and sad, filled with malefactors : oh, vanity of human 
 splendors ! was once the dwelling of the elegances and chaste 
 affections of Louis XIII. Almost before you arrive, the
 
 mmm
 
 THE COUNTRY BALL. 103 
 
 inviting shade salutes you ; the immense terrace receives you, 
 and from these salutary heights, you still see the Paris of 
 business and ambition, which struggles at your feet. These 
 are the moments for enthusiasm and poetry ! On all sides, 
 arrives with its sound of pleasure, the obedient steam; 
 upon the bank of the stream, you see pass, as quick as 
 lightning, the new comers from Normandy, from England, 
 from the Atlantic Ocean, that most pacific ocean in the 
 world ; while in the midst of the river, the steam-boat, ' 
 that surpassing wonder, before which the Parisians have bowed 
 for the last ten years, as before a miracle, slowly, and with 
 a disheartened course, ploughs the waters, which obey with 
 regret: indeed this now exceeded wonder of speed and space, is 
 almost regarded with pity and contempt. In these silent and 
 delightful contemplations, night appears, it softly glides beneath 
 the beautiful sky ; then commence other fetes ; the pavilion of 
 Henry IV. on the slope of the hill, is illuminated from top 
 to bottom, in honor of the hungry ones of the city; the 
 royal echo of the forest, concealed in its picturesque depths, 
 repeats the sound of the horn, and the barking of the pack 
 which the huntsman is exercising. Meantime, in all the neigh- 
 boring villages, preparations are made for the ball ; not the 
 winter ball, sparkling with the blaze of diamonds, laden with 
 rubies and pearls, the ball of enchanting melodies, bare 
 shoulders, and unequalled magnificence; but the country fete, 
 half lighted up by jealous rays ; the turf trod by a heavier step 
 than the floor ; the noisy orchestra which only resembles in its 
 entrain the dancing harmonies of Strauss or Musard. No, it is 
 not a similar fete, but there is the same enjoyment ; they are 
 not the same dancers, but there is the same delight. Look care- 
 fully at those pretty girls in white dresses, the duchesses of the 
 neighbouring hamlet, the countesses of the surrounding country, 
 the flying squadron of the beautiful days in the month of June; 
 and you will recognise even in this village elegance, the Parisian
 
 104 THE OLD MINSTREL. 
 
 of Paris ; it is herself; in vain does she try to conceal it, she is 
 betrayed by a certain grace and gentility, which no philosopher 
 can explain. You were speaking of revolutions just now; well! 
 what prevents your believing, that this fete takes place at the 
 distance of a hundred years ? Ask the happy dancers, who is 
 the present king ? they can scarcely tell you. The sovereign 
 majesty of these young men and lovely girls is the present 
 hour ! Ask the old ministrel, who makes his violin swear under 
 the bow, if he ever heard of Rossini or Meyerbeer ? He also, 
 the worthy performer in the open air, has learned nothing, and 
 forgotten nothing. The round which he is now playing, was 
 left him as an inheritance by his father, who received it from his 
 grandfather; it is a true chacone, which M. de Lulli composed 
 for the young king Louis XIV., and which Louis XIV. danced 
 so well. Even the words of this chacone are preserved ; I have 
 them from a gentleman, who is a delightful poet, of flowery 
 imagination ; a clever fellow, who would be rather awful if he 
 were not naturally full of urbanity and benevolence ; one of 
 those great lords, who spend their time in hearing and recalling 
 old vows, old attachments, old songs. You must take one 
 verse as a specimen : 
 
 " La jeune Iris aimait Cle"andre. 
 De tous les bergers du hameau, 
 Cleandre eut 6"t6 le plus beau, 
 Mais il n'etait pas le plus tendre. 
 
 Oh6 ! oh la ! 
 
 Void, voila 
 Comment I'amour vient et s'en va."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 CHANTILLY. 
 
 ON a beautiful day in the month of May, I was in one of the 
 most lovely spots on the earth ; so beautiful that the opera of 
 Ciceri has not finer decorations, more transparent and more lim- 
 pid waves, greener and fresher turf, I was on the vast pelouse 
 of Chantilly. At the end of that verdant plain, and below the 
 river which rolls slowly along, between those magnificent jets 
 d'eau of Bossuet and the great Conde, which are never silent 
 day or night, do you see that modest house, having almost the 
 appearance of a citizen's dwelling, and concealing itself beneath 
 the budding shadow of the poplars and the willows ? And on 
 this nearest bank, do you see that magnificent palace, the lofty 
 domes, the large open arcades, through which an entire army 
 might pass abreast ? The palace presides over the whole by its 
 imposing aspect ; at its feet dash the waves of the river, softly 
 murmuring its inarticulate complaint; at its feet springs the 
 down of the early grass. The palace crushes by its majesty 
 the humble house, which becomes small in its presence, and 
 which conceals to the best of its power, its gilded walls, its 
 ceilings painted by Watteau, its piers supported by Cupids, 
 all the elegant and coquettish luxury of the last century, which
 
 106 THE HOYAL STABLES, 
 
 it contains. And the smaller the house appears, the more 
 superb does the palace become; the more silent the house is, 
 the more does the palace sound, and resound with cries of pride. 
 
 Well ! this superb palace, this lofty dome, this imposing 
 mass which attracts all the sun and all the verdure, all the 
 noises of the plain, and all the trees of the forest, all the admi- 
 ration of men, and all the coloring of the artist, all the poetry of 
 the last century and all the associations of history, is nothing 
 but the stable of the small house which you see below, mo- 
 destly placed at the foot of these walls, which you would say 
 were constructed for the abode of giants. Since the time of 
 the great Conde, who built it in one of those moments of 
 magnificent leisure, which were natural to him, the royal stable 
 of Chantilly has, like all the great things of this world, sus- 
 tained the vicissitudes of fortune. And at the present day, if 
 motion is restored to this fresh turf, if noise has re-entered the 
 ancient forest, if the castle revives, astonished at these young 
 and joyous accents, if the horn again awakes the old echo, if 
 the stag is forced to take again the fatal start, if the dogs 
 return to the quarry, if this beautiful spot has once more seen 
 Parisian youth and Parisian beauty, the pride of elegance and 
 fashion, if all is life again, beneath these trees, you may thank 
 the stable for it, that masterpiece of magnificence and taste, 
 which the great Conde chose to raise, in honor of his old and 
 noble companions, the coursers of Rocroi and Fribourg. 
 
 But meantime, since the melancholy, inexplicable, and in all 
 the circumstances, cruelly unfortunate death of the last Conde, 
 what had become of the stables of his great predecessor? 
 They were silent, they were deserted, they regretted their 
 ancient glory, when the magnificent chateau, now demolished, 
 served as an asylum for so many kings and princes; when, in 
 the very stable itself, the kings of the north used to dine in 
 great state amongst the horses of the prince ; when the im- 
 mense folding doors opened daily, to allow the egress of this
 
 FETE AT CHANTILLY. 107 
 
 tempest on horseback, which repaired to the plain, to the 
 noise of trumpets, in pursuit of the stag. Happily there are 
 some ruins which seem to last for ever. If the chateau de 
 Conde has been demolished and sold piecemeal, the stables 
 have remained uninjured, to attest the magnificence of these 
 Bourbons, who by victory alone, have been brought near to 
 the throne of France. But what shall be done, henceforth, 
 with these devastated stables? how can you restore to them 
 the noise and movement which they have lost? There is no 
 longer a prince in France who can, or who dares fill, for his 
 own use merely, the stables of Chantilly; and yet so skilful 
 is the revolution of July, that it has found the means of filling 
 them ! 
 
 It has been imagined then, and the idea is ingenious, to 
 summon, not the hunt, but the race, to Chantilly. The stables 
 have been opened, not only to the horses of the young princes, 
 but to all the fine coursers of those, who are rich enough to 
 love beautiful horses, to love them with that generous passion 
 which knows neither fatigue nor sacrifice. They now therefore 
 arrive from all parts, at the first signal; they arrive, urged on by 
 glory, and so beautiful, and so young, and so full of life ! Let 
 them come then; open to them the folding doors of the stables 
 of Chantilly, prepare them for the race; pay them every honor ! 
 
 And in fact, on the day of which I speak, Chantilly had an 
 unusual appearance of fete. All rich Paris, the Paris of the 
 idle and the young, who know how to make even their leisure 
 and their follies useful, had repaired to the vast pelouse. The 
 forest was as animated as at its most brilliant fetes of Saint 
 Hubert ; the stables had re-assumed all their importance, and 
 summoned all their pride. It was the day of great prizes and 
 great acclamations, an hour of complete triumph for the horses, 
 for the young men, and for the ladies, three aristocracies which 
 agree admirably well. The arena was the turf of Chantilly, a 
 turf covered with Olympic glory, saving the dust. The tents
 
 108 THE RACE. 
 
 had been erected since the morning ; the road was traced, the 
 goal was marked out beforehand. In the stables, in their 
 magnificent stalls, the eager coursers, impatient for glory, 
 pawed the earth with their feet, and displayed the flashing 
 eye, the open nostril, the mane flowing to the wind. 
 
 Soon the trumpets begin ; it is time to arrive, for the arena 
 will open to the very moment. The hurry is great, the eager- 
 ness unanimous, the confusion complete. The brilliant calash 
 arrives post, laden with feathers, flowers, and sweet smiles. 
 The peasant comes at a hand trot on his little horse, carrying 
 his young daughter behind him, as curious and animated as if 
 she were going to a ball. Long wicker vehicles come walking, 
 bearing whole families, rich farmers, who from the height of 
 their cariole, see without envy, these beautiful ladies in their 
 silken calash. Here all vehicles rank alike, here all horses are 
 equal, the dragoon's horse and the laborer's ; but at last, every 
 one is in his place, we now only wait the heroes of the enter- 
 tainment, the princes of the day. Sound, ye trumpets ! and 
 you, herald, open the field ! 
 
 What a drama ! what efforts ! what assembled beauties of 
 different kinds ! what vigor ! How boldly the nimble coursers 
 throw themselves into the field; what power, what energy! You 
 see them, now you see them no longer ! They leap forwards, 
 you think it is the race ? No, it is mere play ! they run a 
 league to take breath. Thus they try the field, they recognise 
 the earth, they look at the men, they look at each other and 
 admire each other, and already think that the palm will be 
 difficult to gain. 
 
 At the given signal, they suddenly start. At first you would 
 think they were walking, next that they run, then that they fly. 
 The fascination is at its height, each one holds his breath, in 
 order to see them better ; so many hopes are placed upon these 
 noble heads ! What pleasure ! the course of Chantilly ! the 
 attentive crowd ! the ladies, who forgot to observe each other,
 
 THE GOLD CUP. 109 
 
 that they may look at a horse ! bets in which pride has yet 
 more interest than fortune ! This is the drama ! this is the 
 theatre j and for actors, you have the most beautiful, the most 
 artless, the most charming, the most modest, the most admir- 
 able creatures. 
 
 To tell you, victory by victory, the name of the rivals, to 
 tell you, word for word, the details of the race, would be im- 
 possible. And besides, how can I describe a defeat, which is 
 decided in a quarter of a second ? How can I take upon 
 myself, to put in the first or second place the eager competitors 
 of the race course ? Let us leave these little particulars to the 
 sporting gentlemen, and as for us, as the French fabulist says, 
 JVe f organs point notre talent. 
 
 Very soon, another race is announced, the race for the gold 
 cup. The cup is passed through the ranks, so that every one 
 can see it. This time, it is not a large piece of gold or silver, 
 without shape and without style ; it is an elegant work, artisti- 
 cally formed by one of those ingenious sculptors, which France 
 alone possesses at the present day, by Antonin Moine, or M. 
 Triquety, or M. Klagman, the beloved children of Cellini. The 
 cup, when gained, is carried off in great triumph by the owner 
 of the horse ; and the same evening, under the arched roof of 
 Chantilly, the winning horse, without being any the prouder 
 for it, eats his hay from the golden cup, by the side of his 
 vanquished rivals. 
 
 But there is yet another race, and the most difficult of all. 
 This time, it is the struggle of man to man and horse to horse, 
 between the owners of these fine steeds. On this occasion the 
 interest is increased, for the struggle which was between horses, 
 is to be between men. There is now at once a race and a 
 danger. There is a field to cross and a hedge to clear. You 
 must arrive and be the first to leap. 
 
 There is a costume adopted expressly for this race, in which 
 elegance and simplicity are happily combined. Long boots,
 
 110 AN UNEXPECTED BALL. 
 
 buckskin indispensables, a red silk shirt, a rich front, ele- 
 gant cuffs, a little velvet cap on the head, and within all 
 this, a handsome young man of twenty-five years of age. 
 Thus dressed, he mounts his horse, and you at once see that 
 he is its master. Our cavaliers start then at the first signal, 
 leaping the hedges, as if they would break their own necks, and 
 kill their horses. 
 
 Such is this race. It has been brilliant, animated, hardly 
 contested, and without accident. All have done their duty, 
 the horses and the men. The race being over, they separate. 
 The horses return to that noble stable, which assisted their 
 triumph ; as for the men, some have retaken the road to Paris ; 
 others have returned to the joys of their inn. However, one of 
 those gentlemen who are sent by Russia, here and there, to the 
 different courts of Europe as if to prove that she has no 
 lessons to receive from any one, in grace, elegance, or polite- 
 ness, seeing so many active young men, and so many idle 
 beauties, thought he would improvise a fete, to which every one 
 should be welcome, who was young and beautiful. . You were 
 not asked your name when you entered, they only wished to 
 know whether you were elegant and pretty. And here again I 
 saw, how far the urbanity of this good country of France could 
 extend ; at this sudden ball, there was no restraint, no state- 
 liness; the first Parisian ladies danced by the side of the 
 prettiest women, without name and without husbands, who are 
 protected by the somewhat profane shadow of Notre Dame de 
 Lorette ; at the same time, the more ease and good breeding the 
 ladies showed, the more reserve and decorum did the others ex- 
 hibit; and we did not quit Chantilly till the middle of the night. 
 The road, the village, the lawn, the forest, were encumbered 
 with horses, carriages, postilions, half tipsy coachmen, gay pe- 
 destrians, merry jockeys ; on the road you found a postmaster, 
 who offered you a bed, when you asked him for horses. There 
 was another, who gave you a fat kitchen-maid to drive you,
 
 TOILETTE OF PARIS. Ill 
 
 for want of a postboy ; there were a thousand jovial sounds, a 
 thousand drinking songs, a thousand follies, and all this lighted 
 by the moon, and accompanied by the last warblings of the 
 nightingale. 
 
 Such are the pleasures of this beautiful season which flies so 
 quickly. Nothing stops these infatuated men, when once they 
 have launched into their favorite passion. All that I could do 
 from time to time, was to follow them till I was out of breath, 
 knowing that I could rest a little later at the side of the road; 
 for I feel it, do what I will, all this noise, all this excite- 
 ment is not in my nature; I prefer a more patient study, a 
 calmer contemplation ; to go less quickly and see better, would 
 be my delight ; but how is it possible, when one is seized with 
 the Parisian fury ? 
 
 Very early, too early, I was returning to the city which 
 I had left the evening before. The city still slept, as if she 
 wished to recover herself after our fatigues. The country- 
 man quietly returned, having deposited upon the stones of 
 the market, the immense heap of provisions which Paris con- 
 sumes in a day. At this early hour of the morning, the city 
 is a melancholy sight, each house is mute, silent, slovenly ; the 
 streets, so clean in the day time, are obstructed with filth ; a 
 lamentable population, oh what misery ! wretched beings in 
 rags, broom in hand, perambulate this city of fetes; abomi- 
 nable tumbrels pass at a distance, with a noise like an engine 
 of war; in the half-open sewers, glide poor creatures, who 
 live, or rather who die a lingering death, in this infectious dark- 
 ness. Ah ! the toilette of this sumptuous city is lamentable. 
 Its price is the toil of the miserable, the life of men, the most 
 horrible of labors. 
 
 Since I was in a mood for contemplating miseries, I obeyed 
 my destiny. I went straight before me, by the light of this 
 gloomy Parisian aurora. I trod with a sad step, the hopeless 
 ruins of the archbishop's palace, one of the oldest monuments
 
 112 EFFECT OF REVOLUTIONS. 
 
 in the city. No one can tell, what has become of these beau- 
 tiful ruins of a chef d'ceuvre, which the people destroyed in one 
 day of fury ; they have disappeared like the straw which the 
 wind carries away. Revolutions are more destructive than 
 time; time effaces, revolutions overthrow; time changes, revo- 
 lutions destroy ; time leaves its print and its respect wherever 
 it passes, revolutions leave behind them only the stain of blood, 
 and the traces of flames. Revolutions make a clear space; 
 never does any thing they have torn up, blossom again ; time, 
 on the contrary, that beneficent divinity, conceals all its 
 ravages beneath the harvest and the flowers. Time is old age, 
 it is still life ; a revolution is death. 
 
 And remember the people of France are almost as proud of 
 their crimes, as of their good actions. Still more, in a moment 
 of senseless fury, they will ask nothing better than to overthrow 
 the monument, which they raised the day before to their own 
 glory ; but make them rebuild the memorial, which a hundred 
 years since, they crushed with their stupid feet, they will tell 
 you that you insult them. After the ruins which they have 
 made, what the French people respect most, is, the monuments 
 which they have not yet finished, the things which have not yet 
 lived. You will never see them, on days of tumult, attacking 
 edifices which are but just begun. No, but to make amends 
 for this, the older the edifice, the more furiously will it be 
 attacked. I imagine that it is because it has never been 
 finished, that the Louvre has never been mutilated, in all the 
 insurrections which have invaded it, at so many different times. 
 The man laden with years is crushed, the child who has yet to 
 grow, is spared. A great and fatal ruin, this Louvre, which 
 ought to be the glory of this vast city ; the Louvre, at which 
 have labored so many great kings and so many excellent 
 artists; the Louvre, which is the centre of Paris and of the 
 world, the spot of shelter and of authority for the fine arts, the 
 national wonder is, at this moment, more dilapidated than the
 
 THE UNFINISHED LOUVRE. 113 
 
 last hotel of the under-prefect in a city of fifteen hundred souls. 
 In this palace, which you would take at a distance, for the 
 palace of the princess who slept a hundred years, indigence 
 and luxury wage frightful battles night and day. The most 
 beautiful columns, the heads of which are crowned with the 
 ancient acanthus and ivy, have their bases covered with ignoble 
 plaster; the most magnificent stones are set in worm-eaten 
 wood. All around this royal ruin, even opposite the museum, 
 theft and every kind of vice shelter themselves beneath its 
 imposing shadow. An incredible, dreadful mixture of the most 
 opposite elements, the base and the sublime ; Perrault the 
 architect, and the wine seller at the corner, Catherine de 
 Medecis and Margot, the king and the rag picker, Jean Goujon 
 and Jean Jean shamefully placed together against these walls. 
 And when we remember, that even the emperor Napoleon, who 
 had so many armies at his service, and so many millions in the 
 cellars of the Tuileries, was not able to cleanse these Augean 
 stables, we begin to think that it must be impossible. But why 
 is it impossible ? The site is your's, the idea is drawn out, the 
 monument is two- thirds finished, you have all the French 
 artists at command. He who shall complete this immense chef 
 d'ceuvre will acquire a glory, not less great than that of him 
 who commenced it. For what are you waiting then ? But, 
 say they, when finished, how will you fill so vast a space ? As 
 if they had not the books of the Royal Library to lodge, the 
 exhibitions of industry, the modern productions of the fine arts, 
 all kinds of knowledge, all descriptions of master pieces, to 
 shelter ! But we travellers must not be so exacting. We will 
 not ask so much for the present hour ; we will leave to future 
 centuries, the care of completing these royal dwellings. We are 
 not ambitious, we would give all the share of joy and pleasure 
 which would accrue to us, from the finishing of the Louvre, for 
 four squares of turf and a fountain, in this court where the most 
 wretched herbs heave up the most hideous pavement.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE POSTMAN. 
 
 I WAS just entering the door, when I heard the postman 
 spelling out my name, with the most imperturbable coolness. 
 These Frenchmen have the habit of giving all names a French 
 termination. If you bore a Teutonic appellation of the time 
 of Frederick Barberousse, or an Anglo-Saxon nomenclature of 
 the time of William the Conqueror, the postman would make 
 of you, a regular inhabitant of the Chaussee d'Antin, or if you 
 prefer it, of the faubourg Saint Honore. For the rest, this 
 humble and very sprightly officer of the government is well 
 worth the trouble let us make acquaintance with him. 
 
 The postman is naturally, a kind, active, simple man, whose 
 life is regulated for him day by day, and hour by hour ; he is 
 only at liberty before six in the morning, and after six in the 
 evening; the rest of his life belongs to the administration 
 which covers his hat with oil-skin, which makes his coats, 
 which gives him his shoes, which draws him in a handsome 
 carriage with two horses, which supplies to him the place of 
 father and mother, which confides to him the most important 
 things in the world, the secrets of private persons ; the post-
 
 A WELCOME MESSENGER. 115 
 
 man is every one's man, he is loved by all, he is expected by 
 all ; he is hope in regimentals. He comes, he goes, he returns, 
 he goes away again, and upon the whole of his route, he finds 
 nothing but smiles. The messenger of death or love, of satis- 
 fied or disappointed ambition, he is always welcome; for his 
 presence, and that which he brings, whether joy or grief, puts 
 a period to the most cruel of all evils, suspense. The postman 
 is the watchful and always extended bond, which unites the 
 past to the present, and the present to the future; he is the 
 mysterious voice which speaks low to every ear, and makes 
 itself heard in every heart. Like Fortune, he is blind, and like 
 her, he distributes to each comer, the share of happiness or of 
 pain, which belongs to each ; he is expected, he is called ; all 
 doors are open to him, all hands are held out to him ; emotion 
 precedes, and emotion follows him ; when he appears on the 
 threshold of a house, an indefinable, restless expectation seems 
 to take possession of it ; the energetic accent of the postman's 
 knock stops every domestic occupation, each one listening, to 
 hear whose name will be pronounced, by this ambassador of the 
 present hour. Then he departs, to return after an interval of 
 two hours, for he is the man of all seasons, if in the morning, 
 he is the messenger of the provinces, of all Europe, a sort of 
 dreadful and dreaded plenipotentiary, he is only, for the rest of 
 the day, the deputy of the little passions, the little ambitions, 
 and the thousand coquetteries of Paris. The morning postman, 
 laden with the commissions of Europe and the correspondence 
 of the whole world, will perhaps decide life or war, ruin or for- 
 tune ; the mid-day postman has only to carry the thousand 
 little nothings of common life ; invitations to dinner or to balls, 
 lovers' appointments, rose-colored petitions, infamous, or perhaps 
 delightful, anonymous notes, little perfumed letters, with motto 
 seals, which allow all their contents to be seen through the 
 transparent envelope. Well ! the morning messenger, who is 
 also the evening one, is as simple, as kind, and as sweet, in the 
 
 i 2
 
 116 AN INVITATION. 
 
 evening as the morning. Nothing seems heavy to him, the 
 banker's letter, full of money is not more weighty to him, than 
 the young girl's, full of love. He understands every thing, and 
 says nothing. He knows all mysteries, without ever revealing 
 any. He reads by instinct all the letters, without ever opening 
 one. He is the man who knows all the intrigues, all the ambi- 
 tions, all the passions of life; he could tell, but he never will, 
 when these passions commence, and when they finish ; he does 
 not come to one door without knowing the reason ; he does not 
 return thence, without being able to say what he brings. He is 
 the man of question and the man of answer. He is at once 
 blame and praise, consolation and despair. Through all these 
 papers which are so carefully sealed, he hears the complaints 
 which they breathe ; from his leather case so closely shut, rises, 
 for him alone, an immense concert, of noises of a thousand 
 kinds, which accompany him in his course; an admirable con- 
 cert of all joys and all sorrows. 
 
 But do you know what invitation this letter contained for 
 me, who had but just returned from the Chantilly races ? I 
 was asked to be present immediately, to start at eleven 
 o'clock and arrive three hours later at the steeple chase of the 
 Croix de Berny. The letter was written in a very pressing and 
 thoroughly French style. I was praised if I went, I was ridi- 
 culed if I did not go. I was promised the society of the 
 beautiful ladies, whom I left last night, in the midst of the waltz 
 and the ball. Shall I suffer America, in my person, to be con- 
 quered by these fragile and lovely creatures, who are as flexible, 
 and yet as hard, as steel ? How can I refuse ? Thus there is 
 no rest, no delay, I must start again .... We will go then ! 
 and now behold us immediately on the road ; you would have 
 thought, had you seen us galloping by, that we were about to 
 save the monarchy .... We were simply going, after having 
 seen horses dispute the prize at the Chantilly races, to witness 
 a struggle between men, a struggle depending partly upon
 
 THE HIGH ROAD. 117 
 
 chance, and partly upon dexterity. And the more speed was 
 necessary, because this is a fancy recently imported into Paris . 
 and the French are as proud of having acquired this new emo- 
 tion, as if they had won a battle. You would have said, that 
 all Paris had made an appointment upon this high road, where 
 generally, almost the only passengers are couriers, ambassadors, 
 the mails, and the large herds of oxen which repair weekly to 
 the market at Sceaux. But now the road had a most unusual 
 appearance. The finest and most celebrated horses the city 
 can produce, the most elegant equestrians, and the youngest 
 and loveliest Parisian girls who ever turned their attention 
 to English steeds, the old amateurs who can no longer ride, 
 the very young men who have not yet begun to ride, the 
 noble duchesses of the Chaussee d'Antin, and the merry 
 marchionesses of the rue du Helder, the English, who are 
 the leaders of France in this kind of pleasures, the Jockey 
 Club which gives the signal for these fetes, the old, elegant, 
 broken winded horses from the riding-houses, jogging along 
 amongst the fine coursers of the faubourg Saint Honore, 
 all were at this rendezvous so full of interest and excitement : 
 without reckoning the splendid calashes, the mysterious coupes, 
 the imprudent tilburies, the stately berlins, the large chars-a- 
 banc, the gentlemen ushers, the grooms, the couriers, the pos- 
 tilions with their long reins, the four horses galopping; at 
 their greatest speed, the heavy diligences and the heavy carts, 
 and the harmless cuckoos, and the astonished hackney coaches, 
 which stopped at the sides of the road to see every thing; and 
 the beautiful ladies, whom we have not counted, half satin, 
 half velvet; half winter, half spring; and all the noise, and 
 the motion, and the clamor. Forward, then, since we must, 
 and let us march as quickly as possible. 
 
 Thus we arrive breathless, upon the spot, between two 
 ditches, between two flowing streams, between two meadows, 
 which are still wet, on the course of the Breuf Couronne,
 
 118 THE STEEPLE CHASE. 
 
 near the Croix de Berny. Each one takes the best posi- 
 tion he can find ; upon the road, at the side of the stream, 
 in the meadow, or in the garden of that pretty little 
 house at the right, a fruitful garden on such a day, for it 
 brings to its master, as much as an estate of two hundred 
 acres in Normandy. You would not know how to believe 
 the drama, which passes at this hour upon the high road. 
 The general excitement is intense, the betting is at its height, 
 those hazardous bets, eight to one ! All the horses which are 
 entered, are made the subject of conversation ; their ages, their 
 names, their exploits, their defeats, their paces, their genealogy, 
 all is told; just as they would discuss a new comer into the 
 diplomatic arena. In this agitated crowd, more than one 
 lady's heart secretly palpitates, so heavy is the stake now, 
 a stake in which the heart takes so deep an interest ! The 
 moment is well chosen for this headlong race, the sun is bril- 
 liant and yet moderate, the air is clear and transparent; you 
 will certainly be able to see the cavaliers from a distance. 
 This is the reason why so many await their arrival, why the 
 anxiety is so general. 
 
 After an hour of this delightful expectation, do you not at 
 last see in the distance, through the weeping willows, through 
 the white branches of the poplars in the meadow, do you not 
 see coming, a light red or blue mist ? . . . . 
 
 Yes, here they are, it is they, it is the racers of the day, all 
 gentlemen riders, they have already, in five minutes, shot over 
 a league and a half of slippery and difficult ground; twice they 
 have crossed the gracefully winding Bi^vre, they have leaped, 
 without hesitation, more than twenty barriers ; they run, will 
 you applaud ? . . . . 
 
 But their task is not finished; after all the barriers which 
 they have leaped, a far more difficult one remains. Did I say 
 a barrier ? it is a terrible ditch ! This ditch is at the end of 
 the race, upon the Bceuf Couronne road, and full of water; the
 
 ENTHUSIASM OF THE FRENCH. 119 
 
 ascent to it is perpendicular, then, when you have reached 
 the top of the acclivity, you must leap downwards across a 
 formidable ravine, so much the more dangerous, because it is 
 impossible for the horses to discover it. Thus all the interest 
 is centered in this last trial; upon that, is fixed every look, 
 every mind ; there is the peril, there is the glory, there is the 
 triumph. Would you not say that these eager minds, these 
 curious looks, the kind of alarm that all seem to feel, are 
 indications of some great catastrophe which is about to hap- 
 pen ? What an enthusiastic people, who throw into the most 
 trifling objects, all the energy, all the instincts, all the dramatic 
 vivacity of passion !
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE CIRCUS IN THE CHAMPS ELYSEES. 
 
 BUT if you admire perilous leaps, feats of strength, and all 
 the dangers of horsemanship, above all, if you enjoy, on a 
 mild summer's evening, an amusement without fatigue, go to 
 the Olympic Circus. It is the favorite resort of all those men 
 for whom the Opera has no more mysteries, of all the fashion- 
 able ladies, beautiful exiles from the Italian theatre, who 
 employ themselves in seeing horses leap, whilst awaiting the 
 return of Lablache, Rubini, Madame Persiani, and the other 
 nightingales with melodious throats. The Olympic Circus is 
 the most extensive and the most solid encampment in the 
 Champs Elysees. The architect wished simply to erect, not 
 a theatre, but a tent ; and yet on your entrance, you are at 
 once struck with its gigantic proportions. Painting, velvet, 
 lighted chandeliers, are all around you. Imagine, but where 
 am I to find comparisons ? imagine the ampitheatres of 
 Nismes, imitated upon a small scale, in gilt wood and painted 
 card-board, and transported there as a counterfeit of that 
 giants' circus, and you will have the Olympic Circus of the 
 Champs Elysees.
 
 THE GREEN ROOM. 121 
 
 Nothing has been forgotten, either within or without, that 
 could adorn this fragile structure. On the outside, M. 
 Pradier has placed the most charming has reliefs; in front, 
 a beautiful amazon breaks an unruly horse for mere amuse- 
 ment. Skilful artists, for it is one of the royal customs of 
 France, to summon painting and sculpture to its aid, on every 
 occasion, have covered the cupola and the walls with all kinds 
 of brilliant fancies ; you enter without ascending, and suddenly 
 present themselves to you, a great variety of staircases, corri- 
 dors, and passages, which lead to all parts of the edifice, in 
 the centre of which, an immense chandelier presides by its 
 brilliancy, over some thirty smaller ones. It appears to us, 
 that the area is rather small for so imposing an enclosure ; 
 but what signifies the area ? The real amusement is the vast 
 saloon, filled with men and women of all colors, in sparkling 
 confusion, assembled there by the only great artist who is 
 sure to fill a saloon, by the only actor who is always welcomed, 
 always adored by the public, always in voice, always in breath, 
 a low price. 
 
 Since it was necessary to see every thing, we went into the 
 green room of the actors. This green room is large, airy, well 
 inhabited ; you may enter, without the slightest notice being 
 taken of your presence ; not a salutation, not a smile, or a look 
 will you receive, even from the young leader ; these worthy 
 performers are wholly absorbed in their appointed parts ; when 
 their turn comes to appear upon the stage, they go there 
 naturally, without exclamation, without gesture, without even 
 looking at themselves in the glass ; their task accomplished, 
 they return to the green room, not in the least elated by the 
 applause lavished upon them by the crowd. They never paid 
 the most insignificant clapper, to enhance their merits to the 
 injury of their rivals. They never insulted or calumniated 
 each other, for a part which they thought particularly suited 
 themselves. Never did you see, in this model for green rooms,
 
 122 M. BAUCHER. 
 
 the coquette displaying her jewels, the tyrant in the act of 
 having his white hair painted black, the arguer tottering upon 
 his legs ; they are all sober, grave, and serious, they are con- 
 tented with their daily food for salary; they do not have 
 a single dispute with the wardrobe keeper, for a piece of 
 cloth or velvet; they obey the manager as a faithful servant 
 would obey his master. The excellent green room ! there you 
 can neither smell musk, nor patchouli, nor eau de Cologne, 
 nor dried rose leaves ; there you can neither see false tufts, 
 nor powder, nor rouge, nor ceruse, nor patches, nor false teeth, 
 nor false calves; there, all is real, old age and youth, beauty 
 and ugliness, strength and grace, intelligence and passion. 
 The excellent green room ! And yet people are so obstinate 
 as to call it a stable ! 
 
 What was it we were saying just now, about the steeple 
 chase ? Was there any necessity then, to go so far, in order to 
 meet all these difficulties and all these dangers ? Will not the 
 Olympic Circus satisfy all the equestrian feelings of the Pa- 
 risian ? Do they know any man who mounts a horse better 
 than Baucher, Baucher the conqueror of Neptune and of 
 Partisan ? 
 
 Never was there a greater assemblage of difficulties, a more 
 slippery area, more frightful paths, more perfidious leaps, even 
 at the ditch of the Bceuf Couronne, than at the Olympic Circus ! 
 If you go there, you will perhaps be fortunate enough to see 
 the reins of some young horsewoman break, before your eyes, 
 and without the price of seats being raised for it. Not a day 
 passes, in which the equilibrium of some of the riders does 
 not fail them ; sometimes it is the horse which goes too fast, 
 sometimes they go too fast for the horse ; what faithful em- 
 blems of the passions ! One girl broke her arm, and when 
 she was raised up, smiled upon the petrified crowd ; another 
 sprained her leg, and held herself erect upon the other one ; 
 the audience thought it was a part of her performance. There
 
 PARTISAN. 123 
 
 are some, who furious at seeing themselves dismounted before 
 the assembly, chase their trembling coursers, and then there 
 is the most incredible, re-action between the rider and the 
 horse ; the horse falls on his knees, and asks pardon with his 
 two hands joined ! The lady pardons him, and takes pity on 
 him .... It is a horse ! 
 
 I had the pleasure of seeing M. Baucher ride his beautiful 
 Partisan. This M. Baucher is a very clever horseman, who 
 has taught the most unruly steed ever brought from England, 
 to execute quadrilles and steps of which even Madame Ves- 
 tris would be very jealous. According to Baucher's system, 
 the horse has no longer will, intelligence, nor memory. He is 
 nothing but a machine, or if you prefer it, a power, obedient to 
 the slightest movements transmitted to him by the cavalier, 
 without the least resistance being possible. Thus Partisan 
 was mastered, at once. The very first day, thus mounted, the 
 terrible horse became immediately a quiet, docile animal. All 
 that is asked of him, he does, without trouble, and without 
 effort. He goes, he comes, he stops, he rears, he leaps, he flies, 
 he walks, he turns upon one leg, then upon the other, he 
 gallops with his hind legs, he beats time like M. Habeneck; 
 you have no idea of his ease, his grace, his elegance, his light- 
 ness. Is it a man ? is it a horse ? How is it ? No one knows. 
 The cavalier is as calm as the animal he rides. He is in the 
 saddle, and with all your attention, you cannot tell how, the 
 one bearing the other, they can execute all these feats of 
 strength, which yet are not feats of strength ! In fact, you 
 neither see the hands nor the legs of the cavalier move; you 
 would say, that the horse acts of himself, and because it is his 
 good pleasure. When Partisan stops, with his two fore feet 
 fixed upon the ground, whilst he makes plain marks with the 
 hind foot; or else when he stands upon his hind feet, and 
 moves his fore feet in correct time, the vulgar are tempted to 
 exclaim, It is a miracle! The miracle is, that there is no
 
 124 THE CHAMPS ELYSEES. 
 
 miracle, it is the most simple thing in the world ; this beautiful 
 effect is the result of equilibrium, and depends upon the weight 
 of the horseman being properly balanced, from the front to the 
 back, or from the back to the front. But what precision is 
 necessary, for instance, when the horse ought to move only the 
 two diagonal legs ! With what exactness must he burden or 
 relieve, such or such a part of the animal ! But then a horse 
 thus mounted is the beau ideal of the horse genus and the 
 cavalier genus. Until the present time, in point of horses rode 
 in public, you have seen only actors ; Partisan is a true horse ! 
 
 In the finest summer days, when you leave the Circus, if you 
 know any thing of Paris, you will take care not to return 
 immediately to your hotel. Yield yourself, on the contrary, 
 to that faithful guide, that devoted cicerone called chance. 
 Every one returns to the Champs Elysees, I know not what 
 powerful attraction for ever brings you back to it. They are 
 still embellishing it ; all kinds of pretty, little, smiling houses 
 rise in the midst of well-designed little gardens ; from all parts 
 you may hear the soft murmur of fountains. Singers in the 
 open air boldly attack Rossinian melodies. In the Alice des 
 Veuves, upon the very site of the house which belonged to 
 Madame Tallien, that beautiful and benevolent queen of a 
 dying republic, beneath those shadows which Bonaparte the 
 young Corsican pressed with a timid foot, in the suite of 
 Josephine Beauharnois, the charming Creole, the Parisian 
 has established a country ball; at this ball, there is dancing 
 every evening, and not one of the dancers suspects the events 
 which have taken place in these alleys, trod by so many de- 
 lightful or terrible feet. 
 
 Thus you pursue your continued quest after brilliant magni- 
 ficence, beneath the starry canopy of heaven. The Allee des 
 Veuves reconducts you to the calm, proud river. You throw 
 an astonished glance upon a light building, of the style of the 
 middle ages : it was brought from Fontainebleau stone by
 
 THE COMET. 125 
 
 stone, and placed there beneath the trees, which are astonished 
 at such exquisite elegance. A long succession of lighted lamps 
 brings you back to the Place Louis XV. In the distance ap- 
 pears to you as you proceed, the dome and the hotel of the 
 Invalids, and the Chamber of Deputies, and that long suite of 
 delightful houses which border the river, and the Institute 
 and again and always, the palace of the Tuileries, motionless, 
 full of shadow, calm, repose, and majesty ! 
 
 Beautiful hours of the starry nights ! Aurora borealis of the 
 Parisian sky ! One evening, I was thus walking and enjoying 
 the silence of night, when I suddenly perceived in the heavens, 
 which were unusually clear, I know not what strange appear- 
 ance, which resembled the brilliancy of an unexpected sun. 
 Never was the city more dazzling, never was the sky more 
 serene, never were these heights more grand and noble. It 
 was the triumphant comet of 1843, which, with its hand orna- 
 mented with stars, knocked at the door of the Observatory, 
 saying, Arago, thou deepest I
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE RETURN TO PARIS. 
 
 AMONGST other great pleasures to be found in Paris, in the 
 beautiful season, you must place the Exposition at the Louvre. 
 .... But how is this ? I perceive, at this late hour, that I 
 have not yet told you, how it happens, that after having taken 
 my final departure, after having said adieu to the winter fetes 
 which were scarcely finished, here I am again, more a Parisian 
 than ever, and traversing the whole city with a delighted step, 
 and an enthusiastic look, as happy and proud, as a legitimate 
 king who has just reconquered his capital. Nothing is more 
 simple, and be your acquaintance with the enchantments of 
 this beloved city ever so slight, you will understand, without 
 any longer explanation, both my departure and my return. 
 After an absence of some months, your native land recalls 
 you, your distant friends extend their arms to you, you re- 
 present to yourself your interest and your duty, and suddenly 
 start in the greatest haste. Yes, but no sooner have you taken 
 the few first steps, than you say to yourself, " Who knows 
 whether my friends expect me so soon ? How can my idleness 
 be of any service to my country ? This affair which appeared
 
 ATTRACTIONS. 127 
 
 so surrounded by difficulties, I find very simple, now that I 
 think of it. Besides, when I have once quitted the city of my 
 admiration and my study, who can tell when I shall return to 
 it?" Such was the argument I addressed to myself, when 
 standing upon the quay at Havre, whilst the returning packet- 
 boat rode upon the gently agitated wave. Meantime the sun 
 arose brilliantly, reflected to a great distance, by the calm, 
 serene sky of Normandy. If you will only lend an attentive 
 ear, you can, even when at Havre, hear the sonorous noises, 
 the imposing harmonies, the dreams of the great city; and 
 then my own American land is so far off ! Paris so near ! 
 Come, where is the risk ? Why should I go so quickly ? 
 Three months more; only three new months of observation, 
 of chatting, of long races after the streets, the monuments, the 
 changing manners ; three months, in which I may be permitted 
 to see the verdure, the flowers, the castles, the monuments, the 
 old ruins and the modern ruins, of the Parisian country ; time 
 to run through the enchanted woods of Marly, time to study 
 the seven or eight castles of all epochs, which have assembled 
 in the gardens of Fontainebleau ; time to admire the landscapes 
 of Chantilly and Conipiegne. It is decided, I return to 
 Paris; transport me to the park of Meudon, so filled with 
 interesting histories ; lead me to the palace of Versailles, 
 which encloses all the great century, within its wall of marble 
 
 and gold In pity, grant me a little respite, a few days 
 
 more ! Think that the smiling forest of Montmorency, with 
 its profane shadows, chattering groves, echo that repeats so 
 many imprudent words, fresh paths which J. J. Rousseau was 
 the first to trace with his poetic step ; think that all this 
 shade is about to disappear, that the whole forest has been 
 sold at auction, by the heirs of that vicious and heartless 
 problem, lately called Madame de Feucheres; a good name, 
 the glory of which, even this woman could not tarnish, so 
 plainly had her husband shown himself, to be the indignant,
 
 128 ROUEN. 
 
 generous father of the poor ; think of all this, and you, my 
 American friends and brothers, suffer two or three more packets 
 to go and return, and then I will leave; I will leave happy, I 
 will leave contented, I will leave with the disposition to admire 
 none but ourselves, the children of Washington and of Franklin. 
 So said I, and so did I. Here I am again, after having 
 stated at the close of my book,* that I was about to quit 
 Paris for New York. I return by the same route, which had 
 conducted me to the borders of the ocean. The wave of the 
 sea carries you to the mouth of the Seine ; a large boat called 
 La Normandie, deposits you upon the quays of the city of 
 Rouen, a great and important capital. You salute, from afar, 
 the monuments, the ruins, the beautiful prospects, of this pro- 
 vince, which is rich amongst the richest. Gothic cathedrals, 
 castles of the eleventh century, tombs of the Norman dukes, 
 fortresses through which have passed, by turns, the Williams 
 and the Richards, Philip Augustus and the Black Prince . . . 
 a whole poem ! Look attentively, and in these fertile plains, 
 beneath the springing verdure of the wheat which covers the 
 meadow, you will certainly recognize a field of battle. In 
 these vast spaces now so highly cultivated, formerly met 
 France and England, armed to the teeth ; they fought against 
 each other, during three hundred years, they fought with rage, 
 and blasphemy; and yet do you know what beautiful sight 
 awaited me, at the very gates of Rouen ? I can assure you it 
 was hardly to be believed. I had been through these same 
 paths not a week before, I had traversed in a carriage this 
 same picturesque route, each city of which bears an historical 
 name ; and now what means this concourse of a whole people ? 
 why are all these banners displayed ? why does the cannon 
 roar so loudly ? why are all the church bells ringing ? why this 
 
 * The American in Paris,' which you may, if you please, consider as the first 
 volume of your sketches.
 
 OPENING OF THE RAILWAY. 129 
 
 mingling of music and joyous sounds ? why do all the clergy, 
 with their venerable archbishop at their head, cross the city, 
 preceded by the holy standards ? what fete are they cele- 
 brating ? and who then is expected with so much impatience, 
 with all this delight arid pride ? What a happy circumstance ! 
 I reached Rouen, at the very moment when the railroad made 
 its triumphant entry, into the beautiful province. The city of 
 Rouen, decked with her finest ornaments, was expecting a 
 royal visit, which was paid her by the city of Paris, conducted 
 by two sons of the king, young men worthy of their rank, the 
 Duke de Nemours, destined, by the death of his brother the 
 Duke d'Orleans, to render to France such important services, 
 and his youngest brother the Duke de Montpensier, who is 
 scarcely escaped from his college studies, and who is so proud 
 to wear the uniform of the artillery. They arrived amidst the 
 universal joy, bringing with them, all who bear a great name, 
 in politics, in the sciences, in the literature, in the fine arts of 
 this century. With more than the rapidity of a race-horse, 
 these thirty-four leagues had been crossed, and now the prince 
 was received by a double crowd, at once English and French j 
 for, strange to say, this beautiful path through the richest 
 landscapes of France, is the joint work of the two people. 
 French workmen, English workmen, the money of both coun- 
 tries, the ingenuity of the two nations, English composure, 
 French impetuosity, the solidity of the former, the elegance 
 of the latter, all have been employed. In two years /.o a day, 
 they had accomplished this vast undertaking.; they had sur- 
 mounted obstacles which appeared insurmountable ; the glory 
 was common, the triumph was divided. On the French side, 
 they cried " Long live Locke, the English engineer !" On the 
 English side, they exclaimed " Hurra for Brunei the Norman ! 
 he is the greatest engineer in the world!" " You have given us 
 a road across the ocean," said the French. " We owe you the 
 tunnel under the Thames," said the others. On this day, both 
 
 K
 
 130 LIBERALITY OF FEELING. 
 
 parties ate at the same table, they drank from the same glass, 
 they fraternized with the close fraternity of effort and labor. A 
 whole ox was served up to them ; what a Homeric repast ! 
 And certainly, more patience and as much courage were ne- 
 cessary, to cut down all these hills and to fill up all these val- 
 leys, in so short a space of time, as to take the city of Troy in 
 ten years. Listen to what I saw on this memorable day : even 
 a whole population triumphant, serious, satisfied with their 
 work; I saw an old archbishop, formerly grand almoner of 
 France, in the time of his majesty king Charles X., one of 
 those vanquished men who seem more eminent in their defeat, 
 than they were in their prosperity, gravely invoke the blessing 
 of the Roman catholic church upon steam engines conducted 
 by protestants, and these protestants bow the head with re- 
 spect. What a contrast to that fatal day, on which the English 
 burned as a sorceress, in one of the squares of this city of 
 Rouen, the most virtuous and the most holy heroine of France, 
 the Maid of Orleans ! 
 
 Thanks to the hospitality of this memorable day, I reached 
 Paris more rapidly, than if I had put four post horses to my 
 carriage. On the road, I heard, that the very evening before, 
 the railroad from Paris to Orleans had been opened ; so that 
 the cathedral of Orleans, Notre Dame of Paris, and Saint 
 Ouen of Rouen those three wonders of Christian art and Chris- 
 tian belief are but at the distance of ten leagues from each 
 other, thanks to this double revolution of the two rail-roads. 
 
 Where was I ? I was telling you that among other 
 
 surprises, among other enjoyments of the beautiful season in 
 Paris, the Exposition at the Louvre was waiting for me. This 
 exhibition of modern painting is a yearly event ; it is the sub- 
 ject of conversation two months beforehand ; for two months, 
 it excites the most feverish impatience : you cannot hear your- 
 self speak for the noise. Who is to be seen this year ? what 
 paintings are as yet concealed in the studio ? what is M.
 
 THE EXPOSITION AT THE LOUVRE. 131 
 
 Ingres doing? what battle is M. Eugene Delacroix preparing? 
 Will M. Delaroche have finished his new drama ? Do you 
 know that M. Paul Flandrin has had two portraits refused? 
 You may hear in advance of the wonderful landscapes of Jules 
 Dupre, and the beautiful canvasses of Marilhat. Is not Morel 
 Fatio's sea piece an exquisite thing ? Look at those dealers in 
 ebony* how furious they are, how horrible to see ! You know, 
 and it is certainly true, that that skilful and clever sculptor, 
 Antonin Moine, has begun to draw in crayons, and that his 
 portraits are full of grace, elegance, and life? So much the 
 better for the painters, if Antonin Moine becomes a painter ; 
 so much the worse for the sculptors if he renounces sculpture. 
 I can tell you the name of Pradier's new statue, it will be 
 called Cassandre. And I saw yesterday (by risking one eye) 
 two of Eugene Giraud's paintings. The fresh, beautiful 
 young girls that he has drawn ! how well he knows how to 
 dress and adorn them, without appearing to take any trouble 
 about it ! They say wonders of Maxime David's miniatures, 
 such good likenesses, and so well painted. There is one thing 
 certain, and that is that Camille Roqueplan will not send any 
 thing to the Louvre; Tony Johannot is very busy preparing 
 beautiful prints for the book trade; Ary Scheffer, the solemn 
 painter of Faust and Margaret, will shine this time by his 
 absence ; even Decamps who excited so many emotions and so 
 much praise, will let no one enter his studio. What a strange 
 man he is ! The minister wished to give him the croix d'hon- 
 neur ; " I should much rather," said he, " have permission to 
 hunt." Have you not seen the beautiful sketch of Charles V. 
 picking up Titian's pencil? Depend upon it, this will be one 
 of Robert Fleury's best pieces. Leon Cogniet will alarm you 
 with his Le Tintoret at the death-bed of his beloved daughter. 
 For my part, since Redoute died, carrying with him the last 
 
 * This alludes to a painting which represents the capture of a slaver. E. T.
 
 132 THE OPENING OF THE LOUVRE. 
 
 flowers from his garden, I have seen nothing finer than the 
 Garland of M. Saint Jean. In point of historical paintings 
 destined for the Museum at Versailles, you will have, they say, 
 two copies of Achille de Harlay, one by M. Vinchon, the other 
 by M. Abel de Pujol. The other day, I waited upon General 
 Beaume; he was fencing, pencil in hand, in the plain of 
 Oporto; he led Marshal Soult to victory right valiantly. I 
 have heard that Mademoiselle Journet has taken pity on the 
 learned Lavoisier, and produced a painting in honor of this 
 clever chemist, who fell by the hands of the executioner. Such 
 conversations, and many similar ones, are held at the door of 
 the Louvre. At last however, the Louvre is opened; the crowd 
 of artists and of the boldest virtuosos enter in haste; each 
 looks first with an anxious eye for his own picture, and then 
 for that of his neighbor. It is to be hoped the Council of 
 painting have not turned out of the Louvre, the work which 
 has cost* its author so much trouble and so many sleepless 
 nights ! It is to be hoped these pitiless judges have not 
 banished from public view and admiration, that beautiful can- 
 vas, that exquisite statue ! They go, they come, they look, 
 they hasten, they push each other, they examine the catalogue. 
 And besides, will they be well placed upon the walls of the 
 Louvre? No, the place is bad. Too much sun! No sun at 
 all! A glaring light! Profound darkness! I should have 
 been so much better in the square saloon ! They have hoisted 
 me above a door ! And I have been put by the side of the 
 Flemish gallery ! Thus, when once the Louvre is open, the 
 outcries are renewed on every hand. We however, who are 
 only cool spectators, traverse with a somewhat solemn step, 
 this magnificent collection of all the fine arts. 
 
 The sun shines brilliantly in these galleries, which are 
 thronged with an immense crowd. Amongst the admirable 
 
 D C3 
 
 rapins, (an emphatic word to designate great, but unknown 
 artists,) you will see long beards, long hair, long teeth, long
 
 FIRST HOUR AT THE SALOON. 133 
 
 hands appearing beneath coats which are too short. There is a 
 brilliant, animated, above all sarcastic, conversation ; bon mots 
 fly in all directions, and will even strike the very centre of the 
 frightened, trembling canvas. Whoever you are, beware of 
 this first hour at the Saloon, it is pitiless ; sarcasm is in every 
 eye, upon every lip. Nothing is spared, neither name, nor sex, 
 nor age. But especially if the Institute should happen to send 
 here its rarest master pieces, the Institute, which is composed 
 of the members of the Council which opens or shuts the Louvre, 
 spends there an unhappy quarter of an hour, and it is the least 
 they can expect, if their cruelties are repaid by raillery. 
 Oh ! oh ! says one, here are Couderc's generals, they are all 
 blue. No, says another, they are white. A third maintains 
 that they are black. The fact is, that not one painting has, at 
 first, its natural color; they must become accustomed to the 
 daylight. Have you seen, says one, the beautiful painting of 
 Eugene Delacroix ? Have you seen, says another, the abomi- 
 nable painting of Eugene Delacroix ? How ugly the Trajan 
 is, exclaims the second. How beautiful the robes are ! answers 
 the first. Come to the left into the great gallery ; I will show 
 you Gudin's Bosphorus of Thrace. You mean the phosphorus 
 of Thrace! But we should never end, if we were to attempt to 
 tell you all this innocent spite. 
 
 But the first thing we seek, in this collection without confu- 
 sion, is the portraits which, every year, encumber the saloons 
 of the Louvre; so numerous are the great men and beautiful 
 women of France. Of all the works of painting, the most 
 important for the traveller who wishes to know the men of a 
 nation, and above all the most difficult for a painter who 
 understands his art, that which speaks most to the imagination 
 and the memory, is the portrait. From merely seeing these 
 great men of peace or war, it seems to you that you can 
 recognize them. You listen, as if you expected to hear them 
 speak. The more important were the historical epochs, the
 
 134 M. INGRES. 
 
 finer were the portraits of those times. The age of Leo X. 
 is justly proud of the likeness of Leo X. by Raphael ; 
 king Charles Stuart had, for his painter in ordinary, no less a 
 person than Vandyke. The terrible Henry VIII. sat to Hol- 
 bein ; Louis XIV. who had Lesueur, contented himself with 
 Mignard. As for the emperor Napoleon, of whom there does 
 not now remain one good portrait, worthy of such a model, 
 the emperor Napoleon, although he never suspected it, had at 
 his command an artist equal to the greatest portrait painters ; 
 M. Ingres. 
 
 While the empire was yet clothing itself with its embroidered 
 uniforms, and covering itself with its golden stars, there lived 
 at Rome, amidst the unrivalled splendors which he so much 
 admired, an unknown artist, M. Ingres. This man, who is 
 the greatest, or at least the gravest, artist of his time, seemed 
 to have a presentiment of the imperial fall, and of the approach- 
 ing end of that military monarchy, which furnished to the 
 painters of the empire nothing but epaulettes, swords, and 
 uniforms, for the heroes who wore them had but little time to 
 spend in the studios of the portrait makers ; and he therefore 
 devoted himself exclusively to the study of the great Italian 
 masters. By close and daily application, and by copying for 
 a trifling sum, every person who would sit to him, M. Ingres 
 learned to dispense with all the sparkling and military acces- 
 sories, which his majesty the emperor and king had brought 
 into fashion. So that when the Empire fell, and after the 
 Empire, the Restoration, carrying with them the little of 
 exterior decoration which remained in France; when M. 
 Gerard, after having entirely failed in one of the finest and 
 noblest heads of the day, that of M. Lamartine, had given 
 up painting men so badly dressed, when M. Gros, conquered 
 by the grotesque uniform of Clot Bey, had unjustly, foolishly, 
 and criminally, laid violent hands upon himself, then appeared 
 M. Ingres ; he came at the very moment when portrait painting
 
 HIS PORTRAIT OF M. BERTIN. 135 
 
 seemed impossible. " Ah," said he to the stupified Parisians, 
 " you do not know how to dispense with all this bad embroidery 
 of the Restoration and the Empire ! Ah ! to enable you to 
 make beautiful portraits, you require a military court and robed 
 senators ! Courage, my children, courage ! imitate me, learn 
 to do without all this tinsel." And in order to prove what he 
 advanced, M. Ingres went to seek, among the least decorated 
 and most excellent citizens of the day, a man who would never 
 accept place, nor dignity, nor any of those exterior signs, by 
 which so many ordinary men make themselves known in the 
 crowd of ordinary people. And in very deed, for the realiza- 
 tion of the project, or rather of the revolution of M. Ingres, 
 never was model better chosen. Picture to yourself a man 
 of ancient times, the handsomest and youngest of old men, 
 of an elevated stature, which age had not been able to bend, 
 with a broad, intelligent forehead, covered with white hair ; an 
 eye lofty, yet kind, quick, and yet certain ; a smile full of 
 mischief, wit, and benevolence ; in a word, the calm, thought- 
 ful head of a philosopher and a thinker. The figure, the 
 walk, the body, the hands, all corresponded with the head. 
 M. Ingres reproduced in all its perfection, the beauty of his 
 model, not without having studied it with rare complacency. 
 And when, at last, in the Saloon of 1834, appeared this chef 
 d'ceuvre, worthy of Titian himself and remember, I know the 
 magnitude of the great name I pronounce immediately the 
 crowd pressed around it astonished, asking " Who is it ?" He 
 was dressed like all the world, in a plain coat of black cloth ; 
 he was seated in an ill made arm-chair of mahogany, which is, 
 as you know, a proscribed wood ; he did not wear in his button 
 hole the least morsel of red ribbon, he reclined in the most 
 natural attitude, like an honest citizen, who on some fine 
 summer's day, dreams of the future improvements of his 
 country house j and yet such is the sure instinct of the 
 crowd when the truth is addressed to them no one thought of
 
 136 COUNT MOLE. 
 
 comparing this portrait with the portraits of all the citizens, 
 decorated or non-decorated, a dull crowd of common faces, 
 and bedizened coats, which surrounded this masterpiece of 
 M. Ingres. At the first glance thrown upon the living canvas, 
 the people had recognized the thinker, the philosopher, the wise 
 and prudent politician, the truly courageous citizen who had, 
 all his life, preferred the interest of the mass, to that idle 
 popularity which asks nothing better than to be their very 
 humble servant. The triumph of M. Ingres was complete; 
 and certainly this must have been a happy hour to him, 
 when he had, at last, realized the great ambition of his life ; 
 to execute the portrait of a Parisian citizen, and show himself 
 equal to the greatest masters of Spain and Italy. The portrait 
 of M. Bertin, by M. Ingres, therefore, effected an entire revo- 
 lution ; by this was demonstrated, and the demonstration has 
 remained without answer, that great painters did not need all 
 those exterior decorations of which the ancient masters were 
 
 so profuse We must, however, except Titian and 
 
 Raphael, who are always very frugal of ornaments. No 
 sooner had this victory been gained by the portrait of M. 
 Bertin, senior, that excellent man, whom his friends still 
 mourn, whom his disciples will never forget, than M. Ingres, 
 the illustrious painter, saw enter his studio, one of the men, 
 who, at that time, valued himself most upon his personal 
 dignity. He, no less than M. Bertin, senior, is a great and 
 skilful politician, only he has directed affairs, at the same 
 time by counsel and by action. In all the more than 
 American democracy, which threatens to invade the whole of 
 France, there yet remains one gentleman, who thoroughly 
 understands all the responsibilities of the great name which 
 his fathers have transmitted to him. Before such a man 
 could decide, then, to allow himself to be painted by an artist 
 like M. Ingres, he must certainly have found out, that M. 
 Ingres was the greatest painter of the aristocracy of that epoch.
 
 M. CHAMPMARTIN. 137 
 
 At first, M. Ingres hesitated ; but, such was the passion of 
 Count Mole to be immortalized by this master hand, that he 
 insisted with all his power; he yielded to all the exactions 
 of this austere and conscientious artist, who is never contented 
 with having done well, so long as it is possible that he can do 
 better. From this happy concurrence of two such wills, has 
 resulted a work, equal perhaps to the portrait of M. Bertin ; 
 if you have not in this, all the plebeian greatness of the first 
 model, there is, on the other hand, something perhaps more 
 delicate; you may distinguish in this carefully studied phy- 
 siognomy, all the elegant habits of a man of the old regime, 
 brought up under the eyes of the Emperor, and who never 
 forgets, when he speaks to a king, how men ought to approach 
 these majesties, perishable if you will, but still royal. If 
 you wish for an account of this portrait of M. Mole, you 
 must fancy, united upon the same canvas and in the same 
 head, the smile of M. de Chateaubriand and the look of 
 Meyerbeer. 
 
 Such is the skilful and learned artist who has been given 
 to France, that he may worthily represent her great men. It 
 must be owned, that models have failed M. Ingres, much more 
 than he has failed his models. And who then, at this day, 
 in this France of bright intellects by accident, of great 
 orators, has dared to dream of posterity for him and his 
 works? No, no, the people of France do not think of so 
 much glory ; one single painter suffices, and more than suffices, 
 to represent what is really French glory. For less celebrated 
 characters, they have others who are not so exacting 
 as M. Ingres : they have M. Champmartin, a skilful artist, 
 of rare mind, full of rapture and gaiety, to whom they are 
 indebted for the portraits of the Duke de Fitz-James and the 
 Duke de Crussol ; they have, to delineate their finest, youngest, 
 and prettiest women, two painters who can hardly accomplish 
 this important task ; M. Winterhalter, and especially the
 
 138 DUCHESS DE NEMOURS. 
 
 master of all these great fabricators of velvet and smiles, 
 of laces and elegance, of pearls and light hair, M. Dubufe. 
 
 But, let me tell you a little incident, which will enable you 
 to form some judgment of the stroke, and the fabulous rapidity 
 of this Winterhalter, the author of Decameron, that brilliant 
 sketch, which might be taken for a posthumous and exagger- 
 ated work of Sir Thomas Lawrence himself. When the 
 Duchess de Nemours had been presented to the court, to 
 France, and finally to Paris, there was, in the world of the fine 
 arts, a strange emulation, which, among all the painters, all the 
 sculptors, and all the engravers of medals, should take the 
 portrait of the new duchess. Independently of the rank which 
 she occupies with so much grace, simplicity, and modesty, 
 the princess is so young and so beautiful, her complexion 
 is so clear and lively, her beautiful light hair floats in the 
 breeze, so silky and so luxuriant, that not one of the por- 
 trait painters, who are among the most skilful, would have 
 refused the honor, of giving a faithful image of this young 
 woman, even without any other charms, than the spring charms 
 of youth and beauty. At last, one day, two artists were intro- 
 duced at the palace of Neuilly, to the duchess de Nemours, the 
 one to take her portrait, the other to prepare a medallion of 
 her. They arrive, they enter ; already the painter is at work, 
 and whilst the engraver, with an attentive eye, studies his royal 
 model, our artist throws upon the canvas this charming head ; 
 he proceeds like a man who improvises with wonderful readi- 
 ness. Meantime the engraver slowly arranges every thing ; he 
 traces with a light hand, upon the complaisant wax, the fea- 
 tures which must afterwards be reproduced ; he is grave, he is 
 slow, he is solemn. He had therefore, scarcely commenced 
 his medal, before the painter had entirely finished his picture. 
 " Madam," said he, " your Royal Highness is released from 
 me ; I have finished.'' " But it is impossible," cried Barre. 
 " Look then," replied Winterhalter. And in fact there was the
 
 M. DUBUFE. 139 
 
 faithful likeness of the duchess de Nemours ; it was her beauti- 
 ful color, her infantile grace, her small head, a head which 
 Greuse himself, in his brightest days of poetry and elegance, 
 would not have disowned. "That I may not trouble your 
 Royal Highness," said Winterhalter to the duchess de Ne- 
 mours, " I will take away the portrait; I will paint the dress 
 at home;" and he did as he said. And what is still more 
 incredible, is, that it is a work full of spirit, life, and talent. 
 
 As for the other artist whom we named, M. Dubufe, he is, 
 in his own style, a kind of M. Ingres, but M. Ingres impro- 
 vising, and ready for any thing. Like M. Ingres, M. Dubufe 
 has his way of seeing, studying, and imitating nature, which 
 he would not give up for any consideration. In the crowd of 
 the most beautiful beings in creation, in all which bears a 
 dress, an embroidered tucker, white hands, and a feminine 
 countenance, M. Dubufe sees only that which is polished, soft, 
 and brilliant ; he has at once suppressed every wrinkle, every 
 wart, the slightest blemish to the figure ; he has said to time, 
 " Thou shalt go no farther ; thou shalt not pass the twentieth 
 year !" and even time, which is said to be inflexible, has 
 obeyed M. Dubufe. Time has drawn back before his pencil 
 laden with roses, with satin, with laces, with carmine, with 
 freshness, with black hair. If perchance M. Dubufe con- 
 sents to paint light hair, it is by a refinement of coquetry. It 
 is necessary that the happy models whom he adopts, that he 
 may give them this immortality during life, should all, whether 
 they please or not, be endowed with the same advantages. He 
 treats them less like an impartial painter, than in the paternal 
 way of a good father, who wishes all his children to be equally 
 young, equally handsome, equally rich. No jealousy, no dis- 
 content ! M. Dubufe gives them all, the same beauty, the same 
 elegance, the same youth, the same tall, slight figure. During 
 the nearly fifteen years in which he has been the king of por- 
 trait painters, M. Dubufe has addressed himself almost en-
 
 140 THE LADIES. 
 
 tirely, to the most lovely half of the human race ; but then 
 how he has surrounded his charming models, with flattery and 
 attention ! What silk, what velvet, what rich laces he has 
 expended, that he might dress them well ! To hear him, you 
 would think they never had pearls enough on the head, or 
 diamonds on the neck, or flowers sufficiently fresh for the 
 corsage. "Pray tell me what that foot is? what is that fat 
 arm ? that emaciated shoulder ? I wish your arm to be 
 slender, your shoulder to be fresh and soft, your foot to be just 
 that size." ' And as he says, he acts ; so that suddenly plunged 
 into this fountain of youth, the ladies of M. Dubufe are but 
 twenty years old, their complexions resemble the lily and the 
 rose, their fingers are like their complexions ; and besides this, 
 they are always dressed in the newest fashion. As nothing is 
 wanted to set them off; as the painter is in the habit of placing 
 them in magnificent gilded arm chairs, as he presents them to 
 you, sometimes leaning upon beautiful marble columns, very 
 rare in these countries which are so little Italian; sometimes, in 
 the midst of gardens filled with flowers ; or at least in splendid 
 saloons adorned with wonders, those ladies, whose great ambi- 
 tion it is to be beautiful and well dressed, and to appear rich, 
 can refuse nothing to M. Dubufe. They have named him their 
 painter in ordinary, in reward for his gallantry ; they have 
 made his fortune and his glory. Imprudent coquettes ! And, 
 besides, what signifies the future to them ? what do they care 
 about to-morrow, so that they are lovely to-day ? It is in 
 vain for you to tell them, that likenesses pass so quickly, that 
 the velvet of a painting fades like all other velvet ; that in a 
 portrait the countenance alone is durable, that it alone is 
 eternal ; that these robes and ornaments, which seem to them 
 in such good taste, because they are the fashion to-day, will be 
 ridiculous in twenty years; they are not thinking of twenty 
 years hence ; the point in question is, that they wish to be 
 beautiful, now, immediately, at this moment; they wish to
 
 YOUTH OF M. GUIZOT. 141 
 
 smile tenderly upon themselves, and contemplate at their ease, 
 to the end, even till death, that beauty which is so dear to 
 them ; this is all their concern, they have been the admired of 
 an hour, and are therefore content ; unlike the great men of 
 M. Ingres, who wish to be great always. 
 
 Among other portraits worthy of attention, the portrait of 
 M. Guizot, which all America has asked from M. Paul Dela- 
 roche (a well merited honor), has deserved the sympathy of all. 
 The engraving which M. Calamatta has made of this portrait 
 of M. Guizot, is exceedingly good, and quite worthy of the 
 model. 
 
 It is the puritan appearance of that convinced writer, who 
 has passed through so many vicissitudes of fortune. Poor, 
 without name, urged onwards by the inward feeling which 
 promised him such great things, he had, at first, difficulty in 
 finding a newspaper, which would consent to print his finest 
 pages. M. Guizot had no youth; his father, who died upon the 
 revolutionary scaffold, had bequeathed to him, the everlasting 
 grief of his remaining parent. In his misery, the young man no 
 longer knew whence liberty was to come; liberty had killed 
 his father. But, this monarchy which traces back so far, must 
 it be abandoned to that abyss into which it is throwing itself 
 headlong ? It is known, that at this moment in the history of 
 France, more than one honest conscience felt itself troubled 
 and uneasy. This uneasiness, this trouble, was the presenti- 
 ment of future revolutions. That which decided M. Guizot in 
 his devotedness to the house of Bourbon, was the flight of 
 king Louis XVIII., forced to quit his throne in the middle of 
 the night, whilst Bonaparte advanced at the head of the 
 legions which he had assembled on his route. That which 
 alienated him from the Restoration which he had so well 
 defended, was the pride, the insolence, the ingratitude of that 
 Restoration, which had reached its highest point of power and 
 splendor. The pride of M. Guizot was for him, like an irre-
 
 142 DEATH OF MADAME GUIZOT. 
 
 sistible force, in his days of misfortune. When he saw himself 
 turned out of his places, driven from his pulpit, odious to that 
 monarchy which he had so faithfully served, not like a courtier, 
 but like a good citizen, M. Guizot retired without uttering the 
 slightest complaint, and then you might have seen him, such 
 as he really is, unruffled and invincible. Poverty, so dreaded 
 by all the men who govern France at the present day, has 
 never alarmed M. Guizot, and it is just because he knew how 
 to be poor, that he has reached his present high and incontest- 
 able character for probity. In his occupation as a writer, his 
 wife was constantly associated with him, his trusty, devoted 
 wife, with her firm, rare mind, calm good sense, admirable 
 courage, and profound resignation to the decrees of Providence. 
 Poor woman ! she died happy, for before dying, she had 
 foreseen the new destinies of her husband ; and that, at no very 
 distant day, in a great tempest, which was gathering, France 
 would not vainly invoke the genius, the courage, the wisdom, 
 the foresight, of that man, who found himself reduced, to 
 become the translator of Latourneur's Shakespere, in order to 
 obtain a livelihood. 
 
 Since we are speaking of the happiest and most skilful por- 
 trait painters, we must not forget the name of an amiable 
 artist, who has taken some charming likenesses ; Isabey, the 
 favorite painter of the imperial court. Isabey had an all- 
 powerful motive for representing from nature, these beautiful 
 models, who have grown old so quickly, because the ladies of 
 the present day think their costume ill chosen, and will not on 
 any account, dress like their grandmothers, the wives of the 
 generals and marshals of the empire; this motive was, his 
 admiration for the whole sex ; at first he entertained for them 
 the feelings of a lover, and now he has those of a father, so 
 true is it, that there is love, even in the depths of paternal 
 tenderness. Happy man, thus to have seen and studied, co- 
 temporary history, under its sweetest aspect ! Of this epoch,
 
 ISABEY'S PORTRAITS. 143 
 
 so filled with wars, revolutions, and tempests, he has known 
 nothing but the histories of joy and peace. I was sitting the 
 other evening with an old lady, who was a belle amongst all 
 the belles at the commencement of the Empire. She has now 
 for a long time, contented herself with being nothing more than 
 an excellent person, with much tact and good sense ; and talks 
 to you of her youth, as of a thing which she scarcely remem- 
 bers. Of all her former beauty, this amiable woman has pre- 
 served nothing but a portrait by Isabey, which is a masterpiece. 
 It is impossible to unite upon a smaller space, a more rare 
 assemblage of all which composes grace, mind, and beauty. 
 It was one of those which attracted so much attention at the 
 Louvre whea the Emperor first opened it to modern artists. 
 In this Exposition, the principal objects of remark were the 
 battles drawn by Gros in the suite of the Emperor, and the 
 beautiful heads copied by Isabey in that of the Empress. The 
 officers troubled themselves but little about Gros' battles, for in 
 this turbulent empire, life was but one long battle; the por- 
 traits of Isabey, however, excited the greatest attention, and 
 many a dispute was held, as to the charms, not of the fair 
 original, for they did not know her, but of the portrait before 
 their eyes. 
 
 But what will be said to these French people, who profess 
 to be such warm admirers of the arts, when we add, that 
 during the Exposition at the Louvre, the chefs d'oeuvre of 
 the old masters, Titian, Rubens, Michael Angelo, Raphael, 
 Cuyp, Gerard Dow, are covered by an ignoble baize, upon 
 which are hung the paintings of modern artists? And they 
 ask how the Louvre could be filled, if it were completed, when 
 they have not a gallery for their Exposition, without forcibly 
 taking possession of a place, which every true artist would 
 hold sacred to the masters of antiquity ! Fye on them ! fye 
 on them ! My Yankee brethren, notwithstanding the oft- 
 repeated assertion that they are so absorbed in money making,
 
 144 VANDALISM. 
 
 as to have neither time nor inclination to form a taste for the 
 fine arts, would never have been guilty of such Vandalism, 
 as to cover the paintings of those men to whose genius the 
 world does universal homage, by the ephemeral productions 
 of their own pencils. England may make you pay for the 
 privilege of entering her Exhibition ; but at least she gives 
 you free and full permission to admire, at your ease, the 
 riches of her National Gallery. France is the only country 
 that will not permit you, at once to view ancient and modern 
 artists. . . . But perhaps she is right; it may be that she 
 fears the contrast. . . . 
 
 The annexed plate has, very properly, been made to repre- 
 sent the Louvre, in those months of the year when its rightful 
 owners are permitted to retain possession.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A VISIT. 
 
 MY first visit was naturally due to that beautiful and charm- 
 ing Madame de R , whose hospitality had been so unre- 
 served and so complete. It was the same benevolent lady who 
 constantly said to me last winter, " But you work too hard ; 
 you push your observations and your study too far ; if, as it 
 is said, Paris was not built in a day, it will be impossible to 
 understand Paris, in less than a century ; be calm then, do not 
 attempt what you cannot perform, but profit simply by what 
 passes before your eyes." Thus she spoke, with the most 
 affable smile and the kindest look. All that I know of Pari- 
 sian conversation, I have learned at the house of this ami- 
 able woman; for, in her saloon, sheltered from literary and 
 political disputes, the most friendly and the most delightful 
 chatting has taken refuge. Alas ! since my departure, this 
 lady, so beloved by her friends, had been ill. She had been 
 seized with fever, without being able to tell, whence came this 
 invisible shudder; but the Parisian is so delicate a being! 
 Wavering health, languishing beauty, large eyes full of fire, 
 but the fire of which suddenly disappears and is effaced, beau-
 
 146 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 tiful pale cheeks, a soft, melancholy smile. Let lightning flash 
 through the heavens, let a little wind howl in the air, let a dog 
 bark at night, let a door be noisily shut, and our Parisian is 
 immediately trembling, enervated, incapable of exertion. A 
 mere nothing is sufficient to make her pass from joy to grief, 
 from laughter to tears ; a knitting of the brow, a pin badly 
 placed, an unpleasant look or gesture ; no one knows what has 
 caused it, nor indeed do they know themselves, unhappy crea- 
 tures ! At any rate, Madame de R - had suffered much ; 
 not so much however, but that she had found strength enough 
 to dress herself, time to make herself beautiful, and to give her 
 drawing-room an air of fete. Oh these women, the honor of 
 elegance ! I know not how they die ; but assuredly they 
 cannot die like the rest of their fellow-creatures. With their 
 last sigh, they must think that it is necessary to be lovely 
 even in death. More than one, I imagine, ponders beforehand, 
 the embroidery of her winding sheet. Poor creatures, distressed 
 and yet courageous, devoted to their beauty, as Cato was de- 
 voted to virtue ! For the rest, there is a French line which 
 expresses exactly what I wish to say, 
 
 " Elle tombe, et, tombant, range ses vetements.'' 
 
 The Parisian ladies have another good quality, which is, 
 that nothing astonishes them. Madame de R - had bade 
 me farewell, as if she were never to see me again. She had 
 even had the kindness, to present to me a cheek already 
 feverish ; she thought me far distant by this time, and yet ; 
 It is you ! said she, giving me her hand, just as if we had 
 only parted the evening before. I had a presentiment that 
 you were not really gone; you were attracted to Paris by 
 too great a curiosity and admiration ; and besides, what is 
 there to hasten you ? You return to us ; you are quite right. 
 You see, replied I, that when once a person enters Paris, it
 
 PARISIAN CAUSERIE. 147 
 
 is impossible to quit it. Thereupon the conversation became 
 general. There was present, an old gentleman of title, of ele- 
 gant life, of clear, lively thought, a friend of General Lafayette's, 
 a brother in arms of Washington's, who, both from his intelli- 
 gence and want of other occupation, played an important part 
 in the first revolution. The conversation naturally turned upon 
 last century, which this nobleman loudly regretted, as one 
 always regrets the happy moments and the extravagancies 
 of youth; then he began to speak of all the men of former 
 days, and all the women also, of the Duke de Richelieu 
 and M. de Voltaire, of the painter Greuze, and of Sophia 
 Arnould, of whom Greuze made so beautiful a portrait. Ac- 
 cording to this good gentleman, this famous Sophia Arnould, 
 to whom the eighteenth century lent all its bon mots, for the 
 very good reason, that people lend only to the rich, was not 
 the shameless woman that she is represented to us, in all the 
 memoirs. He then attempted to defend the character of Ma- 
 dame Dubarry, by showing that she was not the origin of all 
 the vice of the age ! The poets of the last century were dis- 
 cussed. They spoke also, but of what did they not speak? 
 of the private life of king Louis XV., of the Great and Little 
 Trianon, of the prisoners in the chateau de Pignerole and the 
 chateau de Vincennes. M. de Richelieu was not forgotten in 
 these histories of which he was the central point, as a lover, as 
 a soldier, and as a nobleman. The whole evening passed in 
 this friendly and intimate chatting, of which France alone, 
 amongst all polite nations, has still preserved the secret. After 
 which, as it was near midnight, a very late hour for our in- 
 valid ; " Come," said Madame de R., " it is time for all to 
 retire ; we must separate. And you, my lord," added she, 
 looking at the old gentleman, " ask pardon of these ladies for 
 you and for myself, for our having involuntarily carried them 
 back to this history, which is but too far from the history of our 
 own times. Alas !" 
 
 L 2
 
 148 EUROPE A VAST SALOON. 
 
 But again I repeat, that nothing can equal Parisian causerie 
 in grace, vivacity, and wit. Sparkling and animated, its arrows 
 are pointed, its very good nature is satirical. No one is better 
 acquainted with the anecdotes and the ideas, the passions and 
 the facts, the poems and the tales which agitate the world, than 
 the Parisian gentleman, and with yet more emphasis may it be 
 said, that no one knows them better than the Parisian lady. 
 In this respect, Europe is like a vast saloon, all the members of 
 which seem to be acquainted, from the fact of their living in 
 the midst of the same elegances. London, St. Petersburg, 
 Paris, Naples, Florence, those noble cities of intelligence and 
 mind, are occupied, almost at the same day and the same hour, 
 with the same poems, the same books, nay more, with the same 
 dress and the same gauze cap. He who writes the history of 
 a drawing-room in St. Petersburg, writes, very nearly, the 
 history of a drawing-room in Paris ; and therefore, in spite of 
 the reality of my emotions, I am not without uneasiness for the 
 book which I write amidst Parisian flowers and shade, so well 
 do I remember that every where there are the same flowers, the 
 same mind, and the same spring.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 VERSAILLES. 
 
 THE Sunday which followed the feast of the Assumption, I 
 was at Versailles to see the great waters play. 
 
 At so early an hour of the morning that the sun was as yet 
 invisible, the Parisians were at the terminus of the railroad. 
 All the carriages of the royal traveller were even then ready, 
 the fire horse neighed with all his power, breathing out fire and 
 flame through his half opened nostrils ; the iron rail extended 
 in a burning line, from the streets of Paris to the gardens of 
 Louis XIV. 
 
 Versailles, what a vast and depopulated city ! Who then 
 was this king, who filled this immense space with his own 
 personal dignity ? What was this century, which this palace, 
 although so extensive, could scarcely contain ? What was this 
 court ? so numerous that when it walked out upon the turf, the 
 last nobleman of the party had not descended the first steps, 
 before the king was at the end of the Tapis vert. 
 
 This is one of the miracles of history, and in this world 
 every thing is understood, except miracles. An abyss, whaj
 
 150 THE WINDMILL AT VERSAILLES. 
 
 do I say? two revolutions, separate the Versailles of 1830 
 from the Versailles of 1681 ! How astonished would these 
 vast dwellings be, if they could return, in thought and re- 
 membrance, back to their first days of grandeur, when there 
 was in this place, now laden with stone and marbles, nothing 
 but ancient trees ! Henry IV. came there to rouse the stag ; 
 Louis XIII. quitted the oaks of Saint Germain for the woods 
 of Versailles ; and when night surprised him, the king slept in 
 a neighboring windmill, little suspecting that not far from this 
 humble shelter, would rise a palace, sufficiently capacious to 
 contain the greatest king and the greatest century of France. 
 At last, in 1660, the real king of the chateau of Versailles, he 
 who was to raise these walls, and people them with guests of 
 talent and genius, Louis XIV. appeared, and at his command, 
 this immense chaos was replaced by a magnificence full of art 
 and taste ; in vain did nature, and the situation of the place, 
 and the sterility of the ground seem to present so many invin- 
 cible obstacles to the will of the young monarch. Headed by 
 Louis XIV., a council of clever men assembled to erect these 
 superb dwellings. Mansard raised the ceilings which Lebrun 
 covered with masterpieces ; Le Notre laid out the gardens, 
 and spread through the barren earth, whole rivers turned from 
 their natural course by an army of workmen ; Girardon and 
 Le Puget peopled the shores, the groves, the watery grottoes, 
 with a variety of nymphs, tritons, and satyrs, with all the gods 
 of mythology; and when, at last, the palace was built and 
 worthy of the king, Louis XIV., Colbert, the great Conde, 
 all the leaders of the seventeenth century took possession of it, 
 as of their natural dwelling, and with them all the great minds 
 of that fine epoch, the kings of thought and of poetry : nor 
 must we forget other powers, who saw at their feet, the kings 
 as well as the poets ; Henrietta of England and Mademoiselle 
 de la Valliere ; Madame de Montespan and Anne of Austria. 
 Poetry and military glory inaugurated the chateau of Ver-
 
 CHAMBER OF LOUIS XIV. 151 
 
 sailles ; Louis XIV., the king of every kind of grace and 
 elegance, the all powerful monarch, who had, in himself, the 
 sentiment of every grandeur, had made of this palace, the only 
 asylum which he considered worthy of his glory and his love, 
 the only shelter of his labors and of the gloomy anticipations of 
 his old age, so abounding with grandeur and melancholy. His 
 whole life, his brilliant youth, his middle age, his decline, those 
 last rays of the sun, were passed within these walls. 
 
 Beautiful gardens, fountains, marbles, bronzes, old orange 
 trees covered with flowers, extensive lawn trod by so many 
 kings, so many queens, so many ambassadors, so many holy 
 bishops, so many profane beauties, royalty of former days, 
 whose track can be so easily followed in these magnificent 
 gardens ; it is impossible to salute you with indifference ! 
 Every step taken in these dark alleys is a remembrance, every 
 apartment in this funeral castle is an elegy. In vain are these 
 splendid walls covered with new paintings ; in vain are they 
 laden with bas reliefs and emblems; in vain do all kinds of 
 statues stand erect in the splendid galleries .... you breathe 
 in these magnificent places, an undefinable odor of death. 
 Here is the solemn chamber, in which the king of the great 
 century died ; nothing is altered, or rather, every thing has 
 been restored to its place ; the bed is hung with the drapery 
 embroidered by Madame de Maintenon ; the portrait of Ma- 
 dame, Henrietta of England, for whom so many tears were 
 shed, smiles, as in former days, with her calm, tender smile. 
 The golden railing is closed ; upon the prie-dieu lies the king's 
 prayer book ; the quilt, divided into two pieces, has been found 
 again, one half in Germany, the other in Italy ; the paint- 
 ings, on each side of the bed, represent a Holy family by 
 Raphael, and a Saint Cecilia by Domenichino ; the ceiling is 
 by Paul Veronese; it was taken by the Emperor Napoleon from 
 the gallery of the Council of Ten. The portraits over the doors 
 are by Vandyke. Never was the royal chamber more splendid
 
 152 THE CEIL DE BCEUF. 
 
 and more brilliant. If, at a short distance, you open that door, 
 what an austere retreat do you behold ! There knelt Louis 
 
 XIV. at the feet of his confessor, when induced by Madame 
 de Maintenon, at the close of his life, to assume at least 
 the semblance of religion. In that other room, which has 
 preserved a funeral aspect, in spite of its laughing pictures, 
 died, not without pain or without regret, the king of the 
 eighteenth century, the king of Voltaire and of Diderot, Louis 
 
 XV. Look around you; you are in the midst of his mistresses; 
 what beauties, what grace, what intelligence, what smiles ! and 
 at the end of these feasts, this delirium, this love .... what 
 an abyss, what a frightful gulf into which to fall ! 
 
 Thus in this long journey through the splendors of the old 
 palace of Versailles, you pass from triumph to defeat, from 
 royalty to nothingness ! This king, so young, so brilliant 
 adored more than a god the same powerful being who walked 
 in these magnificent gardens, to the sound of so many murmuring 
 fountains, see him extended upon his death bed ! Of all these 
 kings, the last, the most upright, and the best, where will you 
 find him ? beneath the hand of the executioner ! Vanity, 
 vanity ! . . . ruin is there ; the palace of Versailles may be filled 
 with paintings, but to restore life to it is impossible. Look, 
 look ! they tell us this is the (Eil-de-bceuf ; the (Eil-de-bceuf, 
 that saloon where waited in respectful attention all the men of 
 the great century. What a melancholy silence after so many 
 brilliant sounds ! Where are you, ye kings of French mind and 
 genius, Bossuet, Corneille, La Fontaine, Moliere, Despreaux ? 
 All around, you see emblems, ciphers, busts, paintings, shadows, 
 dreams ! I am in the chapel, and I ask if father Bourdaloue, if 
 Massillon is not coming, if the king, and Madame de Maintenon 
 will keep us waiting long ? Father Bourdaloue will not come, 
 Massillon, will not come, king Louis XIV. is no more, even in 
 his leaden tomb at Saint Denis; Madame de Maintenon has 
 left this world ! And yet every thing is ready for their recep-
 
 CHAPEL OF VERSAILLES. 153 
 
 tion. All the magnificence of the chapel has been restored to its 
 primitive brilliancy. There you will still find, as in their novelty, 
 the twenty-eight stone statues ; the high altar is of marble and 
 bronze, the walls are covered with bas reliefs, the king's pew 
 and Madame de Maintenon's pew have preserved their windows 
 surrounded by paintings ; the vaulted roof still bears a master- 
 piece by Coypel ; and finally, after having been violently 
 torn from it, Louis XIII. and Louis XIV. are again seen, 
 kneeling on each side of the altar, placing France beneath the 
 protection of the holy Virgin. Ah ! how one single man of the 
 great century would fill this silence, would animate these soli- 
 tudes ! how readily would people then believe in this magnificent 
 restoration ! 
 
 But no, the animation, the brilliancy, the life of these royal 
 dwellings, have been replaced by motionless statues, by paintings 
 without name, by a brilliant collection of all kinds of recitals, 
 equally before and since the time of Louis XIV. The truth is, 
 that having raised this palace for his own personal grandeur, 
 Louis XIV. never dreamed, that this spot could ever shelter any 
 other majesty than the king of France. He had in himself a 
 deep feeling of the greatness of the house of Bourbon, and he 
 would have died of grief, if he could have foreseen, that one day, 
 this royal house, which was one of the beautiful works of his 
 youth the cradle of his children would be thoroughly over- 
 turned by an enraged populace. No, certainly, this chateau de 
 Versailles was not intended for such ravages. Such turf had not 
 been laid around these sparkling waters, to be trodden down by 
 the stamping of the people ; these statues were not made to be 
 pitilessly broken these aged trees, the venerable shadow of 
 which filled the garden, he, who had planted them with his 
 royal hands, little suspected, that the day would come, when 
 they would be torn up like so many frail rushes. When once 
 the royalty of France had been hunted from these dwellings, 
 when the king, the queen, and the dauphin, had been led to
 
 154 FRENCH ROYALTY. 
 
 Paris, to die there, the palace of Versailles ought to have 
 crumbled into dust, as a useless and valueless thing. 
 
 Magnificent amongst all the royal dwellings, the chateau de 
 Versailles had been arranged for the express purpose of affording 
 a suitable shelter to French royalty, as king Louis XIV. under- 
 stood it. Just as he said, the state is myself, the sovereign mas- 
 ter of so many millions of men ought to have been able to say, 
 Versailles is the whole of my reign. It was, indeed, the whole 
 of his reign, for the life of the king and the fortune of France had 
 been employed in raising these walls, in planting these gardens, 
 in forcibly leading, to this dry ground, sparkling fountains ! 
 Amidst this long succession of stones cut with a golden chisel, 
 surrounded by all his children, all his gentlemen, all his poets, 
 all his captains, all the beauties of his court, the king led a truly 
 royal life an endless representation of every day and every hour. 
 In this place, the grandeur of which astonishes you, met all the 
 reports of the age, all the feelings of kings, all the hopes of 
 nations. It was the centre of every thing; thence issued all the 
 movements of this great kingdom. So long a reign in such a 
 long succession of royal dwellings ! Such beautiful walks, under 
 those trees, where Moliere composed the most delightful scenes 
 of his comedies! such long hunts in these woods which the 
 great and little Mews filled with their magnificence ! The Tapis 
 vert ! and the groves which surround it and the Orangery 
 at the foot of the chateau and the basin of Neptune, and the 
 marble court ! Who would dare attempt to describe all ? Who 
 would wish to do so ? Well ! this would be precisely the whole 
 history of a century, the whole history of a monarchy which 
 finishes, as the old fairy tales used to begin ; There was once 
 upon a time a king and a queen ! 
 
 It was on June 10, 1839, that king Louis Philippe I., seeing 
 his task accomplished, and wishing the whole of France to par- 
 take in the power and brilliancy of his triumph, invited, to inau- 
 gurate the palace of Versailles, all those men in Paris who were
 
 LOUIS PHILIPPE AT VERSAILLES. 155 
 
 distinguished in politics, in the army, or in any of the arts of 
 peace and war. This fete of June 10, has left even in France, 
 where every thing is forgotten, lasting remembrances. People 
 asked themselves how, in so short a space of time, in the midst 
 of so many cares, and so much business, the king had been able 
 to repair this immense ruin ? At his voice, the sleeping palace 
 of Versailles had arisen ; the folding doors opened as if Louis 
 XIV. was expected. Louis Philippe had said to the palace of 
 Versailles, " Open your gates, you are the property of France" 
 And thus, for the space of four years, from the top to the bottom 
 of this palace, which is larger than a city, in the foundations or 
 beneath the roofs, within the walls, beyond the walls, into the 
 most obscure corners or the most splendid saloons, this indefati- 
 gable king has carried his fortune, his labor, his will, his histori- 
 cal science, his admiration for all the illustrious names, his 
 respect for all the acquired glories, his boundless devotion, his 
 profound and sincere admiration for all which constitutes the 
 history of France. 
 
 Most certainly, to build the palace of Versailles, to plant these 
 gardens, to bring fountains on to this barren plain, to shelter 
 beneath these shadows a whole nation of statues, worthily to 
 employ Mansard, and Lebrun, and le Notre, and Pujet, and 
 Coysevox, so many illustrious artists who died at this labor ; to 
 spend more than a thousand millions of francs in accomplishing 
 this impossible wonder ; to summon to his aid, all the power, all 
 the genius, all the money, of which the greatest king in the 
 world could dispose, was very difficult ; but yet, I do not think 
 this work of the erection of Versailles can be compared to the 
 task of that king, who has undertaken, to save, by a revolution, 
 from its silent, inevitable ruin, this immense palace. 
 
 At the present day, then, the palace of Versailles is nothing 
 more than a museum. Louis XIV. is confined to some few of 
 his saloons, and to his sleeping room ; it is no longer he who fills 
 with his majesty, the dwellings which he has erected. He is no
 
 156 INAUGURATION OF VERSAILLES. 
 
 longer alone he is surrounded by all the dynasties, by all the 
 royalties,, and even by all the revolutions of France. Any where 
 but in the palace of Versailles, it is a collection which would not 
 be devoid of grandeur. All the epochs of France are represented 
 in this succession of paintings, some of which are worthy of the 
 artists who have signed them, while the greatest number 
 evince the haste and mediocrity of the moment. Fabulous times 
 are not forgotten here. France, the Gauls, even the Romans 
 have their place in this medley ; Charlemagne appears in it with 
 his dynasty of feeble monarchs ; every commencement, every 
 origin, every people, is painted upon these walls, which are 
 astonished at so many anachronisms. The feudal barons, the 
 knights of the crusades, pontiffs, ministers, abbots, all have their 
 place on this vast page of a unique book, upon which was for- 
 merly written the unique praise of Louis XIV. Farther on, 
 Francis I. appears to you, surrounded by his brilliant escort, and 
 leading by the hand that beautiful sixteenth century, which 
 could not be conquered and surpassed, except by the following 
 one. 
 
 But let us return to our account of the inauguration of Ver- 
 sailles. All the curious ones who had been invited to witness 
 it, were transported with joy and pride. They arrived one after 
 the other, or several at the same time ; but immediately upon 
 their entrance into the court of honor, their attention was excited. 
 The first who welcome you are the great men of France, Bay- 
 ard, Duguesclin, Turenne, Conde, Louis XIV. on horseback. 
 Arrived at the marble court, the king's guests alighted : they 
 saluted with their first look and their first respect, the kings and 
 warriors of the first race, epitaphs, sounds of war, tombs, galleries 
 to which time has not yet given that funeral tint, which time 
 alone can find upon its pallet of dust and ashes. They stopped 
 with enthusiastic delight, before that peasant girl, Joan of Arc, at 
 once a warrior and a shepherdess, with the countenance of a 
 woman, and the courage and the arm of a hero. It is perhaps
 
 OLD SOLDIERS. 157 
 
 the master-piece of the museum at Versailles, a marble doubly 
 popular, from the name of the heroine, and from the name of the 
 royal sculptress. 
 
 They continued their course, marching from triumph to triumph, 
 stopping before the celebrated engagements, admiring at their 
 ease, the great Emperor, in his different fortunes, in his various 
 characters; to-day crowned by the pope, to-morrow marrying 
 the grand-daughter of the Caesars, afterwards conquered and a 
 captive, but soon leaving his island, and returning like a conqueror 
 to his kingdom of a Hundred Days, and again defeated for the 
 last time, and losing himself in the infinity of his misfortune and 
 his glory. It must have been an interesting sight, the day the 
 museum was opened, to watch the old soldiers, the invalided 
 marshals, wounded on every field of battle, walking slowly, 
 silent, but not unmoved witnesses, crossing with a weary step 
 this museum, or rather this field of war, melted even to tears, at 
 the sight of their ancient triumphs, seeking themselves in the 
 fight, beneath the shadow of their eagles and their Emperor; so 
 proud and so happy to find themselves, occupying their position 
 of twenty years ago, in this unequalled assemblage of all royalties, 
 all nations, and all principles ! There were some, among these 
 old heroes, who had not walked for ten years, but who stood 
 erect again, at this smell of gunpowder. They returned to their 
 happy days of encamping and privation. They again saw Tou- 
 lon surrendering beneath the cannon directed by that short young 
 man, of pale complexion and fiery eye ; they ascended the 
 heights of mount Saint-Bernard, dragging the artillery; they 
 descended into Italy amidst the sweet perfume of the orange 
 trees and the roses ; they arrived in Egypt, and on those plains 
 laden with sand, at the foot of the pyramids, they contemplated 
 with a smile the three thousand years which returned their look 
 with alarm. 
 
 How many little imperceptible dramas must have passed this 
 first day, in the palace of Versailles! While the antiquarian
 
 158 VARIED TASTES. 
 
 joyfully deciphered the old inscriptions on the old statues ; while 
 the Emperor's soldier marched, with a rapid step, in the suite of 
 his Emperor ; while political men pondered the different scenes 
 of parliamentary history, so filled with unexpected incidents, 
 alarms, murders, and resistances, the calmest minds, those 
 happy egoists, for whom the glory of arms is but a vain sound, 
 power a useless force, courage a glorious peril, and victory a 
 foolish parade, lost themselves in their meditations upon the 
 clever minds which France has produced. These latter said in a 
 low voice, that the greatest victory was not worth so much as a 
 beautiful poem, that they would give Charlemagne for Regnier, 
 and the Capitulaires for Malherbe's ode to Du Perier. They 
 stopped by instinct before the great masters, Rabelais, Montaigne, 
 Corneille ; or perhaps, more advanced, they regarded with affec- 
 tion, Boileau, Fenelon, Bossuet, Racine ; or else they saluted 
 Montesquieu, Voltaire, Le Sage, J. J. Rousseau. Noble palace! 
 the asylum of every kind of glory, and every kind of poetry ! 
 The young men in the first ardor of youth, saw, in the palace 
 of Louis XIV., only Louis XV., that handsome king of so much 
 wit, carelessness, composure, and courage ! They followed the 
 perfumed footsteps of the royal lover of Madame de Pompadour ; 
 they did not even recoil before Madame Dubarry, that insolent 
 but fascinating power; they were in ecstacies before all these 
 effeminate beauties, these somswhat manufactured graces, these 
 young heroes of Fontenoi, who wore their swords and their ruffles 
 with so becoming an air. Some were the partisans of Marie 
 Antoinette, the queen of France, the admirable daughter of Ger- 
 many, the queen of such distinguished courage and resignation ; 
 others, leaping the seventeenth century, proclaimed Diana of 
 Poictiers, the belle amongst beauties ; there were some who 
 adored the queen of Navarre; others among the merry histo- 
 rians who form an isolated school, maintained that Catherine de 
 Medecis was a much calumniated queen, and highly prized her 
 flying squadron ; each one chose his favorite king among so
 
 THE PETIT TRIANON. 159 
 
 many monarchs ; this one Francis I., Bayard's king ; that one, 
 Louis XL, the friend of the people; a third Louis XII., who 
 was their father; there were some who discovered good qualities 
 in that negligent, whimsical monarch, Louis XIII.; others were 
 passionate admirers of Henry IV., and would even say to him, 
 " Sire, your mistress is my queen." And finally, for all the 
 royalties of France are permitted and acknowledged with the 
 most courageous loyalty, in the museum of Versailles, some, in 
 their respectful emotion, paused, before the Return of Louis 
 XVIIL, before the Coronation of Charles X., before the por- 
 trait of the Dauphiness, and there was in their looks, less of 
 reproach than of pity, regard, and interest. 
 
 But do you see beyond, under that verdant horizon of the 
 great trees at the very end of the Tapis vert, farther than the 
 canal which serves as a mirror to all this royal magnificence, do 
 you see that house of such smiling aspect ? Certainly, by the side 
 of the Versailles of Louis XIV., the Petit Trianon would attract 
 but a small portion of the attention and respect of men. . . . And 
 yet what delightful associations recall to us that small park, 
 those beautifully simple walls ! To this turf which she pressed 
 with so light a step, the queen of France came, to forget the 
 ennui and the etiquette of royal majesty. Once at the Petit 
 Trianon, the lovely queen felt more happy. All her diadem was 
 the flowers of her garden ; she held, with a joyous hand, the 
 light crook; in this dairy of white marble, she herself prepared, 
 with such delightful awkwardness, the milk of her cows! 
 Poor queen ! how much she must afterwards have regretted the 
 sun, the waters, the flowers, the cream, and the strawberries, the 
 sheep and the heifers of the Petit Trianon. 
 
 For myself, it appears to me, that I see her still, in these sweet 
 spots, so gladdened by her royal beauty. The birds in the yoke- 
 elm trees still sing of the queen of France ; the swans of the 
 basin seek her, as they skim with timid wing, these peaceful 
 shores; it is on her balcony in the evening, when the moon is
 
 160 VERSAILLES DESERTED. 
 
 veiled by some cloud from Paris, it is on the balcony of the 
 Petit Trianon, that the light and sacred shadow rests, by pre- 
 ference. Trianon by the side of Versailles is the garland of 
 flowers placed upon the giants' staircase. 
 
 I know not how to tell you all the enjoyment of this day, 
 passed amid so much splendor and so many imposing recollec- 
 tions. I saw at once all these things, the past and the present, 
 the palace and the gardens, history and poetry, Christian elo- 
 quence and profane love ; palace, groves, flowers, gardens, marble 
 basins, statues of stone and bronze, fantastical fountains, brilliant 
 jets, Apollo and the Muses, all the divinities of fable, the dancing 
 satyr, the intoxicated Bacchant, the rapacious Danae, the superb 
 Juno, and the tearful Latona, all pass around you to the sound 
 of aerial music ; all the things, and especially all the men who 
 have ever existed, an immense tornado of things magnificent and 
 sublime . . . and you remain, overwhelmed as it were, in silent 
 contemplation. 
 
 Versailles ! Versailles ! now, thanks to these railroads, become 
 one of the faubourgs of Paris ; why has the city remained 
 deserted ? Why this profound silence in the streets ? Why 
 these houses which you would say were inhabited by phantoms, 
 these gardens, in which you will neither find the footstep of the 
 child nor that of the old man ? Ah ! these ruins alarm the 
 vulgar ; these long remembrances of the ancient monarchy 
 frighten even the philosophers. Versailles is no longer any 
 thing but a place to visit. Each wishes to come here, no one 
 will remain ! I have myself been witness to this eagerness of the 
 Parisians to fly before all these phantoms. 
 
 Night was yet distant, it was the hour when all the waters of 
 the garden were slackened, the sun was less ardent, the tree 
 fresher, the turf more green, the water clearer. Beyond these, at 
 the very end of the lake, where recommence the melodious 
 murmurs of the nightingale saddened by the crowd, in these 
 gravelled alleys, where, with a little respect and pity, it would
 
 THE RAILROAD. 
 
 161 
 
 be easy to find again so many noble footsteps, I imagined I saw 
 the whole ancient court promenading in its most magnificent 
 attire. It was not a vision ! they were all there, the kings, the 
 princes, the Condes, the Turennes, the Bossuets. Yes, it was 
 indeed the court of the greatest king in the universe. I saw in 
 the distance, the sparkling of the golden embroidery, the colors of 
 the velvet, the steel of the swords, the jewellery of the ladies 
 added to the whiteness of their bare shoulders the feathers 
 waving upon the brown locks agitated by the evening wind ! 
 Oh how 1 longed to see the blue eyes of Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere, or the proud look of Madame de Maintenon, or 
 Madame de Sevigne ! . . . What a dazzling apparition ! It 
 seemed to me that all who were walking in the palace of Ver- 
 sailles, were as much fascinated as I was, when suddenly I saw 
 the whole crowd rushing, in the greatest haste, out of the gardens. 
 If they ran so quickly, it was because the railroad called them. 
 Singular people ! They will obey no one, and yet they have 
 been vanquished by the necessity of arriving with punctuality, at 
 the hour of departure. Every moment, immense convoys started 
 to return and set out again with a new load. Several travellers 
 directed their course on foot, towards that delightful wood which 
 separates Ville-d'Avray from Saint Cloud, glancing over all the 
 neighboring heights, covered with their white houses. In such 
 beautiful weather, on such a lovely night, through these fresh 
 paths which seem to sing, the road is not long; and finally, if 
 the dust annoys you, if you are thirsty, have you not, to refresh 
 you at the end of the road, the two sparkling fountains of the 
 place Louis XV. ? It is a whole river which falls and precipi- 
 tates itself into these basins of marble and gold. Would you 
 not say they were the jets d'eau of Versailles ? Where will you 
 find a more marvellous collection of naiads, of marine monsters 
 with open mouths, from which spout streams of water, of caprices 
 of bronze and marble! On the top of these inverted basins 
 glides silently, the slender shadow of the obelisk ; the clear water 
 
 M
 
 162 RETURN TO PARIS. 
 
 distils like a beneficent dew in sonorous drops ; the bitumen of 
 two different colors extends its fine carpet beneath your feet ; the 
 lamps throw to a distance the brilliancy of a fete. The tree, a 
 shade itself, is lost in the shadow ; the sun sets quietly between 
 the two arms of the Arc-de-Triomphe, which lulls it to sleep, as 
 a nurse lulls off her child. What a delightful and well filled 
 day ! what a beautiful domain ! what an interesting visit ! You 
 go by the railroad ; you halt upon the steps of the palace of 
 Versailles, and on the same evening, you may bathe your burn- 
 ing forehead in the basin of this lively and beautiful fountain, 
 which the Arc-de-Triomphe protects with its shadow and its 
 majesty.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU. 
 
 AFTER Versailles, our next excursion must be to Fontaine- 
 bleau. It is true, that this time, we have a less imposing gran- 
 deur, but where will you find more delightful, and more ingenious 
 chefs d'ceuvre ! . . . Here, the associations are sufficiently nu- 
 merous, but it seems to me, that they do not bear so strongly as 
 at Versailles, the print of that sadness and melancholy which all 
 vanquished things have about them. We will start then ; it is a 
 beautiful road. The clouds which covered the sky have fled, 
 driven away by a favorable wind. The rain, which fell in tor- 
 rents, has ceased ; the sun kindly throws upon us his warm rays ; 
 you may see, rising, as if by enchantment, the approaching har- 
 vest, which, only last evening, sadly lay upon the ground; the 
 merry postilions urge on their horses in a transparent whirlwind 
 of dust ; this is really enjoyment, dust, and sun, a true Neapolitan 
 sun ! 
 
 Here we are ! How magnificent are the gardens of Fontaine- 
 bleau! Oaks, which were cotemporaries of Francis I. and of 
 Henry IV. ; old yoke elms, which lent their shadow to the varied 
 whims of Louis XIV., even before that young king had traced 
 
 M 2
 
 164 GARDENS OF FONTA1NEBLEAU. 
 
 out the plan of Versailles ; waters so abundant and so clear 
 that they have given their name to these lovely spots ; every- 
 where, in the chateau, beyond the chateau, in these thousand 
 interminglings of stone and turf, of marble and flowers, there is a 
 natural appearance of majesty and grandeur. Water circulates in 
 the fosses, like a river in its bed ; the fish pond shines at a dis- 
 tance, like a vast mirror, the only one which is worthy to reflect 
 these splendors of nature and art. Notice, in the midst of this 
 pond, a pavilion erected by the emperor Napoleon. During the 
 summer, his very victorious majesty was in the habit of holding 
 his councils there. Do not forget to salute these carp, whitened 
 by time, which were no younger in the sixteenth century of the 
 history of France, silent and tranquil witnesses of so many revo- 
 lutions, which have glided over these waves, without leaving there 
 one trace of their passage. These beautiful fish are a source of 
 great amusement to visiters ; they swim to them to ask a pittance. 
 One of them carries a ring, a gold ring which king Francis I. 
 gave to it. The garden is open to any one who wishes to 
 see it; there is no barrier, no obstacle; you are at liberty to 
 promenade in all these enchanting grounds. But look at the 
 chateau ; it is the work of Primaticcio, that Italian, who passed 
 near Dante, without even touching the border of his cloak; near 
 Raphael without perceiving it, if not afar off, yet so far, that the 
 artist did not even think of following him. The chateau is mag- 
 nificent, affluent, and natural like French genius. Strange and 
 happy assemblage of all kinds of things ; ornaments without end? 
 sculptures without motive, caprices, chances, dreams turrets, 
 towers, arrows, masterpieces ! And within, what brilliant fetes ! 
 how many lovers concealed beneath these shadows, how many 
 handsome young men gliding over these waters, intoxicated with 
 art and poetry, accompanying with their soft murmurs the sound 
 of the violins and the hautboys ! it was the admirable and de- 
 lightful hour when France returned from Italy, where she had 
 been to seek science learned so quickly ! the great art of orna-
 
 HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS. 165 
 
 merits and dresses, beautiful pearls, rich jewels, magnificent 
 armours, long poems written under the enchantments of poetry 
 and art. Already, it is another France which reveals itself, it is 
 feudal France disappearing, it is Louis XIV. who allows himself 
 to be solicited ! Again I say, walk slowly upon the border of 
 these limpid waters, the swans in the basin salute you, by beating 
 their wings ; lay yourself upon the grass, repeat the verses of 
 Virgil, beneath the shadow of the flowery banks, sleep if you 
 wish to sleep, you are the master of these lovely spots. But 
 why sleep ? This time also a whole history, a whole poem, 
 summons you ; we will repose, at a later hour, when we have 
 traversed this magnificent ensemble, when we have studied all 
 these masterpieces, when we have penetrated into some few of 
 the mysteries of the chateau de Fontainebleau ; here, Biron 
 arrested by order of Henry IV. ; a little farther, queen Chris- 
 tina of Sweden, the suspicious queen, the jealous woman, assas- 
 sinating Monaldeschi, her chamberlain, to the great scandal 
 of the court of France, which was alarmed and indignant at such 
 ungoverned fury ; and then look at that stone at the head of 
 the staircase. Upon that superb slab was unfolded the greatest 
 drama of history. 
 
 It is hardly thirty years ago, already two ages ! since, in 
 that same court of the palace of Fontainebleau, which at 
 the present day appears so calm, stood, motionless, silent, 
 afflicted, concealing their tears, the old guard of the great 
 imperial army. This old guard, whose very name overthrew 
 capitals, had fought upon every field of battle in the world. 
 They were at Arcola, at Aboukir, at Marengo ; they were the 
 soldiers of Austerlitz, of Jena, of Friedland, of Madrid, of 
 Wagram ; and now, after having passed through so much glory 
 and so many perils, they found themselves, vanquished and 
 decimated, in that narrow space, which was their last kingdom, 
 their last field of battle; and even this they must quit on the 
 morrow, never again to see it, this corner of desolated earth,
 
 166 NAPOLEON AND THE IMPERIAL GUARD. 
 
 In this palace of Fontainebleau, each door and each window 
 of which is now open to the sun of May and the flowers of the 
 garden, the Emperor Napoleon concealed himself, in his grief 
 and his anguish ; in vain had he resisted allied Europe, the 
 imperial eagle, mortally wounded in the sky of Moscow, had 
 barely strength enough to come here and expire, beneath the 
 heavens of Fontainebleau. And finally, the hour had come, 
 when the Emperor himself must lay down this sword, which 
 had weighed so heavily in the balance of the world ; his 
 sacrifice was completed, like his glory. Then opened the door 
 of the palace ; the old guard, which was below, presented arms, 
 hearts beat so quickly ! tears were in every eye ! They 
 waited. At last, this army, or to speak more correctly, this 
 handful of brave men, saw descend into the frightened court, 
 which seemed to recoil before him, a single man, with a proud 
 look, and a bold step, sad, but not prostrate ; he was wrapped 
 in the grey riding coat ; he carried in his hand the hat of the 
 Little Corporal ; a single month of these misfortunes had aged 
 him more than ten battles would have done. His old soldiers 
 finding him so great in adversity, were profoundly affected, and 
 could not understand, poor heroes ! how and why the Emperor 
 and they were thus separated, they, who were always the great 
 army, he, who was always the Emperor. A well known voice 
 aroused them from their stupor. 
 
 " Soldiers," said he to them, " I bid you adieu. During the 
 forty years that we have been together, I have been pleased 
 with you, I have always found you in the path of honor !" 
 After which, he embraced the eagles, and re-ascended with a 
 firm and tranquil step, that same staircase of Fontainebleau, 
 now laden with flowers. 
 
 Thus they separated, in that same spot, the Emperor and 
 the great army, to go and die, here and there, all in the same 
 sadness, in the same glory, in the same destitution. 
 
 But let us penetrate into the palace of so many absolute
 
 THE CHATEAU. 167 
 
 raonarchs, only we must take care to have with us the thread 
 of Ariadne, for once entered there, you will soon lose yourself; 
 it is the most wonderful labyrinth that ever astonished human 
 imagination. There is nothing but vast galleries, immense 
 saloons, amphitheatres, giants' staircases, mysterious passages, 
 sweet retreats concealed in the wall, balconies of marble 
 and bronze. All times, all places, all arts, all monarchs 
 are represented within these walls. The sixteenth century has 
 thrown there all its caprices and all its poetry; Henry IV. 
 and Louis XIII. have left upon the walls, their impression at 
 once Italian and French ; Louis XIV. carried within them his 
 royal and budding grandeur ; the Emperor Napoleon came here 
 to await the Empress Maria-Louisa of Austria, who allied him 
 to the kings of Europe, while separating him from the people 
 of France. But such was the majesty of this place, that each 
 of the powers who passed through it, were it only for a 
 day, felt himself obliged to add a new magnificence to these 
 splendors. Such a king, in order to signalize his visit to 
 Fontainebleau, built a whole palace by way of continuation to the 
 primitive palaces ; such another erected a church ; the third a 
 theatre, or at least a gallery ; a fourth had barely time to engrave 
 there his name and his cipher, after which he was carried away 
 by the tempest ; his name has been effaced by the whitewasher. 
 Whatever you may say, and whatever Louis Philippe may do, 
 there is, in Versailles, but one single master, I had almost said 
 but one single divinity, king Louis XIV. On the contrary, in 
 the palace of Fontainebleau, all kinds of associations mingle and 
 blend with each other. Not far from the apartment of the 
 sovereign pontiff, dragged there from the midst of pontifical 
 Rome by the most unworthy abuse of power, on the site of the 
 gallerie des Cerfs, where Monaldeschi was assassinated, in a 
 retired corner where she fled even the light of heaven, Madame 
 de Maintenon had dug herself a retreat, which you may now see 
 completely furnished and restored. There is violence in these
 
 168 ABDICATION OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 walls, there is poetry, there is love, above all, there are marriages. 
 You would in vain seek throughout this palace, some corner which 
 has not sheltered a crowned or an uncrowned head ; there is 
 scarcely a bed which has not been a bed of death. In the king's 
 apartment, the most indifferent stop before a wretched mahogany 
 working table, which would be worth about fifteen francs if it 
 was bought on credit, at a second hand furniture shop ; and yet 
 no one approaches it without respect ; for it was upon this table 
 that the abdication of the Emperor was signed. The mahogany 
 still bears the mark of a penknife, which the ex-master of the 
 world impressed, as the expiring lion imprints the earth with his 
 failing paw. This table is placed near a window, the brilliant 
 locks of which were made by king Louis XVI. This very 
 room, which resembles a hortus siccus, so richly are the walls 
 laden with all the plants of the French Flora, was inhabited by 
 Catherine de Medecis. By the side of this room, Napoleon 
 caused a gallery to be built, in honor of Maria Louisa. Thus 
 are blended so many different remembrances, so many grandeurs, 
 and so many misfortunes. In this admirable confusion of all 
 kinds of royalty and all kinds of greatness, the philosopher sets 
 himself to dream ; he asks himself, if it was worth while to 
 lavish so many emotions, and often so much genius, to add 
 barely one dust to all these dusts, one vanity to these lament- 
 able vanities. The poet, on the other hand, re-animates, by 
 means of imagination and thought, which are the two greatest 
 architects of this world, all these ruined stones; he brings noise 
 into this silence, the crowd into these solitudes. At his word, 
 suddenly are illuminated, one after the other, these vast gal- 
 leries; and arise from their nothingness all the ages which 
 have prayed, which have loved, which have suffered, which 
 have died within these walls. Silence ! behold them ! They 
 re-appear in their most beauteous attire, with their most pompous 
 retinues ; they come, to pass in these cherished places, one 
 more day of feasting and glory, of pleasure and love. What is
 
 GREAT CHANGES. 169 
 
 easier, if you have a little enthusiasm in your head and a little 
 youth in your heart, than to re-animate all this vanished history ? 
 Do you not already see, through the gothic windows of the 
 gallery of Francis I., that knight-king presiding at the brilliant 
 fetes, and at the head of the staircase, the sombre figure of 
 Napoleon setting out for his exile in the island of Elba ? 
 Francis I. and Napoleon Bonaparte, these are in fact the 
 two masters of the palace of Fontainebleau, these are the two 
 phantoms who return most frequently to these walls, to these gal- 
 leries, to these thousand silent chambers ; and then, how asto- 
 nished must the king and the Emperor be, to find all their work 
 erect ! For so long a time their palace had been in ruins ! the 
 walls sunk upon themselves, the painted ceilings were hanging in 
 tatters ; the arms of so many kings had been so often erased, 
 restored, and again erased upon the stone, that it was pierced 
 through; the eagles had been so rudely hunted, so many fleurs- 
 de-lis had been torn down, so many emblems had been broken, so 
 many loving ciphers had been effaced, that, among all this pitiless 
 destruction it was impossible to find any thing perfect at most 
 there were walls without names, altars without incense, boudoirs 
 without perfume, saloons without ornaments, empty frames, 
 broken thrones, all kinds of royal things shamefully plundered, 
 spoiled, tarnished, annihilated. The shades of the ancient 
 masters of Fontainebleau walked sadly amongst these lament- 
 able ruins, and the more years rolled upon years, the more 
 ruins became heaped upon ruins. But at the present day, 
 thanks to the same thoughtful foresight which has raised the 
 palace of Versailles, in Fontainebleau now repaired and saved, 
 every thing is revived : the tottering foundations are again 
 settled, the staircases crushed by so many passing grandeurs 
 are re-established upon their bases^ the statues lying upon the 
 ground again ascend their pedestals, the portraits return into 
 their frames, the old plaster of the saloons is driven away like 
 dust, and behind this ignoble coat re- appear, in their new bril-
 
 170 
 
 FRANCIS I. AND NAPOLEON. 
 
 liancy, the chefs d'ceuvre of three centuries. It is done ; the 
 restoration of the monument is complete, within and without; 
 the ceilings are renewed like the walls ; the deal doors have 
 given place to others made of oak ; the painted paper vanishes, 
 and leaves room for the historical painting ; echo repeats anew 
 the sonorous names of former days ; the cellars are again filled, 
 and also the wood houses ; velvet and gilding are restored to the 
 furniture ; the worms regret their prey ; the gothic windows 
 are replaced in the window frames; the chimneys which had 
 fallen down are built up again ; with the minute care and the 
 exact patience of the antiquarian, the slightest details are found 
 of that exquisite sculpture, which changed wood into a master- 
 piece, stone into lace, marble into heroes and beautiful women. 
 The mosaic re-appears always young and brilliant, and bursts 
 forth fresher than ever, from beneath the oak floor which covered 
 it like a tomb. Every where, from the top to the bottom of these 
 vast walls, the same attentive and repairing hand has been carried ; 
 every where again shines forth gold, paint, enamel, marble, stone, 
 shell, ivory, silver, wool, bronze. This palace of Fontainebleau, 
 not ten years ago, was a desolate dwelling, abandoned to 
 every wind of heaven; to-day it is a magnificent palace, worthy of 
 the greatest kings. Thus the astonishment is immense among the 
 royal shadows. " Who then has repaired my galleries ?" cries 
 Francis I.; "glory to him! he has replaced upon the walls my 
 arms and the cipher of my beautiful mistress." " Who then has 
 raised again the staircase of Fontainebleau, and preserved even 
 the slightest traces of my departure ?" cries the Emperor: "glory 
 to him ! he has no fear of eagles or recollections, any more than 
 of the standards of the great army." Thus talk together these 
 tranquillized shades. At the same time, at the hour of midnight, 
 re-appear, light as happy shadows, all the ladies who reigned 
 for a day in these royal dwellings. They glide gently upon 
 these soft carpets ; they take their seats upon the restored 
 thrones ; they rest upon the regilded sofas ; they smile at their
 
 AMBITION OF LOUIS PHILIPPE. 171 
 
 own beauty in these Venetian glasses, which erstwhile reflected 
 them so fair and so beautiful ; they dance in chorus beneath 
 these arched roofs, where every thing recalls to them former 
 days. What a great and beautiful task has this head of a 
 dynasty, in fact, imposed upon himself! To save the ruins, 
 to save the glories, to save the remembrances of his country ; 
 to aspire rather to the title of preserver than of founder ; to 
 erect little, but to preserve all ; to be prouder of drawing a palace 
 from its ruin than of commencing it, and then leaving it imperfect 
 at death ; to turn to advantage, to restore to all their primitive 
 brilliancy, all the luxury, all the enterprises, all the follies, all the 
 royal expenditure of three centuries ; thus to arrive at the most 
 admirable result which ever crowned the work of the greatest 
 architects, that is to say, to finish all the monuments which are 
 begun ; the same day, to restore to the column its emperor, 
 Louis XIV. to Versailles, Francis I. to Fontainebleau, Made- 
 moiselle to the chateau d'Eu, andt he king to the Tuileries ; and 
 on the morrow to aspire, by way of rest, to the glory of finishing 
 the Louvre ; and all these incredible efforts, all these enterprises, 
 superintended in person, all this, in the midst of clashing parties, 
 of tumult, of 'civil war, of disorder, beneath the poignard of the 
 assassin, this is what may be called, to design and to execute ! 
 
 But you must hurry on, in spite of your admiration. To tra- 
 verse the palace of Fontainebleau is a whole journey. " But," 
 say you, " let me examine these entwined ciphers, Henry II. and 
 Diana of Valentinois ; let me study the emblems of this chimney 
 piece of the most beautiful ionic order, mingled with garlands, 
 festoons, devices, clever inventions of Philibert Delorme's and 
 Guillaume Rondelet's ;" you must proceed, you must pursue 
 your route, without stopping at each vision. In the gallery of 
 Francis I., just as in the gallery of Henry II., you will find the 
 same Primaticcio, not only the great painter, but also the great 
 sculptor. In decoration, painting must not be abandoned to 
 itself; if you wish it to produce all its effect, it must be accom-
 
 172 FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 
 
 panied by sculpture. It is sculpture which gives relief, that is to 
 say, motion and life, to the masterpieces of the painters. It 
 completes, it forms an excellent accompaniment to painting; it 
 augments its power and grace. From this intimate union of two 
 great arts which so wonderfully accord with each other, has 
 resulted that gallery, which must have been the wonder of the 
 sixteenth century, of all the splendors of which it is an admirable 
 summary. 
 
 If you understand what you are about, you will not leave Fon- 
 tainebleau without going through the forest, which is one of the 
 most beautiful and most picturesque in France. 
 
 You ought to see the forest of Fontainebleau in the morning at 
 a very early hour, when the bird sings, when the sun shines, 
 when all the points of view extend themselves to infinity before 
 your delighted eyes, when all these stones heaped up beneath 
 these aged trees take a thousand fantastic forms, and give to the 
 forest, the appearance of the plain on which the Titans fought 
 against heaven. The forest of Fontainebleau is full of mystery, 
 of noises, of by-ways, of light, of obscurity ; there are profound 
 caverns, there are little paths which sweetly wind beneath the 
 shade, upon the flowery turf; there are waves o'f sand which 
 escape from the half-opened rock, there is a drop of dew, which 
 falls with a soft murmur from an inert hill ; there are a thousand 
 strange forms, as there must have been many on the earth after 
 the deluge, when the waters had disfigured, at pleasure, every 
 thing in creation ; at each step you take in these mysteries, you 
 meet some of these novelties, as old as the world, but the effect 
 of which is all powerful. The artists, the poets, the romancers, 
 the lovers those great poets have, from time immemorial, made 
 the forest of Fontainebleau, the empire of their dreams. It is 
 composed of nearly forty thousand acres of ancient and majestic 
 trees ; it is bounded on the west by the Seine, on the south, by 
 the canal de Briare, and is no less than twenty-eight leagues in 
 circumference.
 
 THE BOCHE-QUI-PLEURE. 173 
 
 In the midst of this admirable confusion of rocks, and lawns, 
 and old oaks, several of which are called Saint Louis, Charle- 
 magne, or Clovis ; in the thick groves, at the bottom of these 
 deep defiles, in the depth of these caverns, on the summit of 
 these aerial palaces ; far from the Seine which sparkles at a dis- 
 tance, or on its very borders ; beneath the shadow of the pines or 
 the birch trees, the maple or the beech, the firs or the elms ; 
 upon the heath, among the rose trees, on the moss or the gravel ; 
 by the cry of the ravens, the joyous songs of the lark, the plain- 
 tive notes of the nightingale ; whether the adder displays in the 
 sun its varied colors, or whether the deer vanishes with a bound, 
 after having thrown upon you one animated and curious glance, 
 do not forget to seek the favorite sites of the princes and 
 poets, the famous rocks, the repos de chasse, the very sight of 
 which recalls so many old legends. There is a certain art in 
 visiting Fontainebleau, without which, all is chance and confu- 
 sion. Go then, step by step, from the Table du Roi to the 
 vallte de la Selle, from the rocker de Saint Germain to the 
 mare aux Eves, from the carre four de Belle Vue to the Gorge 
 du Loup. Among all these magnificent horrors, covered with 
 beautiful shadow, do not fail to visit Franchard, the most roman- 
 tic of all these picturesque valleys. At Franchard, they will tell 
 you legends, they will show you the ruins of a monastery ; you 
 will hear the history of the monks ; then by coasting a little lake 
 upon which floats a young oak of some twenty years of age, over- 
 turned by the wind, you will soon behold with delight, the 
 Roche-qui-pleure. 
 
 The Roche-qui-pleure is a hill naturally placed amongst several 
 others of smaller height; around it, all js desolation, silence, and 
 aridity ; you feel thirsty, at the mere fact of finding yourself upon 
 these sands, amongst these rocks, beneath this burning sun. But 
 listen ; do you hear the silvery sound of a drop of water, which 
 falls from the SKy into a nacre shell ? It is strange, this pearl 
 which detaches itself from this vast rock, this drop of pure water
 
 174 CELEBRATED ROCKS. 
 
 which falls with a murmur from this immense granite ! At all 
 times, in all seasons, beneath the hottest sun, in the coldest 
 winter, the same rock eternally gives the same drop of pure and 
 unalterable water, never more, never less. There are still, among 
 the renowned places, the Mont de Henri IF., the Hooker d'Aran, 
 the Mont Aigu, the Ventes de la Heine, the Arables, the Table 
 du Grand Veneur ; the spectre huntsman leads the midnight 
 chase to the barking of his ghostly dogs ; the Grande Taille, the 
 Village d'Aron, the Pressoirs du Roi, the Bouquet du Roi, 
 Henry IV. et Sully, two old oaks admirable amongst all the 
 oaks, and the Rocker des Deux Soeurs. Oh ! what terrible and 
 touching histories, stories of hunting and of love, of treason and 
 of vengeance, this aged forest has covered with its shadow, an 
 ancient, silent, profound shadow, and which is reached by no 
 other noise than the stag braying, the bird singing, the horn 
 resounding through the wood. And yet, what I prefer for the 
 beauty of the landscape, is the lovely spot which I visited yes- 
 terday.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SAINT CLOUD. 
 
 THIS lovely spot, which I prefer even to the stately pile of the 
 palace of Fontainebleau, is the park of Saint Cloud, which is 
 overlooked by the heights of Bellevue. The very journey from 
 Paris to Saint Cloud is a true fete. Saint Cloud is at the gates 
 of Paris ; you may go there by traversing the bois de Boulogne 
 with its marvellous paths. If you wish to do it properly, you 
 will take the barrier of Versailles, and ascend the gentle acclivity 
 which leads you to the village of Passy, Passy, an American 
 city the hospitable hamlet which Franklin chose, for the sojourn 
 which he made in Paris, at the time of the universal enthusiasm. 
 It was a strange thing to see this man, who was the ambassador 
 of a revolution, walking without sword, without embroidery, 
 without powder, without ruffles, amidst the crowd of the courtiers 
 of the king of France. This man was good sense suddenly let 
 loose in the midst of poetry ; he was the citizen, who treated on 
 terms of equality, and for their good, with all the great lords 
 of this worm-eaten royalty. Ah ! if these improvident men had 
 but listened to the advice of the American printer; if they 
 had but known how to read that simple book, Poor Richard,
 
 176 FRANKLIN. 
 
 the revolution, which was advancing with a giant's step, would 
 not have surprised them in all the disorder and in all the misery 
 of ruin and bankruptcy ! This new comer from America would 
 have taught the friends of king Louis XVI., the flatterers of 
 king Louis XV., that great word which comprehends the life of 
 nations and men, foresight. Passy remembers Franklin; one 
 fine street in this beautiful village is called the rue Franklin. 
 They still show the elevated esplanade, from the summit of 
 which our compatriot drew the lightning from heaven, as an 
 aspiring epigraph says, Eripuit ccelo ful/nen ! As for having 
 torn the sceptre from tyrants, sceptrumque tyrannis, Franklin 
 had not so much ambition ; and if by tyrant, the Latin verse 
 intended the good king Louis XVI., the Latin verse would praise 
 Franklin for an action which would have horrified that honest, 
 kind, worthy man, who was equally incapable of cowardice and 
 cruelty. Passy remembers the time when it was the rendezvous 
 of all the fashionable world, and of the most fashionable world. 
 In the simple view of these beautiful houses, these vast gardens, 
 all this exterior decoration, it is easy to find vestiges of 1730 and 
 some following years. More than one little house, at the present 
 day honestly inhabited, was built upon the edge of the wood by 
 king Louis XV., for some favorite of the moment. From Ver- 
 sailles, the good sire came across the fields ; and once within the 
 small, discreet, gallant house of Mademoiselle de Romans for 
 instance, the mother of the abbe de Bourbon, he forgot the 
 annoyances of that royalty of France, which is so heavy when it 
 is idle, and which felt itself conquered and surpassed by an irre- 
 sistible force. I have seen this house which formerly belonged 
 to Mademoiselle de Romans ; the trees which the king planted 
 have now become magnificent ; the house is of simple and ele- 
 gant appearance, but, and nothing can be more reasonable 
 this house, with which the king of France was contented, has 
 been embellished, enlarged, and worthily finished by a good 
 citizen of Paris. In the dining room, it has more than once
 
 LA MUETTE. 177 
 
 happened, that Louis XV., urged to it by the vivacity of the 
 discourse, was obliged to strike upon the table, saying, " The 
 king, gentlemen /" Suddenly, each one would return to the 
 attitude of respect. Another time, in a moment of good humor, 
 and I must own that M. de Richelieu had at that instant, 
 more wit than Voltaire, Louis XV. gave a box on the ear to 
 M. de Richelieu, who was seated at his right hand. He was cer- 
 tainly in a delicate position. What should he do ? how should he 
 behave ? how prevent himself from being vexed and looking red ? 
 and on the other hand, how receive such an affront without com- 
 plaining? M. de Richelieu, recovered from his astonishment, 
 and gave the blow to his next neighbor, saying " The king ivishes 
 it to pass round f The blow passed; but I have yet to under- 
 stand how the gentleman, who was seated on the king's left hand, 
 extricated himself from the difficulty. 
 
 Quite at the end of the Grand rue of Passy, La Muette, (ano- 
 ther erection of king Louis XV., but this time for the reigning 
 mistress Madame de Pompadour) throws its aged shadow across 
 the path ; it is the sweetest spot in the world. The park is laid 
 out with wonderful ingenuity ; the garden is blended with the 
 wood ; the chateau is built with the ornamental rapture of the 
 architects of former days. In this house, long resided, like a 
 great lord as he was, amid the finest statues and most excellent 
 chefs d'oeuvre of painting, the celebrated M. Erard. He was a 
 great artist and a clever connoisseur; he invented in France, and 
 indeed throughout Europe, the piano, that wonderful instrument 
 to which we owe so many masterpieces, and which has so happily 
 served the genius of that poet named Franz-Liszt. You salute La 
 Muette as you pass, and still going by the wood, you regain the 
 brink of the water. Proceed a little at hazard, as you must, if 
 you would see every thing; look at Mount Valerien; formerly it 
 was a burial-ground, now it is a fortress. Some of the noble 
 dead interred there, were obliged to be removed to the cemetery 
 of Pere la Chaise, like all the dead of the present generation.
 
 178 MADAME DE GENLIS. 
 
 There nevertheless, reposed till the end of the world, (at least, 
 she believed so,) the most turbulent and most restless woman of 
 this century, which is nevertheless the century of turbulent 
 women, Madame de Genlis. Did she sufficiently display, in her 
 miserable fashion, her beauty, her wit, her intelligence, her style, 
 her talent ? Has she been wandering enough, truant enough, 
 sufficiently beaten by all the blows of misfortune ? Did she 
 have enough dangerous connexions, and among so many foolish 
 things, has she left one delightful, little chef d'ceuvre, Made- 
 moiselle de Clermont ? She died in time, before the duke of 
 Orleans, whose governess she had been, ascended the throne 
 of France. This was one of the blessings of his majesty king 
 Louis Philippe, to be delivered from the dotage of this good 
 woman, who would have become insupportable in his present 
 elevated rank. 
 
 A beautiful open-work iron bridge light and aerial, crosses 
 the Seine ; an easy route will conduct you to Saint Cloud ; Saint 
 Cloud ready dressed and adorned, and filled with wandering 
 melodies. The village displays itself upon the benevolent 
 height ; the proud Seine bounds at a distance. The park is a 
 chef d'ceuvre of art, seconded by every natural elegance ; the 
 chateau, placed between two terraces, between two avenues, 
 presides over this collection of meadows, of verdure, of lawn, 
 of basins. But, does it not seem to you that suddenly the moon 
 is covered with a cloud ? It is night, the autumn wind howls 
 through the trees, the yellow leaves are hurled even to the sky, 
 a lamentable noise fills the melancholy forest. On the deserted 
 terrace, you may distinguish by the dim light which proceeds 
 from the stormy heavens, a man walking, who is wrapped in a 
 black cloak ; his step is agitated, his look is restless, his gesture 
 is full of pity ; he waits, but like a person who wishes the appoint- 
 ed hour would not come so quickly; he waits like one who is 
 afraid of his own triumph. Suddenly, at a certain hour of the 
 night, half opens the door of that house from which royalty is
 
 MARIE ANTOINETTE AND MIRABEAU. 179 
 
 already exiled ; from this half opened door issues a woman of 
 noble appearance ; her countenance is pale, her forehead is 
 clear ; by her step, by her courage, you may recognise a queen ! 
 it is the queen, and the man who waits for her is Mirabeau! 
 The tribune throws himself at the knees of this conquered 
 majesty ; he dares not touch with his hands, he dares not 
 touch with his lips, the hand which is extended towards him ! 
 He asks pardon, he implores forgiveness ! Now he can under- 
 stand all the violence of the blows which he has given, to this 
 monarchy of so many centuries' duration ! The queen raises 
 Mirabeau, and without ostentation, without disguise, without 
 pride, she says to him, " Save us /" Then, in the mind of 
 this fiery democrat who had violently thrown down every 
 obstacle which opposed itself to his greatness, is wrought 
 one of those miracles which would have saved a less desperate 
 party ; the gentleman shines out again from beneath the tribune; 
 the draper gives place to the count de Mirabeau. The evil days 
 of his turbulent youth disappear from his remembrance and 
 his reproaches ! The fort de Joux and the chateau de Vin- 
 cennes, and all the lettres de cachet, and all the insults formerly 
 offered him, have no longer any power over this reconciled 
 mind ; these lamentable recollections are effaced at the first N 
 view of the queen of France ; she is a queen, she is a woman, 
 she is a mother, and she supplicates ! This time, Marie 
 Antoinette is triumphant, Mirabeau is conquered. The tri- 
 bune quits the terrace of Saint Cloud resolved to save the 
 throne of Louis XVI. . . . But alas! it was no longer pos- 
 sible, the Revolution had commenced its progress ; in vain was 
 it for man to attempt to stop it ; it must absolutely proceed, and 
 draw with it the whole of France into this bottomless abyss. 
 For having wished to resist the torrent raised by his own elo- 
 quence, Mirabeau was himself overwhelmed in this flood of 
 violence and murder. Bring about revolutions then, to satisfy 
 vour own vengeance ! the Revolution as it passes on, crushes 
 
 N 2
 
 180 VILLE D'AVRAY. 
 
 you, as proud of doing so, as was the first Brutus of sending 
 his son to death. 
 
 A fine avenue of beech trees planted by Louis the Fourteenth's 
 own son, that unworthy pupil of Bossuet's, will conduct you to a 
 charming spot named Ville d'Avray: Ville d'Avray is the peaceful 
 village abandoned to its own good nature ; here you will find no 
 kings, no princes, no great lords ; but simply rich bankers and a 
 few clever artists, who do not like to lose sight of their beloved 
 city. One of the dearest romancers of France, a clever man, a 
 subtle observer, capricious, fantastical, unequal, he who, next to 
 M. Scribe, has contributed most to the amusement of his own 
 epoch, has built himself a picturesque cabin on the line of the 
 railroad, which travellers point out to each other as they pass. 
 King Charles X. hunted by choice at Ville d'Avray,and in this 
 hunt he displayed all his royal magnificence. The dauphiness, a 
 pious woman amongst all the pious, had an estate at Ville d'Avray. 
 To her we owe that beautiful road which surrounds the whole 
 neighboring country. On the other side of the same hill, the 
 chateau de Bellevue formerly raised its delightful terrace. There 
 lived, in the midst of the villagers who blessed them, Mesdames 
 the sisters of king Louis XV., with their humble virtues ! how 
 long their earnest prayers arrested the anger of which the 
 heavens were full ! The valley de Fleury fills all the opposite 
 space with its magnificence. But we must certainly have more 
 than one day to contemplate these mild aspects, to tell you all 
 the beautiful spots in this vast forest, and what delightful houses 
 the forest protects with its shadow. Picture to yourself an im- 
 mense ocean of verdure and of flowers, mingled with cries of joy 
 and sweet songs. But what am I about ? I had almost forgot- 
 ten to remind you of the Lantern of Diogenes, placed at the 
 top of an obelisk erected for that purpose by order of Napoleon, 
 in one of the finest spots in the park. A spiral staircase leads 
 you to the summit, whence you may obtain a varied and magnifi- 
 cent view. This lantern, which during the Imperial govern-
 
 m.
 
 PARK. OF SAINT CLOUD. 181 
 
 ment, was always lighted, when the council was sitting at Saint 
 Cloud, is now a place of rendezvous for parties of pleasure, who 
 meet again there, after straying in the plantations. 
 
 When evening comes, the same rural labyrinth insensibly leads 
 you back to your point of departure, the park of Saint Cloud, 
 in good time the sun is now less powerful. The oldest trees 
 form a long, principal alley, other centenary trees fill the space. 
 The Parisians have arrived, and have already spread beneath the 
 yoke elms ; the cries were never more joyous, the groves never 
 more thronged ; the road is filled, the steamboat brings each hour 
 its lovely cargo of young men and girls. Listen ! the music is 
 beginning ! It is the ball, always the ball, which gives the 
 signal. Before long, and when the shades of night are really 
 fallen, a thousand lights of all colors will invade the park of Saint 
 Cloud. The bird awoke amidst the foliage, and thinking it is 
 day, will commence his morning hymn, soon interrupted by the 
 sound of the morning watch, recalling the dragoons to the neigh- 
 boring barracks. Still later, a brilliant firework will burst in the 
 heated air. Without fireworks, there can be no good fete for 
 the Parisian. The country is at peace, he is engaged in making 
 his fortune, he asks nothing but to live and die in this happy 
 calm, but to die a long time hence ; and yet, gunpowder always 
 pleases him ; he loves its blaze, he loves its noise, its smell and 
 even its smoke ; he looks at the powder burning, he enjoys it 
 with all his heart ; he dreams the rest, while singing Beranger's 
 songs ! 
 
 Alas ! in these same spots filled with the popular wave, not 
 one of these ungrateful men remembers the good king Charles 
 and the little royal infant, whose anniversary, in bygone days, 
 filled the park of Saint Cloud with so much joy ; and this long 
 alley, in which walked with a silent step, a gun upon his 
 shoulder, poetry in his forehead and love in his heart, a life- 
 guard who called himself Alphonse de Lamartine, the last 
 Bourbon guarded by the last poet of France ! Oh vanity !
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE JULY FETES. 
 
 UNGRATEFUL people ! they forget every thing, except to be 
 punctual at the fetes that are given to them. During the thirteen 
 years since the people triumphed in July, almost every year has 
 brought back to them its three days of idleness, of relaxation, of 
 illuminations, of wrestlings and plays, in the vast space of the 
 Champs Elysees. It is a sight worth witnessing, a whole people 
 abandoned to joy. The Mat de Cocagne entices, with its bait, 
 the most terrible and the most active ambitions ; the difficulty is, 
 to seek, at the top of a greasy pole, the presents of the city of 
 Paris; a gold watch, a silver plate, a bracelet. The pole is 
 surrounded by vast numbers from Paris, and, above all, from the 
 faubourgs, who are eager for the prize. They push, they jostle, they 
 attack each other ; they cry, they look, they blame, they approve. 
 The crowd, with extended necks, endeavour to find out who will 
 be the victor in the game. Bets are laid, at the very foot of the 
 tree ; partnership societies are formed. " If I have the watch, 
 you shall have your share of it ! If you get the silver plate, we 
 will melt it, and what is better, we will drink it together ! it is 
 agreed !" So that, no sooner is it gained, than the national
 
 THE PARISIAN ON THE SEINE. 183 
 
 recompense is carried in great triumph, to the silversmith of the 
 city, a true Florentine chaser of the best ages, a great artist 
 learned in the art of the sculptors. Of him it may be said, Ma- 
 teriam superebat opus, the manner is yet more excellent than the 
 matter; in a word, it is Froment Meurice, the admirable gold- 
 smith, of whom I speak. " I have won ! I have won !" cry the 
 joyous bandits, bringing the appearance of the watch or the 
 casket of the plate, " I have won! buy my watch !" And Froment 
 Meurice buys the watch, the same watch which has been used 
 nearly thirteen years, which is sold and gained, at least twice per 
 annum, to the great joy of the Parisians. Good people ! how 
 small a thing is sufficient to amuse them ! 
 
 Another delight of these three days is the joust upon the water. 
 The Parisian loves his river, he knows it by heart ; his great 
 enjoyment is to keep, on the borders of the Seine, a little canoe 
 painted green, which goes by oar and sail, until a sudden squall 
 capsizes the vessel, and those who are in it, like a true John 
 Bart. Besides, the river is a fine theatre, well placed in the 
 midst of the city, between two magnificent quays. The actors, 
 lightly clad, are so happy and proud at having so many looks 
 turned upon their tricks of skill and strength. In all justice it 
 must be owned, that upon the water, a leathern cap on his head 
 and an oar in his hand, the Parisian is the most awkward of 
 mortals ; but this is so much the better, if the awkwardness 
 causes bursts of laughter. As for me, I love all this noise, all 
 this motion, all this crowd, these martial exercises these com- 
 bats between Arabs and French tumblers, upon the trestles 
 these learned dogs, these two-headed monsters these dwarfs, 
 these giants, these ostlers, that woman who plays with a lion like 
 the widow of Androcles. But then after these turbulent enjoy- 
 ments, it is very sweet, again to find a little calm, repose, and 
 silence ! The crowd have slowly started towards the Champs de 
 Mars, to the barrier de Vincennes, in order to be present at the 
 double fireworks ; the dome of the Invalids sparkles from afar,
 
 184 BEAU M ARCH AIS. 
 
 beneath the last beams of day. Let us leave the crowd, and 
 remain alone to look, to listen, to recollect ourselves, to dream. 
 
 In this quiet and happy, evening meditation, I crossed the 
 whole inhabited space which separates the Arc de Triomphe 
 from the place de la Bastille. The spot is deserted, and awaits 
 future houses. There formerly rose, surrounded by his vast gar- 
 dens, the sudden palace of that revolutionary, so famous for wit, 
 malice, and eloquence, called Beaumarchais. When he saw 
 that every one was working, with mind and hands, in order 
 thoroughly to overturn that old French society, which has now 
 become something less than a dream to us, he set about attacking 
 it, not by wit, like Voltaire, but by sarcasm, by irony, by license, 
 summoning to the aid of his Figaro, which was rebellious like 
 himself, the most wretched women, children more than preco- 
 cious, and boudoir scenes, which he represented to take place 
 beneath large flowering chesnut trees. He had thus assisted, by 
 his constant sneer, in the ruin of every thing. And, at last, one 
 fine day, when the triumphant people carried away that old Bas- 
 tille, which was worm-eaten and gaping on all sides, the abomi- 
 nable parent of Figaro laid out for himself, upon the site of the 
 Bastille, English gardens, kiosks, grottoes, cottages, murmuring 
 cascades, a gilded hotel, a second Bastille in which he enclosed 
 himself, with the worn out remains of his wit, an artillery dis- 
 ordered and spiked in every direction. In general, I know 
 nothing more respectable, than the old age of great men ; 
 glory, at its setting, is tinged with a beautiful reflection which 
 renders it more serene and more imposing. The white hair 
 shades so well the noble forehead, which sixty years of courage, 
 of virtue, and of genius have not entirely wrinkled ; but an old 
 punster, who makes the most cruel puns ; an old actor who has 
 taken even the greatest part; a clever pamphleteer; a revolution- 
 ary following in the track of others, out of breath, wounded, 
 shrivelled, who, with cool effrontery, comes to place himself upon 
 the ruins of the Bastille, and who, in its wrecks, still echoing
 
 DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILLE. 185 
 
 the groans and the tears of the miserable, arranges for himself a 
 pretty, little retreat, that he may die more at his ease this is, in 
 truth, a pitiable sight. 
 
 Happily, the house of Master Caron de Beaumarchais has dis- 
 appeared from this place. These frivolous gardens, planted with 
 old scentless roses, torn from the fifth act of the Marriage of 
 Figaro, have partially opened, to form an outlet for the muddy 
 waters of a horrible canal, which terminates in a ditch. Upon 
 this canal is transported, each night, the filth of the Parisian city; 
 it would be impossible to find a more just emblem of that false 
 mind of the end of last century, laden with pestilence, famine, 
 tumult, and conspiracies, and which led, not to a ditch, but to the 
 scaffold. 
 
 However, the site of this funeral city, inhabited by so many 
 wretched creatures, has not been entirely covered ; a small part of 
 it has remained unoccupied, doubtless in order that one day, in 
 speaking of the Bastille, the child of the faubourg may be able to 
 stamp his foot, and say It was here! When the people of 1789 
 had, in their play, overthrown, with one heave, these walls which 
 had been undermined by the deeds of darkness committed within 
 them, they returned home, singing, satisfied with their day, and 
 the next morning were very much astonished, when they heard 
 the powerful voice of Mirabeau telling them with every kind of 
 admiration and praise, that they had, on the evening before, per- 
 formed an heroic action. The truth is, that the people, in their 
 good sense, knew very well that they had not overthrown the 
 Bastille; they had found it already torn down, they had but dis- 
 persed, here and there, the now useless stones. . Happily, the 
 people do not understand effecting revolutions ; at most, they are 
 useful in finishing them, and in that case, they go to it with no 
 light hand, and in the twinkling of an eye, nothing would have 
 remained of the Bastille but its site ; all the rest would have fled 
 like the dust which the wind drives before it, on the approach of 
 a storm.
 
 186 MONUMENT OF JULY. 
 
 By the beautiful light which the moon gave, on the evening of 
 which I speak, I had the very natural curiosity, to penetrate 
 within the boards which still surrounded this court of the vanished 
 Bastille. The door, which is rarely closed, was half open ; I 
 entered, without difficulty, this melancholy, empty enclosure, and 
 found that I could see, at my leisure, the immense scaffolding of 
 the column of July, the gaping airhole of its foundations boldly 
 thrown so as to support the weight of this bronze, the vaults 
 doomed to re-unite all the heroes who fell during the three days. 
 At the summit of the column, even then, shone the Gallic 
 cock with dismantled claws, and wings awkwardly extended. 
 Poor animal ! vigilant in the poultry yard, but ill at ease, as soon 
 as he is beyond his own domains. They wished to make him 
 play an heroic part for which he is by no means calculated ; they 
 have taken him from his seraglio to place him at the head of 
 armed battalions. 
 
 Within this silent enclosure, arose a boarded cabin, which dis- 
 appeared the very day on which the monument of July was inau- 
 gurated. The cabin was silent. The bird slept in his cage 
 suspended at this humble window. 
 
 The mignionette of the little garden shed its sweetest odors. 
 In the distance, willows, not weeping willows waved their 
 silvery foliage in the light whisper of the breeze. No one would 
 ever have imagined that on this place, had stood that iron prison, 
 without heart and without sun, of which king Louis XI. was so 
 proud, the Bastille ! 
 
 I was pondering, in the shade, I scarcely know what, when I 
 perceived that I was not alone. A man was there, an old man, 
 seated, with a melancholy look, at the foot of this gigantic sha- 
 dow. He appeared to be plunged in profound grief; indeed, 
 I never saw any one more afflicted. " Sir," said he to me, after 
 the first compliments, " you see before you, a poor man whom 
 the last revolution has driven without pity from his estate. They 
 say, Sir, that our crumbling society holds now only by one thread,
 
 HISTORY OF AN OLD MAN. 187 
 
 property ; and yet I, the incontestably legitimate proprietor of 
 this house, this garden, this elephant, formerly so proud, now 
 humbled and reduced like his master, I am exiled ; they do 
 not wait until I am dead, they say to me Begone ! they destroy 
 the colossus of which I have been the faithful guardian by day 
 and by night; I shall not survive it, Sir." As he said these 
 words, large drops fell from his eyes. There is no sight so 
 affecting as that of an old man in tears, and I was touched with 
 pity for him. 
 
 When he had wiped away his tears with the back of his hand ; 
 " I wish you," said he, " to know my history, in order that you 
 may, some day, relate it. I am far from being one of the con- 
 querors of the Bastille. The day on which it was taken, I 
 passed, without thinking of any harm. Almost before I had time 
 to turn my head, the monument was reduced to powder, and the 
 people had left, carrying with them, as a trophy, some unhappy 
 beings taken from this profound darkness. 
 
 "It was night, the moon lighted up this freshly raised hill, 
 nearly as it illumines it at the present moment. It was very 
 late to return that evening to my poor house. I arranged myself 
 as I best could, to sleep upon the site of some ruined cell, and 
 never before, I imagine, had the night been so beautiful in one of 
 these dungeons. Every thing sang around me; the curious stars 
 were grouped together in the sky, you would have said they had 
 appointed a rendezvous above, to ascertain what was passing 
 below. From the bosom of these half-opened depths exhaled, 
 never more to return, the many groans and sighs, the many 
 blasphemies and miseries, and the profound darkness which this 
 spot had enclosed. The mild rays of the moon glided slowly 
 through these benevolent crevices, like hope, when it enters the 
 heart of man. This was beautiful and poetic ; it was like a 
 grateful prayer, like a Te Deum murmured in a low voice, some- 
 thing pious and sacred ascending from between these overturned 
 stones.
 
 188 PHANTOMS OF THE BASTILLE. 
 
 " At midnight, the hour for phantoms, I saw all this solitude 
 animated; the countless heroes of this funeral drama placed them- 
 selves before me in all kinds of attitudes. The rebellious profes- 
 sor implored the forgiveness of God in his own way, striking his 
 breast in silence. The orator spoke aloud of liberty and tyranny. 
 The poet summoned the people to arms. I heard resounding, in 
 the most melancholy tones, the sweetest names of our history : it 
 was a strange mingling of iron chains and velvet robes, a singular 
 confusion of blue cordons and swords, and newly made pens. At 
 the summit of the towers which had not yet entirely fallen, 
 walked, with crossed arms, the many beautiful ladies, and the 
 many brave knights, of whom old age, precocious within these 
 walls, had taken possession, when they had seen little more than 
 twenty years, and without their ever having made use of those 
 gilded hours of youth which nothing can replace. On the plat- 
 form promenaded the old governor, with his hand upon his sabre; 
 he was the chief prisoner in this world of captives. 
 
 " Sir, on that night, the chamber of torture was yet standing, 
 and you might have seen, through the yawning crevice, the 
 executioners heating their instruments in the furnace. Oh what 
 a scene was presented on this first night of the unveiled Bastille ! 
 what funeral songs ! what joyful exclamations ! what an ineffable 
 Te Deum ! what a dreadful De Profundis ! 
 
 " The next morning, when I roused from this half waking 
 dream, I thought the people would return to take possession of 
 their conquest ; but they did not come ; they had so much to do, 
 so much to see, so much to bring about, that I remained the abso- 
 lute master of the demolished Bastille. There, I installed myself 
 as well as I knew how ; with my own hands I built this little 
 cabin, and it was the first time that the stone of dungeons had 
 served to construct so sweet an asylum. There were some little 
 yellow flowers which had had the courage to grow upon these 
 frightful walls ; I gathered their seed, and you see how they 
 have flourished; the birds of some prisoners, less unhappy
 
 COLOSSAL ELEPHANT. 189 
 
 than their companions, and not wishing for the liberty which the 
 people had givent hem, as if they had been prisoners of state, I 
 collected, and gave to them a place in my flower garden. I even 
 respected the dazzled spiders which ran about the wrecks, seeking 
 a place to deposit their thread, for they were assuredly the 
 grand-daughters of Pelisson, who was crushed by a ferocious 
 jailer. From all this misery I had made my fortune, in this 
 nothingness I had found a shelter, in this dust a garden, in this 
 state prison a kingdom of which I was the absolute master. 
 
 " One day, after many storms and tempests, the nation en- 
 trusted me with the care of the immense elephant of plaster 
 destined to recall the work of July 14, 1789. I adopted this 
 elephant which the people confided to me, and the colossus, on 
 the other hand, recognised me for its driver. I have heard it 
 said, that in India, the elephant bends his knee, to allow his 
 master to mount more easily upon his back. My elephant was 
 no less docile ; only, even when kneeling, it would have been 
 impossible to reach that tower which he carried so lightly. What 
 did he do then ? He held out to me his large hind foot, and 
 through his hollow leg I penetrated to the very heart of the 
 animal. From that day, I was indeed the master of a true 
 palace ; my ball-room was formed in the stomach of the gentle 
 creature, my work room admitted daylight through the left eye. 
 When I ascended my tower, I hovered over the Parisian city, 
 and thence heard all kinds of strange noises. At a distance, I 
 saw large armies setting out for conquest, and other armies re- 
 turning, crippled, but covered with glory. In this tumult, I more 
 than once discovered a little man dressed in a grey surtout, 
 who, with one motion of his sword, with one look of his eyes, 
 made these armies bound off, and they went to the near or dis- 
 tant countries of Europe, to rebound at the place which the 
 master had designated to them. All cotemporary history has thus 
 passed before me, without my being very well able to understand 
 its concealed import ; for at this place, all the powers stopped ;
 
 190 REVOLUTION OF JULY. 
 
 you would have said that the Bastille was still erect, so afraid 
 were the masters of this agitated France of losing themselves in 
 these latitudes. Here stopped conquerors and their armies, kings 
 and nations, as if a quarantine line had been placed between my 
 domain and the rest of the world. The horse of Napoleon 
 Bonaparte trembled with fear, when he trod upon this ill- 
 extinguished volcano; king Louis XVIII. turned away his head ; 
 Charles X. became pale with alarm ; I only, was calm in this 
 kingdom of death, and often said to myself, at the sight of so 
 many revolutions, of which the report did but just reach my ear, 
 that many more revolutions would pass, before the French na- 
 tion would think of disturbing me, in the nest which I had formed 
 for myself. Vain hope ! fool that I was ! for suddenly, one fine 
 summer's day, as I was quietly seated at the door of my cabin, 
 I heard resounding, one of those loud reports, to which, during 
 the last forty years, my ear has been accustomed ; I ascended to 
 the top of my tower saying, ' It is nothing, it is only a revolution 
 taking place!' It was indeed a revolution; it was accomplished 
 as quickly as the taking of the Bastille. I saw at a distance, 
 something like a funeral procession leading an old man, a woman, 
 a child .... exiles whom a vessel awaited at Cherbourg." 
 
 Then the old man told me of his new misfortune, how he had 
 calculated, but in vain, that the revolution of July would not 
 so soon complete the monument which it had begun; how the 
 elephant of the Bastille, that masterpiece of which he was the 
 guardian, had been suddenly surrounded by sneers and contempt; 
 how, finally, this column of July had risen in a moment, as if it 
 had sprung from the ground, carried above, by the sonorous wings 
 of its Gallic cocks. 
 
 " This, Sir, is the cause of my grief; I have lived too long; I 
 have finished by seeing an impossibility, I mean a revolution 
 which itself completes the monuments which it has itself begun ; 
 I have seen myself stripped, even before death, of the beautiful 
 domain which I had reclaimed from the ditches of the Bastille.
 
 COLUMN OF JULY. 191 
 
 It is done ; I have bade adieu to my cabin, to ray garden, to my 
 beautiful park, to my beloved elephant ; it is done ; rich and 
 powerful as I was, behold me now, ruined and a beggar !" 
 
 Thus spake the old man. I pitied this dethroned king, and 
 threw a last look upon the humble elephant, which seemed to me 
 resigned to his fate. At that moment, the moon became clouded, 
 the column of July disappeared in the darkness, and it was im- 
 possible for me to determine, whether the old man had not been 
 carried away by passion, when he represented this monument, as 
 an incomplete and too hastily executed toy of fortune and chance.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MINERAL WATERS. 
 
 THE Parisian country is so complete, that they have finished 
 by discovering even mineral waters. At the present moment, 
 Baden-Baden, Weis-Baden, Ems with its health-giving streams, 
 Vichy, Aix in Savoy, Spa the relaxation of Belgium, Plombieres, 
 and the delightful baths of Lucca, and all those fine rendezvous 
 of amusement and enjoyment which the Pyrenees enclose, have 
 been replaced by the waters of the lake d'Enghien. The Pari- 
 sian is naturally a person who will not quit the walls of the city 
 within which he dwells ; he surrounds himself by railroads 
 expressly for this purpose, not that he may go and seek other 
 nations, but that all the nations of Europe may come and seek 
 him, in their most splendid attire. The Parisian, without having 
 left Paris, knows the whole world by heart ; even without your 
 taking the trouble to question him, he will tell you what is 
 passing in London, what is done in New York, where the Queen 
 of England took her last airing, what brilliant review his 
 majesty the Emperor of Russia has held, what new reform, their 
 majesties the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria medi- 
 tate, in their profound wisdom. The Parisian sees all with one
 
 THE LAKE D'ENGHIEN. 193 
 
 glance ; he is every where, he knows all the news ; he knows 
 nothing else, but then his information on this subject is complete. 
 Why then do you wish him to disturb himself henceforth ? He 
 is resolved not to disturb himself, not even to go to a distance in 
 search of health ; health is at his gates, a journey of three hours 
 will place it within his reach. For the true Parisian, the lake 
 d'Enghien replaces the bleached and ancient wonders of Switzer- 
 land. At Enghien are assembled, in a degree sufficient to con- 
 tent these beings of so much mind, the emotions of travelling, 
 the repose of the country, the flowers of the meadow, the neigh- 
 borhood of the hills, and above all, the lake, which reflects in 
 its silvery mirror, the calm, smiling landscape. This narrow 
 space is enough, and more than enough, to refresh these happy 
 men after their hardest labors, to cure them of their most lively 
 passions, to restore to them all the strength and all the vivacity 
 which they have expended during the winter. Thanks to this 
 sweet valley of such easy poetry, even the Alps have nothing to 
 attract them; the voyage round the world appears to them a folly; 
 and indeed, what is the use of going so far, in order to find the 
 peaceful joys and the delightful freedom of the country, when 
 you have them close at hand, when you can transport yourself 
 there in a few hours ; above all, when these poor, delicate, fragile 
 ladies can find, on the borders of this gently agitated lake, the 
 rest which is so necessary for them ? For my part, I have not 
 the boldness to blame them. I wished to see, and I have seen, 
 this charming valley, of which poetry recounts so many marvels, 
 which are not, however, beyond the truth. Picture to yourself 
 an immense park, filled with villages and hamlets, gardens, and 
 forests, with a fertile soil, limpid waters, and rich culture; 
 nothing is wanting, not even ruins and old castles. There lived 
 and reigned, in the time of Louis the Gross, that terrible Bou- 
 chard de Montmorenci, who was so difficult to tame. Many 
 frightful stories are related of this bandit, who was the head of 
 one of the most illustrious houses in France. But, at the pre- 
 
 o
 
 194 MONTMORENCI. 
 
 sent day, nothing remains of these men of iron, except some ruins 
 of their chateau, and the remembrance of their glory. In France, 
 glory is the only thing which is imperishable ; the feudal towers 
 have been demolished, the gothic churches have been torn down, 
 the princely domains have been sold by auction .... but not one 
 of the great names of France has been forgotten. And this is 
 the reason, that she has continued so great amongst the nations of 
 the world. 
 
 Amongst all the Montmorencies who have furnished so many 
 constables to France, the people particularly remember that 
 courageous Anne de Montmorenci, who was the right hand of 
 Francis I. and his most valiant gentleman. History recalls to 
 us, that unhappy Henri de Montmorenci, put to death in Paris 
 by Cardinal de Richelieu, who thus revenged upon the head of 
 the first Christian baron, the insults received by the feudal kings. 
 At the present moment, the beautiful village which bears the 
 name of Montmorenci is one of the numerous rendezvous of the 
 Parisians during the summer : the village is a delightful spot, 
 the wood resounds with cries of joy. The first who pointed out 
 to the Parisian, this forest of his adoption, was no less a person 
 than Jean Jacques Rousseau. Before him, very few travellers 
 had trusted themselves in this forest enclosed between two moun- 
 tains ; but when he had once carried there his eloquent poverty, 
 his generous inspiration, his enthusiastic and loving reveries, 
 there was' soon a contest, who should visit these beautiful paths 
 celebrated by the author of the Emile. But in that modest 
 house, which is still visited with respect, J. J. Rousseau found 
 his only days of repose and solitude, and almost his only days of 
 hope; there, he forgot those ardent struggles, those often cruel 
 passions, and finally, must it be said ? the delirium of his 
 pride. After him, the little house was inhabited by a more 
 natural and a more naturally happy man, Gretry, the artless 
 author of so many charming melodies, the amiable composer of 
 the most popular chefs d'ceuvre of French music. This very
 
 SAINT ORA.TIEN. 195 
 
 winter, all Paris trembled at the sound of that strain now 
 become national, Oh Richard, oh my king! Dear, little house, 
 rendered illustrious by these two geniuses ! It might repeat, in 
 case of need, the happiest choruses from the Devin du Village, 
 and the exquisite trio of Zemire et Azor ! The Parisian never 
 fails to commence his ramble in the forest of Montmorenci, by 
 visiting the house of Jean Jacques. There, he finds the beech 
 table on which wrote the author of the Heloise, the cage in which 
 sang his favorite bird, and even his wooden bed, the witness of 
 so many sleepless nights. Poor Rousseau ! and how the agita- 
 tations of his life would disgust the wise men of the best acquired 
 celebrity ! But the man who truly conceals himself, where does 
 he hide ? 
 
 Not far from Montmorenci, when you have traversed a small 
 wood of oak, and descended to the bottom of the valley, you will 
 find yourself at Saint Gratien, Saint Gratien, which was the 
 retreat of the calmest and most sincere of heroes, the Marshal de 
 Catinat. He was the pride of the armies of his majesty King 
 Louis XIV.; the most serious and most amiable man of the 
 great century. Never was the self-denial of any one carried to a 
 greater extent ; his courage was equalled only by his modesty. 
 After having gained so many battles, he quitted the court, in 
 order to retire to this beautiful mansion, where, from time to time, 
 the respect and the praise of men came to seek the marshal, who 
 had fallen into disgrace with the king. 
 
 The shades of Saint Gratien have preserved I know not what 
 imposing grandeur, which has an irresistible effect. In vain has 
 the house been demolished; in vain has the park been divided 
 among the citizens of Paris ; I know not why, but people are 
 silent when they pass beneath these trees, as if the illustrious 
 captain were about to make his appearance. 
 
 Eaubonne, on the contrary, is a gay, amiable village, of some- 
 what profane appearance, and which, if need were, could easily 
 recall the follies, the elegances, and the vices of last century. 
 
 o 2
 
 196 SANNOIS EPINAY. 
 
 There lived and reigned, less by wit than by grace, less by the 
 youth and beauty of her countenance, than by the kindness and 
 excellence of her heart, that so loved and so charming Madame 
 d'Houdetot, for whom I had almost said by whom was 
 written the Helo'ise, and who must have inspired Jean Jacques 
 with his warmest pages. In the world of literature, she was 
 called the Sevigne of Sannois; and, indeed, she had her de- 
 lightful ease, her piquant conversation, her witty mind. 
 
 From the village of Sannois to the village of Epinay is not 
 far; but what an infinite distance separated Madame d'Houdetot 
 from Madame d'Epinay. The latter, even without trusting too 
 much to the Confessions, was an arrant flirt ! These men and 
 women of the eighteenth century had very little heart ! They 
 amused themselves with this great genius as if he were a frivolous 
 plaything ; they treated him like one of the baboons on their 
 chimney piece. Madame d'Epinay called him her bear ; but the 
 bear grew sulky, and once offended would not wait, under the 
 roof which she had lent him, until the month of May had re- 
 appeared, not even till the first flowers of April blossomed ; he 
 would leave, leave immediately, beneath this cold December cloud, 
 across the snow which covered the highway, poor, ill, already old, 
 and dragging after him some wretched furniture, which was 
 broken on the road. But nevertheless, leave Jean Jacques to 
 instal himself in his new asylum ; suffer the spring, the sun, the 
 song of the bird, all the sweet harmonies of the country to 
 return, and you will see the great genius himself again. You 
 will recognise him by the lively inspiration of his eloquence. 
 Thanks to this fresh landscape which has yielded him so many 
 honest joys, and so much delirium without danger, Jean Jacques 
 Rousseau is every where in this valley, which he has surveyed 
 under every aspect. You find him again at the foot of the old 
 trees, near the fountain which murmurs its plaintive song, on 
 the borders of the lake, in the evening, when the moon rises 
 in the softly lighted heavens. The rest of this charming country 
 is equally fertile in associations.
 
 JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. 197 
 
 Poor Rousseau ! he was for a long time the love and the idol 
 of the Parisian ! His books were the favorite reading of all the 
 young men and all the little girls ; they repaired each year in 
 pilgrimage to this valley, rendered illustrious by his wonderful 
 genius. It seems to me, that this adoration of Jean Jacques 
 is somewhat enfeebled in this forgetful country of France. 
 Whether it is, that Jean Jacques Rousseau has formed in this 
 century, such terrible disciples (M. de Lamennais and George 
 Sand), or whether dull curiosity as to the events of which 
 romance treats, has prevailed over brilliancy and vivacity of 
 style, the fact is, that the author of the Emile and the Heldise t 
 appears to me, to have fallen into profound disgrace. More 
 than any other spot in the world, does the valley of Mont- 
 morenci recall to us J. J. Rousseau ; there he has lived, if 
 not happy, at least free, at least his own master, to obey as he 
 would, the power of inspiration and genius. The Hermitage of 
 Montmorenci recalls to us the happy transports of which these 
 lovely spots were the witnesses. This time, the poet, an en- 
 thusiast for silence and solitude, quitted the noisy city, never 
 more to return to it. The simple house was barely repaired, 
 the spring was yet far distant ; but the impatience of the 
 unsociable being was so great, his joy was so lively, that in 
 spite of every thing he would set out. He recalls it to my 
 mind, as if it had only happened last spring ! The earth was 
 just beginning to vegetate ; you could see the violets and the 
 primroses ; the blushing buds of the trees began to show them- 
 selves. In the wood which joins the house, do you hear the 
 nightingale ? Oh what delight for this popular hero of the 
 gay saloons of Paris, what happiness for this spoiled child of 
 fame, at last to find himself alone and free, in this pure air, in 
 this open space, in this budding wood ! Thus he would see 
 every thing with his own eyes, touch every thing with his own 
 hands, look at all, listen to all, the sounds of earth and the 
 sounds of heaven, and all the wandering melodies of morning
 
 198 MONTMOBENCI. 
 
 and evening. Not a path, not a copse, not a grove, not a nook, 
 which he does not explore with the greatest delight. This 
 place, solitary rather than wild, transported him in idea, to the 
 ends of the earth ; it had some of those touching beauties which 
 are seldom found near cities, and never, on reaching the spot, 
 could you imagine that you were but at the distance of four 
 leagues from Paris. 
 
 Thus he freely yielded himself to his rural delirium ; the forest 
 of Montmorenci became his work-room. There he dreamed, 
 he meditated, he wrote, he watched the clouds as they passed 
 over the face of the sky ! He occupied himself, in this profound 
 peace, with the means of giving perpetual peace to the men who 
 wished for it ; Pax hominibus bonee voluntatis ! There espe- 
 cially he forgot nature painted, arranged, tortured, prepared 
 beforehand, as it was understood at that epoch of every kind 
 of artifice, which was even introduced amongst the flowers, 
 that sprang in such liberal numbers from the bosom of the 
 earth. In the old forest, there were no jets d'eau, no manu- 
 factured groves, no parterres, no statues ; and also no pamphlets, 
 no harpsichords, no trios, no foolish difficulties, no bon mots, x no 
 insipid affectation, no little narrators, and no great suppers; 
 nor yet any amber, or furbelows, or jewels ; and behind one, 
 there was no lackey to pour out, for you, with a pleasant air, 
 adulterated wines. No, certainly, but to make amends for this, 
 there was the greatest independence, an agreeable and solitary 
 asylum, hawthorn bushes, thickets laden with fruits ; meadows, 
 wheat, hamlets, rustic songs, delightful shades, and the purling 
 of the brooks. There also, he recalled the few fine days of his 
 youth, the first palpitations of his heart, the happy accidents of 
 his life ; the dinner at the chateau de Tonne ; Mademoiselle 
 Galley and her companion, when they crossed the water, showing 
 their white teeth as they laughed ; and the scene of the tree 
 covered with cherries ; " Why are not my lips cherries !" and 
 Mademoiselle de Breil, the charming Madame Basile, whose
 
 IMAGINATION. 199 
 
 memory still enlightens the whole city of Turin ; and Madame 
 de Larnage ; and you also, piquant Zulietta, the Venetian ! 
 Past intoxication, remembrances of early days, distant melodies, 
 floating reveries, passing enthusiasm of the first spring seasons, 
 vanished to so great a distance ! 
 
 But, to these choice minds, love is never impossible ; they 
 have at their command all kinds of new passions ; the ideal 
 satisfies them, the ideal, which sings and which dreams, 
 and which colors all dreams. Hail then to the country of 
 chimeras ! Let us leave Rousseau to surround himself at his 
 ease, with the most perfect creatures, celestial by their virtues, 
 angels by their beauty. A happy man at last, behold him 
 flitting in the air, amidst the lovely beings of his creation. 
 There he passes hours, there he passes days, he gives his 
 whole life to this occupation ; he will scarcely take time to eat, 
 so impatient is he to return to the enchanted forest, which is 
 filled with these aerial imaginations ! 
 
 But, oh misfortune! all this dream of love is about to 
 become reality ; all this ideal happiness is to be replaced 
 by ardent passion, bitter tears, sleepless nights, agitations 
 of the heart ! Oh Madame d'Houdetot, what were you about, 
 when you took the fancy to pass by the mill of Clairvaux 
 in order to arrive at the Hermitage? She laughed! she had 
 plunged her foot into the mud, up to the ankle bone, and it 
 was necessary for the philosopher to allow this little foot to be 
 dried at his fire! Poor Jean Jacques Rousseau! Assuredly the 
 Louvre is a beautiful work amongst all the works of men ; it 
 shines with a brilliancy new every day ! The Louvre is the 
 admiration of Paris and of the world. And yet such is the 
 mighty power of poetry and imagination, that two lines of a 
 great writer will give even the celebrity of the Louvre, to the 
 most humble shrub and the most unknown path of the forest 
 of Montmorenci.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 IN the month of June, you will suddenly find that you can be 
 present at the f6te of the flowers. They have their day of glory 
 and of triumph, their crowns and their golden medals, as well as 
 poetry and the fine arts. The chateau of the Tuileries is not too 
 splendid, to shelter these fragile but charming wrestlers of the 
 Parisian Flora, the palace of the Luxembourg is not too magnifi- 
 cent, worthily to accommodate them. Suffer me then to conduct 
 you to this beautiful spot, where the wisest horticulturists and 
 the most skilful gardeners of Paris assemble all the riches of 
 their hot-houses, of their gardens, of their orchards, in order to 
 compose, with the four seasons of the year, gathered together 
 in the same place, the freshest, most delightful, and most fugitive 
 of exhibitions. 
 
 To speak the truth, it is a wonderful display. You are 
 much astonished, no doubt, when you see arriving at the Louvre, 
 the Cassandre of M. Pradier, or the Cam of M. Etex, moun- 
 tains of marble or bronze, but it is doubtless much more surpris- 
 ing, to see running to the Luxembourg, roses and oaks, the 
 carnation and the camelia, the former the honor of the gardens,
 
 HORTICULTURAL FETE. 201 
 
 the latter the glory and pride of the opera boxes, which it con- 
 verts into so many parterres intermingled with living flowers ! 
 Yes, it is strange, to see blended, not only without violence, but 
 on the contrary, in the most delightful manner, corn and grapes, 
 the winter apple and the peach, the monthly rose and the chilly 
 magnolia grandiflora. Formerly this was the task of the land- 
 scape painters, the work of Cabat or of Jules Dupre ; they 
 remained the absolute and legitimate masters of the verdant 
 forest, the calm orchard ; now, in their turn, gardeners and 
 laborers set themselves to the employment ; the landscape painter 
 is surpassed by a power superior to his own : strictly speaking, 
 it is the realization of the speech of Jean Bart to Louis XIV., 
 What he has said, I will do ! 
 
 Meantime, we must hasten, if we wish to see in their beauty, 
 these delicate paintings which the pencil of man has never 
 touched ; we must hasten, if we would admire them in all their 
 spring youth and grace, those sweet masterpieces so exquisitely 
 sculptured by a hand divine ; let us profit as we can, by this 
 brilliancy of a day, by this grace which lasts barely an hour, by 
 these ephemeral wonders, children nourished by the air, by the 
 sun, by the beneficent dew, by the sap which circulates in the 
 old trees ; an eternal life which lasts a day, a youth unceasingly 
 returning; frail yet enduring chefs d'ceuvre which die to re- 
 appear. Already, there are more than one of these beautiful 
 exiled plants, which, in a low voice, regret their native soil; more 
 than one, which seek in vain the clear lake, that served as a 
 mirror to their beauty. Ennui takes possession of them in this 
 palace of the Luxembourg, a brilliant prison. In these dark and 
 silent galleries, the lovely flowers want air, sun, and space ; in 
 vain do they call for the song of the bird, the limpid murmur of 
 the brook, the morning and the evening dew, the mid-day sun, 
 the soft light of the moon, and the fruitful dust of these beautiful 
 stars of night, which flutter in the heavens. Even the butterfly 
 has abandoned the rose ; the gilded butterfly has forsaken the
 
 202 THE DAHLIAS. 
 
 lily ; the bee has left the flowering genista ; La Fontaine's rabbit 
 has forgotten the wild thyme ; the shining worm, its blade of 
 grass. At the same time, the violet complains of having been 
 forcibly torn from the leaf which conceals it ; the ivy asks where 
 it must cling ; the moss seeks an old stone to cover with its 
 soft carpet ; the unhappy water lily regrets the little brook on 
 which it displayed its flowers ; the saddened yoke-elm no longer 
 hears the song of the nightingale. The disorder is complete, the 
 grief is universal. And yet these unfortunate exiles patiently 
 suffer all these tortures, they force themselves to be beautiful and 
 to appear so, they will not contradict their noble origin ; they 
 have all the grace, but likewise all the courage of flowers ; one 
 of them, and she the most beautiful, died, immediately on her 
 entrance into the palace, and you may still see the corpse lan- 
 guishing in its original beauty ; she died sweetly, as all flowers do 
 die, enveloping herself in her withering leaf as in a modest wind- 
 ing sheet. Once more, then, we must hasten ; do not let us 
 prolong these sufferings more than is necessary. 
 
 However, laying aside a very natural philanthropy for these 
 fragile and delightful creatures, it is a sight full of interest, and 
 we know no time more filled with pleasures of every kind, than 
 this hour passed amidst these newly blown flowers, these fruits 
 gathered but the evening before ; on all sides there are the most 
 incredible rarities and splendors. First displays itself to you, in 
 all its varieties, in all its colors, in all its incalculable brilliancy, 
 the family of the dahlias, born but yesterday, but already nearly 
 as numerous as the family of Montmorenci, since the day when its 
 old genealogical tree was planted in the holy ground of the 
 crusades. Whoever should attempt to count, and arrange in 
 order, these colored members of the same family, even were he 
 called Linnaeus, would, in the attempt, lose his patience, his 
 science, and his Latin. At the present day, there is no cele- 
 brated gardener, there is no good house possessing a garden, 
 without a complete collection of dahlias ; new varieties are pro-
 
 USEFUL FLOWERS. 203 
 
 duced by every kind of stratagem ; the beautiful plant! slender, 
 balanced upon its stalk, of elegant form, and infinite variety, 
 hardy, and asking only the most ordinary care ; it is now, at 
 once, the simplest and the most brilliant decoration of the 
 garden. 
 
 But let us turn to this admirable collection of useful flowers. 
 Useful and flower, two apparently opposite words, two lying 
 promises, . . . two promises accomplished; pretty flowers which 
 heal, elegant plants which save. Strange to say, these same medi- 
 cinal plants which appear to us so horrible to see, hung, as they 
 are, like so many faded garlands after a revel, at the door of the 
 apothecaries or the herbalists; when you come to observe them 
 upon their waving stalks, you are delighted and astonished to 
 find that they have all the appearance of a flower, of a modest 
 shrub, of a sweet something, in fact, which it is impossible to de- 
 fine. Are these indeed the same frightful, nauseous, powdery herbs, 
 with which we are pursued by domestic pharmacy ? 'Tis even 
 so, that pretty, little, blue flower, that flower which leans so 
 coquettishly, that sweet verdure which you would say, was spread 
 there to serve some poetic meditation, all these fresh treasures, 
 will be the prey of the herbalist, of the tisan maker ; they will 
 yield the yellowish tint of the liquorice bush ; they will fill with 
 their nauseous and insipid juice the cup of the hospital ; they will 
 make us -turn away our heads in our days of sickness. Permit 
 us then, to look at them with affection and enjoyment, whilst we 
 are in good health, both we and the plants. Suffer us to gather 
 them while they are in flower, allow us to inhale their light 
 perfume, without any other thought, than that of agreeably flat- 
 tering the frailest and most evanescent of our five senses. Now 
 or never is the time to cry, Oh medicine ! I will none of you ! 
 And truly, apropos of these plants, whenever I look at a herb- 
 alist, it seems to me that I see some beautiful, young girl, slight 
 and elegant, in the arms of a grave-digger. 
 
 Unfortunately the barbarous Latin of the gardeners of Paris
 
 204 BARBAROUS LATIN. 
 
 and of England, somewhat spoils at least with me the grace, 
 the brilliancy, and the perfume of the loveliest flowers. 
 
 Can you imagine that, to speak Latin, at the present day, in 
 this France, so proud of her science, collected from every quarter 
 of the globe it is not necessary to be the Christian orator in his 
 pulpit, or the political orator in his tribune : the magistrate dis- 
 penses with it as easily as the soldier, the philosopher as well as 
 the artist, the prose writer as well as the poet ; the disdain of it is 
 general, the exemption is the same for all ; but from this for- 
 gotten science, the gardener alone is not released. The spade 
 does not preserve from Latin ; on the contrary, these vulgar 
 fathers of the most beautiful flowers must speak the most barba- 
 rous idiom, if they wish to understand each other. All the 
 names of the mother tongue, and even those adopted by the 
 poets, are pitilessly banished from the richest parterres ; so that 
 you, who arrive, full of animation, to witness this perfumed fete 
 of the Parisian Flora, and who think yourself sufficiently ad- 
 vanced to understand the patois of our modern Linnaeuses, you, 
 who read Horace and Tacitus with ease, are yet completely at 
 a loss, what to understand by all these barbarous names which 
 belong to no language. You ask yourself with alarm, what is 
 this unknown argot, and in what Iroquois country you have 
 suddenly fallen. The best loved and the most familiar flower, 
 that which you see every morning in your garden, that which 
 you offer to the lady of your affections, that which you plant on 
 the tomb of your mother, in order that she may have near her a 
 filial remembrance, those gentle companions of our childhood, 
 the sweet flowers that we imprudently wasted, as if they were 
 only our happy days, well! thanks to this barbarous Latin, we 
 no longer know their names ; we seek, but in vain, to recognise 
 them, we dare not say that we have met them somewhere beneath 
 our footsteps, when we had numbered but sixteen years. Go 
 then and see where you are with such words as these ; liatris 
 squarrosa, lobelia tupa, salvia canariensis, fuchsia coccinea,
 
 THE ROSES. 205 
 
 pentstemon gentianoides, trop&lum pentaphyllum ! Assuredly, 
 he who originated this science, and at the same time originated 
 its language, the great Linnaeus, as he is called, must have been 
 indeed, a man of surpassing genius, for the language which he 
 formed, thus to have been preserved, among so many revolutions 
 which have caused much more important things than languages 
 to disappear ! At any rate, this Latin of the Parisian gardeners, 
 not the kitchen, but the garden Latin, the analogies of which 
 cannot be perceived, is one of the most incredible languages 
 which men ever spoke. 
 
 How much I prefer the nomenclature of the roses ! I know 
 not why, but it seems to me, that in the vegetable world, this is 
 the only flower which has escaped Latin designations. This 
 favor has been granted it, that it should be abandoned to all 
 vulgar minds ; whilst our hot-house Latinists put themselves to 
 torture that they may forge barbarisms. The amateur of roses, 
 more indulgent and more sensible, gives to his beautiful flowers, 
 beloved names ; the names of heroes, of great artists ; the names 
 of beautiful ladies, the name of his young wife, or his eldest 
 daughter, or of his infant child ; sometimes even the name of 
 his political opinions. Thus you have the rose Henry V. and 
 the rose Ferdinand, one near the other, and without dreading a 
 duel with thorns ; you have the rose Louis XII. and the rose 
 Louis XV.; the rose Elizabeth, Colbert, Emilie Lesourd; the 
 rose Rosine, and the rose Fanclion, and the rose Celemene ; ma 
 tante Aurore and Silene have each their own rose. These are 
 what I call titles; with these you may recognise them again, 
 when once you have named them ! General Marceau and 
 Marechal de Villars have also their rose. Alas ! there is also 
 the rose Charles X., that dethroned king, that kind, affable 
 gentleman ; here is all that remains to us of this king of France, 
 less than nothing, a flower ! 
 
 It is very vexatious that we should be so completely ignorant 
 of all these wonders ; above all, it is very annoying that we have
 
 206 TULIPS DAISIES PANSIE8. 
 
 not time to learn this new science, which must render the honest 
 men who cultivate it so happy. Here, for instance, is a clever 
 horticulturalist, who exhibits sixty-two varieties of plants, from 
 the fuchsia macrostemma to the rudbeckia hirta. Oh the beau- 
 tiful tulips ! the splendid colors ! the sweet flower cup of exqui- 
 site form ! The great master of this varied army, whom the 
 conquering spring brings in his suite to thank the sun, is a 
 skilful gardener named Tripet Leblanc. But then, the tulip 
 fades so quickly! It is too evanescent for the honors of the exhi- 
 bition. In the month of July, the most beautiful tulip is nothing 
 more than a vile onion, melancholy to see. This is the reason that 
 M. Tripet Leblanc, when his tulip is faded, turns all his attention 
 to the most simple and most modest of flowers, the daisy, which 
 did not expect so much honor. And if you knew how grateful 
 they had shown themselves, for all the trouble which the clever 
 gardener has taken ! These flowers, so humble in their attitude 
 and in their natural dress, have raised their heads, and are now 
 adorned with the most varied colors. They are shepherdesses 
 who have become queens, by the simple power of their native 
 beauty and brilliancy. Then come the pansies, a numerous 
 family, to which art and care have given incredible dimensions. 
 Never could the modest flower have dreamed of a richer mantle 
 of velvet and ermine. We stop, we look at them, we ask our- 
 selves if this is really the flower of former days ? It is herself, 
 dressed, enlarged, ornamented. But what sweet odor strikes 
 your delighted sense ? what unexpected perfumes ? what un- 
 known forms ? We are now in presence of all the productions 
 of the south and the sun. Coffee, sugar cane, vanilla, tea, 
 opium ; the most beautiful chadec orange trees, with contracted 
 leaves, with myrtle blossoms, or with fading blossoms ; they are 
 obtained without difficulty in the hot-houses of the Parisian 
 gardens. Suddenly, a strong smell of jasmine reaches you ; 
 did you not then perceive, laden with their white flowers, those 
 jasmines from the Azores, those odoriferous myrtles, those red
 
 FLORA AND POMONA. 207 
 
 flowered arbutuses? In point of trees and rare plants, salute 
 the long leaved magnolia grandiflora, the English magnolia, 
 the myrtle, and the nerium a feuilles panachees, the geranium 
 regine, the Peruvian heliotrope, and the cactus, the dwarf banana 
 tree from China, and the new bananas from Havana, and the 
 golden cedar tree of M. Soulange Bodin, and his cypress, and 
 his varieties of pine trees, and his fine oaks of seven different 
 species ; in a word, all the curiosities of those beautiful gardens 
 of Fromont, so long despised, and which have, at the present 
 day, become a great and noble enterprise ! But, indeed, we 
 know not what to choose from this rich display. One has 
 transplanted trees brought from all the known parts of the 
 world; another less ambitious, has cultivated the orge d? Imalaya 
 and the moutarde de Chine. This one, forcing every law of 
 nature, brings us in triumph, a magnolia hartwica. The history 
 of this beautiful plant is worthy of being related. It is the pro- 
 duction of a magnolia grandiflora and a magnolia fuscata. It 
 blossomed for the first time, at the very foot ; it was then only 
 thirty inches high : its flowers were small, as white as those of 
 the lily, and had preserved the sweet smell of the magnolia 
 fuscata, their worthy father. 
 
 In point of beautiful trees, you have the silvery fir, the olive 
 tree of Crimea, the Virginia poplar. 
 
 But this is not all ; Pomona, now disputes the prize with 
 Flora ! After blossoms, comes fruit ; this is but fair. It is 
 enough to make your mouth water, only to hear their names ; the 
 Canada pippin, the Dutch pippin, the various kinds of pears, 
 the crasanne, the Saint Germain, the beurre gris, the bon 
 chretien d'hiver, the Messire Jean dore, the doyenne d'automne. 
 And the delicious fruits which I forget, ungrateful that I am ! 
 the cerise de Prusse, and the poire du tonneau, and the 
 sweet, brilliant, velvet peaches a thousand times more beautiful 
 than the golden apples of the garden of Hesperides ! the peche- 
 petite-mignonne, Golconde, Madeleine rouge, Malte, Belle-de-
 
 208 VEGETABLES FRUIT FLOWERS. 
 
 Vitry, newly landed from the village of Montreuil, all blushing, 
 and covered with that fine down which softens their brightest 
 colors. 
 
 But how is it possible to remember every thing ? All the 
 fruits of creation were united to all its flowers ! The calville, 
 apples from every kind of apple-tree were mingled with the 
 flowers of all the rose trees ; there were pears and jonquilles, 
 roses and strawberries, the apricot lying with the marvel of Peru, 
 immense melons half concealed beneath the blossoms of the 
 cactus ! The grapes, how rich, how rare, how numerous they 
 are ! And the well dressed plants, even the most common, 
 which fill worthily their place in this kitchen garden surrounded 
 by such rich borders, in this orchard in the open air, mingled 
 with the choicest productions of the hothouse and the green- 
 house. For instance, what an interesting confusion, the Eastern 
 garlic, the Jersey shallot, the onion, the wild carrot, the yellow 
 turnip from Naples, the pine apple potatoes, the wild chicory, 
 that horrible drug from which is manufactured a horrible coffee ; 
 the radish, the wild cabbage, the shrivelled date, the Russian 
 cucumber, the Italian pumpkin, the Maltese melon with red or 
 white skin, the white Spanish cedra, the black Belgic kidney 
 bean, all the treasures of the kitchen gardens mingled with the 
 balsams, the Chinese and Indian carnations, the dahlias, and the 
 queen daisies : without counting that the orge a deux rangs tri- 
 furquts, the seigle de la Saint Jean, the indigo, the moka de 
 Hongrie, the chanvre du Piemont play their parts in this rural 
 drama, a drama full of variety, elegance, and interest. This is, 
 without contradiction, one of the greatest enjoyments of a sum- 
 mer in Paris, one of the most agreeable relaxations of this 
 delightful weather. More than one lady of twenty years old, 
 smiling, inconsiderate, too pretty to be often serious, nevertheless, 
 thinks this annual exhibition of the finest fruits and the most 
 beautiful flowers, an important business. More than once, as 
 you watch these fair damsels, attentive, and curious, you are
 
 THE CARNATIONS. 209 
 
 astonished to find that they give to all these plants their ap- 
 propriate names ; they arrange them in families, they recog- 
 nise them by certain signs, they salute them with transport 
 as so many sisters happily re-found. These young Parisian 
 ladies can, with so much grace, make a transitory pleasure of a 
 grave affair, a serious occupation of a useless passion ! Watch 
 that lady, who passes, enveloped in a mantle ; she is going to the 
 Chamber of Deputies, to be present, smiling, and half lolling, at 
 the discussion upon questions of peace or war. She does not 
 listen, she looks, she wishes to be seen ; she has promised the 
 speaker to utter a little sound of applause at his most eloquent 
 passage, and she will not fail to keep her word ! A week after- 
 wards, you may find the same frolicsome, careless damsel who 
 laughed so much over the question about sugars, or the right of 
 search walking with a grave, solemn step, through the horticul- 
 tural exhibition. Silence ! she thinks, she compares, she judges ! 
 Suffer her to speak, and she will astonish the most intrepid no- 
 menclators, in their own science. 
 
 But what do we say? For some two days, the regiments of 
 carnations are under arms, they have assumed their scarlet robes, 
 they have decorated themselves with their most brilliant neck- 
 cloths ; it is the time when the flower starts up, young, slender, 
 and erect upon its stalk. At this hour, nothing is more beautiful 
 to see, than the thousand children of the great family of the car- 
 nations, all varied in form, in color, in grace, and in brilliancy. 
 Spoiled children of the French Flora, they display to the 
 southern wind their richest cloak of crimson. The buzzing bee, 
 seeing their loveliness, scarcely dares touch them with his ho- 
 nied sting ; the fresh morning throws into their flower-cup a 
 drop of his sweet dew. The sun salutes them with his indulgent 
 rays, the evening wind rocks and lulls them to sleep, not without 
 having carefully closed the precious calyx. The dazzled eye 
 knows not where to turn, amidst these perfumed flowers with their 
 thousand colors.
 
 210 FAVORITE NAMES. 
 
 Here is the odorous army of the red carnations, of a deep, 
 brilliant red ! Here are the scarlet jldmands, the sables with 
 their diversified colors, the bichons bordered with blue and rose, 
 the ardoises of clear pearl color shaded with red the powdered 
 chamois, true chamberlains of the empire of Flora, the yellow 
 carnations, and finally the fantaisie, the whimsical carnation 
 which belongs to each and to all, capricious, coquettish, fantas- 
 tical ; the carnation a broom-plant which displays all kinds of 
 variegations upon its war helmet. How beautiful, how gay they 
 are, how happy to pass their life of a day ? And that they may 
 readily be found again in the flowering season, the clever gar- 
 dener has simply given them the greatest and most charming 
 names of modern France. Here, we may salute his majesty 
 King Louis Philippe, and his royal highness the Prince de 
 Joinville, and the duke d'Aumale, carelessly placed at the very 
 top of its stalk ; the Duchess de Nemours, so brilliant ; and the 
 Count de Paris, that handsome child ! There, you may see 
 M. Guizot by the side of Madame Thiers, Mademoiselle Berlin 
 not far from M. Hugo, M. Ingres and M. Alphonse Karr. 
 Who else ? The Princess de Czartoryska, Mademoiselle Mars, 
 and Mademoiselle Georges, under the name Melpomene. 
 
 After the astronomer who makes one of the stars assume the 
 name of his young wife ; after the enthusiastic traveller, who 
 from the height of the terrace of Saint Germain when evening 
 approaches contemplates this immense gulf called Paris ; yes 
 certainly, and even after the poet who gives the appellation of his 
 mistress to a whole century, I know no happier man than the 
 florist, who can thus name, according to his own fancy, all the 
 flowers of his garden.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 THE great delight, the great occupation of the summer, in 
 Paris, is music. As long as the winter lasts, the Parisians play 
 to be applauded, to be admired, but when summer comes, they 
 play for themselves, not for others. If you take pleasure in 
 hearing them sing, or touch their favorite instruments, well and 
 good, they will permit you to be present ; but you are perfectly 
 at liberty, if music does not please you, to go and walk in the 
 garden. It must also be confessed, that this great art is admir- 
 ably cultivated in this city, the progress of which is so rapid in 
 all the arts. Fontenelle, who had so much wit, and who com- 
 prehended things so exactly, said in his time, Sonata, what 
 would you, from me? If Fontenelle were living now, he would 
 lend an attentive and delighted ear, to the skilful melodies of 
 some happy drawing-rooms, which are justly celebrated through- 
 out Paris. Music is no longer, as in the time of Clement! 
 and the harpsichord, a strumming occupation of the young 
 girl who wishes to be married ; it is a complete science, 
 difficult, gravely cultivated even by young scholars, who are 
 trained at an early age, by clever masters. Thus, music is 
 
 p 2
 
 212 MEYERBEER ROSSINI HALEVY. 
 
 no longer made a frivolous pastime, but is taught as a 
 serious business ! I know a certain Parisian house, con- 
 cealed between the silence of the court and the shadow of the 
 garden, in which, if you have the slightest love for chefs d'ceuvre, 
 you will certainly hear the best and most delightful music. 
 There reign, as absolute masters, venerated and admired, Weber 
 and Mozart, Gluck and Beethoven ; all kinds of genius, every 
 great work ; the clearest and most beautiful voices consider it an 
 honor, to sing these calm and affectionate melodies. What the 
 master has composed, they sing as he has composed it ; nothing 
 more, nothing less. What pleasant evenings are thus passed 
 with the Freischutz, or the Don Juan, or the Adelaide! Or 
 else, it is some new comer, who asks aid and protection ; it is 
 Schubert, for instance, whose ideal reverie makes every mind 
 fall into a thousand happy dreams. To all these great ideas, 
 the most excellent interpreters are not wanted; these fearless 
 singers are encouraged in their noble task by the first composers 
 of the present day ; Meyerbeer, if he is at all pleased with these 
 fine voices, will lead the orchestra ; Rossini, if he feels himself 
 to be well understood and well rendered, will preside at the 
 piano. How often I have seen Halevy turn the page of the 
 lady who sang ! For all the composers of Europe consider 
 as an honor, this musical fraternity, which unites them to the 
 virtuosos of the saloons. They are so happy and so proud to 
 see themselves thus understood, thus sung ! At the same time, 
 the best artists ask their part in this long dreamed popularity. 
 Madame Damoreau, for instance, is never more charming, never 
 more bird-like, than in these friendly reunions, where she can 
 display, at her ease, the rare bewitcheries of this inimitable art. 
 That poor Nourrit, who died so quickly! With how much 
 feeling did he sing the melodies of Schubert, which he taught 
 to France, and M. de Chateaubriand's air, the Breton air, 
 Combien jai douce souvenance ! Last summer, at a chateau 
 in Normandy, one rainy evening, a young woman, with a hand-
 
 EXQUISITE SINGERS. 213 
 
 some and stern countenance, rose suddenly, without being asked 
 to do so, placed herself at the piano, and sang with an exquisite 
 voice, some little unknown drama, written in a few plaintive notes. 
 .... She drew tears from all of us, and when we asked the 
 name of this lady, so simple, so touching, so true, whom we 
 should have taken for the proprietress of some neighboring 
 chateau, they answered that it was Madame Nathan-Treilhet, the 
 finest voice at the Opera in Paris. Or perhaps, in the fashion- 
 able world, a lady takes her seat at the piano, and breathes forth 
 the sweetest airs of Bellini, that genius who died so young ! 
 Her voice is soft, vibrating, energetic ; who is she ? She is 
 called the countess de Montenegro ; not long since, she was a 
 person of quality in Spain ; at the present day, she knocks at the 
 door of the Italian Theatre! And that rare talent, that inde- 
 fatigable inspiration, that lady of so much art, taste, and feeling, 
 who sings as long as people wish, when she feels herself admired 
 and listened to ? it is Madame de Sparre, the queen of saloons 
 filled with melody. Or else, that active, delicate lady, with an 
 intelligent, black eye, full of fire, a quick mind, an accomplished 
 performer, who sings with so skilful and so airy a voice, while 
 she looks, at every bar, at the gentleman who accompanies her ; 
 it would certainly be impossible to find two voices which 
 accorded better. These clever and melodious singers agree 
 wonderfully; they attack the most difficult works; just as she 
 is quick, animated, gay, natural, in the same proportion is he 
 animated, airy, droll, amusing, delightful ; the best music of 
 Italy, all her old masters, have no secrets for these two good 
 companions of natural melody. Who is he ? and who is she ? 
 He is the cleverest chemist of the present day, the most laborious 
 savant in France ; he has written books which have become 
 laws ; he has, by himself, discovered more crimes, than all the 
 most acute criminal lawyers united. This man, who gives with 
 so much energy and expression, Rossini's music, is the same who 
 discovered, in so complete a way, in the stomach of Madame
 
 214 PRINCE DE LA MOSCOWA. 
 
 Lafarge's victim, the traces of the poison which concealed itself 
 
 there You remember that melancholy scene, when, upon 
 
 the stern and convinced countenance of this man, frightened him- 
 self at what he was about to say, the criminal could read her 
 sentence .... and the judges their award already dictated ! 
 
 Music ! it is the great pleasure of this city, the great occupation 
 of the drawing-rooms, which have banished politics, and which 
 have renounced literature, from ennui. Question your recollec- 
 tions, and you will see that this great art of music is exercised 
 by those men and women, who occupy the highest position in the 
 world. The Prince de la Moscowa this spring, had the chefs 
 d'oeuvre of Handel and of Palestrina, sung by the most beautiful 
 voices in the faubourg Saint Germain. Never did the ancient 
 abbey of Longchamps, in the time of its splendor, resound with 
 sweeter voices, or more sacred airs. The intelligence of these 
 happy artists is pushed farther than can easily be told ; they 
 bring to the execution of these beautiful works, all the art, all 
 the science, all the poetic genius of primitive times, when the 
 master himself led, in the sweet songs of harmony, his young 
 children of the choir. Happy he who can take his part in these 
 chosen joys of the first drawing-rooms in Paris ! happy he, who 
 is admitted into these assemblies of artists so well disposed for 
 enthusiasm ! For my own part, in this, as in every thing else, I 
 have no reason to complain of Parisian hospitality ; the stranger 
 is loved in Paris, he is sought, he is protected. Approbation 
 brought from afar, the remembrances which the traveller takes 
 back to his own land, are not without value, even in the eyes of 
 the handsomest women, and the cleverest men. If you arrive 
 with ever so little benevolence and sympathy, you will certainly 
 be welcome. The position of a traveller who knows how to 
 make himself agreeable to these French Athenians, is undoubt- 
 edly, a position worthy of envy ; every house is open to you, 
 every hand is held out to you. You easily pass the first and 
 most difficult preliminaries of friendship. They remember in
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN'S WELCOME. 215 
 
 your favor, past absence and approaching departure ; you are in 
 every one's confidence ; you are invited to all the parties ; in all 
 the fetes you have your part, and your good part too; for you, 
 and for you only, there are no exactions, no despotism. You 
 visit a house every day. " Well !" they say, " the Englishman is 
 weary, and he comes to ask from us, a little friendship and a 
 little chatting." You are a whole month without calling; " It is 
 because this poor Englishman is so busy seeing, guessing, under- 
 standing every thing." You are at once admitted into the 
 intimacy of these ladies and gentlemen. The ladies do not 
 mistrust you a bird of passage ! The gentlemen have not the 
 least jealousy of you, for, in fact, are you not to leave on the 
 morrow, at latest ? Thus you go, you come, you return, you 
 remain, you disappear, you are completely your own master. 
 What a delightful life ! But then how sad it is, to know that 
 these Parisians will so soon have forgotten this friend whom 
 they loved so much ! 
 
 At any rate, unworthy I had my share in all these enjoyments, 
 in all these fetes, in all these concerts. Among other amuse- 
 ments, let me describe to you the excellent parody of all the 
 boasting of the Italian libretti, in which some simple amateurs 
 indulged ; I know not of any pleasantry in better taste, of any 
 irony less cruel, of any more innocent raillery. Come with me 
 once more, and depend upon it, you will be well guided. 
 
 We are in a splendid saloon, gilded from top to bottom, by 
 some farmer general of the last century. This saloon is sparkling 
 with lights and paintings. Through the half-open windows, yo 
 can see the chesnut trees of the garden. Within this rich enclo- 
 sure has arisen, as if by enchantment, and only for an hour, a 
 beautiful little theatre in which nothing is wanting ; neither the 
 orchestra, nor the curtain, nor the prompter's box. At nine 
 o'clock, the pit is filled with the handsomest and most charming 
 people. What a beautiful audience ! Even Mademoiselle Mars, 
 who has seen at her feet an assembly of kings, has never wit-
 
 216 EXTRAORDINARY ACTORS. 
 
 nessed such a one as this. Picture to yourself the most lovely 
 countenances, the whitest shoulders, the sparkling diamond, the 
 opening flower, the riband, the lace, the light and the dark hair. 
 Never was there a better-dressed audience, or one displaying 
 more grace and wit, more smiles, more vivacity, or more happi- 
 ness. While waiting, all chat; the conversation is lively, animated, 
 curious. Ten o'clock strikes, when, behind the curtain of the 
 little theatre, we hear the signal for commencing.* 
 
 What silence ! all is hushed, even the tremulous motion of the 
 fans. Seated at his piano, a man with an inspired and modest 
 look, commences I know not what tender and loving elegy, which 
 immediately makes one dream. The curtain rises, and, imagine 
 our surprise ! horrible Turks, with faded turbans, spangled waist- 
 coats and pantaloons, appear, singing " Cerchiamo ! cerchiamo /" 
 an Italian air of their own composition. In the mean time, they 
 seek you know not what. In vain are they asked, " What is the 
 matter ? what are you looking for ? advertise it in the streets, 
 have little bills of it printed!" They still reply; "Cerchiamo! 
 cerchiamo!" They are of enormous size, their turbans touch 
 the cornice of the theatre, and they vanish repeating, " Cerchi- 
 amo ! cerchiamo !" Then arrives Don Ferocino. He is be- 
 dizened with velvet and gold ; how well he sings ! It is the 
 most beautiful voice that can be heard, a full, sonorous, vibrating, 
 clear bass, the voice of Lablache, but of Lablache at the time of 
 his first appearance. In fact, it is the same fine voice which you 
 have heard in the best Parisian drawing rooms, at Madame 
 Orfila's for instance, on those days when Madame de Sparre 
 sang ! After Ferocino, comes a brave pilgrim who sings " Je suis 
 un pelerino de la Legion dHonneur. Poverino pelerino ! Jamais 
 
 * Perhaps some of our readers may not be aware, that private theatricals are 
 exceedingly common in France, and the following pages describe a burlesque upon the 
 absurd plots of the Italian Opera. The French account is full of grace and vivacity, 
 : qualities, which it is feared, are almost, if not entirely, lost, in the English transla- 
 tion. E. T.
 
 A GREAT MISTAKE. 217 
 
 on nen trouva un piou, malheureux, piou, piou, piou, piou, 
 malheureux!" And he is driven to despair. "Silence!" says 
 Ferocino ; " I hear, in the forest the gondolier singing the bar- 
 carole!" "In the forest?" says the chevalier-pilgrim of the 
 Legion d'Honneur. "In the forest!" replies Ferocino. And 
 in fact the barcarole commences ; " Zephyr sotiffla gentile /" 
 It is something new and strange, this ballad which recalls the 
 barcarole of Othello ; " Zephyr souffla gentile /" They listen 
 and they dream. In vain does the musician, who is one of the 
 most skilful, try to keep up the parody, often the parody escapes 
 him, and he again becomes completely the dreamer and the poet, 
 whom we all know. The barcarole once sung, Clorinda appears 
 in a pearl-colored dress. Listen to her, how she sings ! But it 
 is she, they recognise her ! There is that large, black eye which 
 nothing can resist ! And the flexible, airy voice, so airy, that she 
 carries with her the sweetest melodies ! At this moment more 
 than ever, is the parody lost. It is a great artiste, who sings the 
 music of a great musician ! The audience no longer laugh, they 
 listen. But soon the chorus of Turks returns ; these gentlemen 
 carry banners, and sing the happiness of Clorinda. Remember 
 that Clorinda is any thing but happy. The chorus sings Vivat 
 Clorinda ! Clorinda recognises Orlando by his immense croix 
 d'honneur. 
 
 But Don Ferocino, seeing that the pilgrim is not a pilgrim, 
 threatens him by look and gesture, si volo dechirar! The pil- 
 grim on the other hand, repeats, Si volo dechirar f si volo de- 
 chirar f The more they sing, the more tender their voices 
 become, and the more friendly their actions. By means of 
 repeating Si volo dechirar ! our two rivals fall into each other's 
 arms, so that the quarrel can no longer be maintained. 
 
 Here ends the first act. Assiduous domestics, who are not 
 Turks, bring ices, and sherbets more than oriental, to the noble 
 ladies. They clap their hands. Already they agree that the 
 music of Don Ferocino is all grace, all intelligence, lively and
 
 218 LEARNED CRITICS. 
 
 clear, and full of ideas ! Then suddenly, the younger ladies stand 
 up and turning towards the door, begin to murmur, " It is he ! it 
 is Rossini ! I know him ! I saw him ten years ago ; I was 
 then at school ! It is he ! it is his little, piercing eye, his ro- 
 guish smile. He does not look very well pleased, that we should 
 laugh so heartily at the Italian music. Why did they say that 
 he was ill ? he looks stout and well ! " Thus they talk ; and 
 all follow him with their looks, their animated and attentive 
 gestures; each one says " Rossini ! show me Rossini !" To tell 
 the truth, it is not Rossini. It is a gentleman who is much 
 amused with these happy follies, and thinks there is in all 
 this admirable parody, much art, much taste, much quaintness 
 and wit. 
 
 To your seats ! the curtain rises a second time ; all look 
 eagerly for Don Ferocino. They admire two firemen, two real fire- 
 men, or very nearly so, one of whom might be called an epitome 
 of the brigade ! He has seen every thing, he knows every thing, 
 he even understands Italian, and that echignant means to beat 
 soundly, which is the commencement of the critic's language ; 
 " Stop," says he, " what are you doing ?" " I am waiting for 
 the burning of Babylon!" adds the innocent fireman; "why 
 then is not Babylon burned?" "Because it does not please 
 the Babylonians and the prefect of police. It will not burn, 
 but it is warming. Did you hear them clap ?" And now the 
 two men discuss the merits of the opera represented. " Is it 
 a drama ? is it a comedy ?" " It resembles every thing," says 
 the critic. " That is better than to resemble nothing," replies 
 the other fireman. They are still writing their little sheet, and 
 we listening to them (happy firemen), when a cry is heard, Room 
 in the theatre ! Then the theatre, which exhibited two firemen, 
 suddenly presents only a gloomy dungeon, in which Clorinda is 
 lying upon straw. Poor Clorinda ! she is mad. But do not 
 disturb yourself, she is only mad on one side, the side on which 
 her hair is uncurled ! Defrisata, ata, ata, tata ! says the chorus.
 
 MARVELLOUS PLOT. 219 
 
 In her madness, Clorinda hears the nightingale sing, and then 
 she commences a duet with it. The nightingale, a bold rival, 
 defends himself with all his power ; he warbles, he ascends, 
 he shines, he triumphs .... a momentary triumph ! Clorinda 
 follows him, she pursues him into every corner, she warbles, she 
 is in the sky ! The poor nightingale must have fallen dead at 
 the foot of his yoke elm. Clorinda triumphs ! At the same 
 moment, the whole forest of rose trees which waved in the 
 saloon falls at the feet of the princess ; it is a shower, it is 
 an avalanche. In vain does she ask favor and pity ! no favor ! 
 no pity ! All the flowers of this beautiful saloon fall upon the 
 head of Clorinda. This done, the drama recommences. Don 
 Ferocino and the Chevalier Orlando fight a duel; Ferocino is 
 run through by a sword ! The brave Ferocino, who sang so well ! 
 
 So much the worse ! Ferocino is dead, long live Orlando ! 
 Clorinda sings with Orlando their mutual deliverance. She 
 arranges her hair, and returns to her senses, says the little book. 
 Happy moment! Oh grief! Ferocino has only been halt 
 killed, and returns full of rage. Fury ! death ! malediction ! 
 To such an extent, that he marries Clorinda to his rival Orlando, 
 who becomes his best friend. The chorus and a final warbling ! 
 
 They have asked for the author ! the author ! Don Ferocino, 
 the fine, vibrating voice, returns, modestly bowing. The author, 
 he says, is Signor de Feltrini, the drama is an unpublished one 
 by Dante, the decorations by Signor Crontini, the refreshments 
 by Donna Bianca. After which, they call for the actors ! the 
 actors ! They all return, even the choruses. Verses are thrown 
 upon the theatre, and what is more, these verses are read. " Do 
 not go, beautiful Clorinda, do not go to America, or if you do go 
 to those distant countries, return quickly, when you have taught 
 the nightingales of that land how to sing." So say the verses. 
 The audience repeat in chorus a strain of regrets and of adieux. 
 A delightful evening for Madame Damoreau, a private ovation 
 before a chosen public, all the beauty of the city ; great lords,
 
 220 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 poets, savants, great ladies, were all there to applaud ! And in 
 fact, it seems to me that this unique evening has a right to take 
 its place in this history of a theatre. On this occasion, a few 
 lovers of good music, in a parody full of grace, wit, and urbanity, 
 have proved better than any thing that I could say, that France is 
 not wanting in great musicians, any more than in fine voices, or than 
 in art and talent. They have proved that this great art of playing 
 comedy, about which there is so much discussion, and which has 
 become so rare in our days, was, all things considered, the 
 easiest of the arts, within reach of the first well educated man 
 who would take the trouble to walk as people walk, and to speak 
 as they speak. To the sweet enjoyment of this happy evening, 
 nothing was wanted ; neither the musician of incontestible skill 
 and imagination ; nor the bass, which was admirable ; nor the 
 tenor, full of gaiety ; nor the prima donna, to whom for per- 
 fection of taste and singing, nothing could be compared ; nor the 
 choruses, which showed incomparable grace, energy, and viva- 
 city. Add to this rare assemblage, the unanimous praise, the 
 honestly felt admiration, the urbanity of a select, elegant, and 
 above all, benevolent party, and you will understand how we 
 gained an insight, into the joy which the amusement of the theatre 
 can give, when it is complete, when nothing annoys you, when 
 nothing is wanted, when you can say to yourself, " If I am not a 
 happy man now, it is my own fault !" 
 
 Certainly, to arrive at such results, thus to take possession of 
 every piano and every mind, to sustain this generous struggle 
 with the finest singers and the most inspired musicians, you must 
 not fail either in genius or talent ; but on this occasion, there was 
 no failure, in either of these points. What artist, what poet was 
 ever more serious, and more occupied with the greatness of his 
 mission, than the author of Esmeralda, that beautiful opera? 
 He has composed his music with the rapture of M. Hugo him- 
 self, when he wrote his Notre Dame. And what an exquisite 
 thing is the air in the last act ;
 
 THE ESMERALDA. 221 
 
 Combien j'aime 
 Hors moi-meme, 
 Tout ici ! 
 
 Ever since the day, when the illustrious author of the Es- 
 tneralda thus conquered the prejudices, which a new comer into 
 this difficult career of dramatic music, always excites against 
 himself or herself, he has remained faithful to that art, which 
 has given him so many happy days of repose and hope. In 
 order that his work might be complete, the composer even 
 became a poet ; his double reverie is blended in a double dream ; 
 and thus are consummated, the one by the other, these ballads 
 of such tranquil poetry, such true and touching inspiration. 
 ' This time, the intimate union of the poet and the composer a 
 union fertile in chefs d'oeuvre was as close as possible. The 
 twofold idea sprang from the same head, after having passed 
 through the same heart. The verses and the air recount the 
 same joy, are rocked in the same hopes, are intoxicated with 
 the same griefs. 
 
 This year, saloon music has sustained a great loss, that of 
 the author of so many popular melodies which are admired 
 throughout Europe ; M. Monpou ; he who sang so beautifully 
 the ballad of M. Alfred de Musset, Connaissez vous dans Bar- 
 celone ; and all that loving history of the Spanish serenade, 
 dark complexion, autumn paleness, young marchioness with 
 the black mantilla, satin dress which rustles as the lady leans 
 from her balcony, to encourage by a look, the lover who fights 
 for her ! This marchioness d'Amaeghi was, for a long time, the 
 rage in Paris. When Monpou died, the fashion in Paris was 
 le Fou de Tolede, a Spaniard of M. Hugo's, worthy of the 
 Spaniard of M. de Musset. Thus each month of the Parisian 
 year brings with it, its novel which succeeds, its vaudeville 
 which is applauded, its romance which is sung; a dozen vau- 
 devilles, a dozen romances, as many novels, and Paris is satisfied. 
 There is a certain romance, la Folle for instance, which has been
 
 222 MADEMOISELLE PUJET. 
 
 played upon every piano, during a whole year; this is even the 
 only romance which has found favor with his majesty king Louis 
 Philippe, who is an amateur of about the same standing as the 
 emperor Napoleon. Of all known airs, the Emperor loved and 
 tolerated only the Monaco ; with one of these well received airs, 
 a man's fortune is made in Paris ; la Folle, for instance, which 
 has traversed the world. Je vais revoir ma Normandie, by a 
 Norman poet and a Norman composer, has become the national 
 song of the province ; I have found it in all the steam boats, by 
 the side of every highway, at the door of the inns, every where ; 
 and the Norman does not tire of it any more than the traveller. 
 And the romances of Mademoiselle Pujet which I forget ! how 
 ingenious, how copious she is ! how she has filled the world with 
 her clearly accented melodies ! She is a musical bel esprit ; 
 they are true dramas which she writes and composes ; and by 
 way of rest from her dramas, she produces, from time to time, 
 some lively and beautiful comedy. The fashionable ladies and 
 the most skilful singers, even those of the opera, consider it a 
 pleasure, to repeat the compositions of Mademoiselle Pujet. 
 These lines which I write in her praise, are penned to the 
 sound of military music, which plays her finest airs. Is it not 
 strange, an army marching to fight, while music plays in the 
 distance, melodies sprung from the head of a young girl ? Cer- 
 tainly, this may be called success ! 
 
 You understand then all the interest presented by a Parisian 
 saloon thus occupied in this vain passion ; there, are boldly 
 produced all the compositions of France, of Italy, of Germany ; 
 there, come to exhibit themselves, the rarest talents in Europe ; 
 there, you may suddenly see enter the celebrated cosmopolites 
 of the musical art ; Ernst, whose violin is filled with such sweet 
 strains ; Panofka, who will only play to chosen friends ; the 
 inspired Hauman ; and the great pianists who make Paris their 
 solemn rendezvous, Doelher, the charming and poetic genius ; 
 Thalberg, dreams personified ; Halle, who thoroughly under-
 
 FAMILY CONCERT. 223 
 
 stands the genius of Beethoven ; and, finally, Liszt, Liszt the 
 thundering, Liszt the irresistible, who burns, who crashes, and 
 then suddenly brings you the melodies he has picked up, here 
 and there, in the world. It is a delight to hear them, it is a 
 pleasure to see them, as animated as if for a battle ! Each year 
 they wish to know where Paris is, what it is doing, and what it 
 thinks ; each year you may therefore see them coming to solicit, 
 better than their approbation, to solicit the friendship, of these 
 artistes of the fashionable world, their worthy brethren, impartial 
 and benevolent judges, who accept for themselves all the dangers 
 of the struggle, all the sorrows of defeat, yielding to whoever 
 has the right, the triumph, the popularity, the glory ! Happily, 
 in all this triumph or defeat, the pleasure is for all. 
 
 The day of which I speak, all the family was assembled in the 
 small music room ; there was no one there but a few intimate 
 friends, of those friends who call at all hours, before whom one 
 thinks aloud, and sings in a low voice. The young lady of the 
 house, who is a true artiste, had just played with the most noble 
 instinct, the overture of Der Freischiitz, that formidable com- 
 position, to which nothing can be compared; her sister, who is 
 still a child, but an inspired child, had sung the Adelaide of 
 Beethoven, the most touching and most affectionate complaint 
 which ever sprang from the heart of a lover and a poet. You 
 would have said that in order the better, to hear these sweet 
 strains, every voice was silent beyond the house. For ourselves, 
 we were entirely absorbed in this near contemplation of old 
 masterpieces sustained by young voices. We said to each other, 
 that assuredly it was a delightful destiny for the poet whose 
 verses are repeated by new generations, for the composer, who 
 can yet hear, from the depth of his tomb, the sweet melodies of 
 his twentieth year. On these conditions, a man cannot die ; he 
 is arrested by death, but the idea which urged him, still marches 
 onward ; his song expires upon his failing lips, but the inter- 
 rupted air is immediately taken up by some young and noble
 
 224 FRENCH LOVE OF MUSIC. 
 
 singer. This respect for the masterpieces of former music, 
 France has carried to a great extent ; there is no music so old 
 and so forgotten, that the French have not restored it to honor. 
 They have found again nearly all the musicians of the sixteenth 
 century ; they have searched in the repertories of all the chapels ; 
 they have demanded again from the organ of the cathedrals its 
 interrupted chants. They had a great musician, named Baillot, 
 who played to admiration an Italian air, la liomanesca, recovered 
 by a happy accident, beneath the splendid arches of the Genoese 
 palace. It is a melody of irresistible effect ; only to hear it 
 tremble beneath the bow, it seems to you, that all this beautiful 
 Italian society of the sixteenth century, these young men, whom 
 Ariosto celebrates, these friends of Medicis, these companions of 
 Doria, are about to re-appear in these magnificent galleries, all 
 filled with the chefs d'oeuvre of painters and sculptors. As- 
 suredly, when young Paolo took you by the hand, lovely and 
 proud Francesca, to dance with you, the orchestra suspended 
 in its marble balcony, did not play a sweeter, a more tender 
 or a more melancholy air. Nothing can equal, for remem- 
 brances, some one of these wandering melodies, which centuries 
 have murmured in the days of their youth, by the light of their 
 stars, by the brilliancy of their sun. 
 
 And then, the great art of the French virtuosos, is to give a 
 truly poetic expression to the most simple songs of former days. 
 Of all the airs with which their nurses lulled them in their 
 cradles, of the joyous country rounds, of the terrible complaints 
 in which spirits and phantoms are named, these clever people 
 have made so many duets, songs, grave elegies. From an 
 Auvergne dance, they have composed a romance full of art 
 and taste ; from the Clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot, they 
 have drawn the most charming of quartetts. Rossini himself, 
 that great genius, who seizes every light and shade, did he 
 not write his beautiful finale to the Comte Ory from the popular 
 air, Le Comte Ory disait pour s'egayer ? Following his example,
 
 WILHEM. 225 
 
 Meyerbeer composed Les Huguenots from a psalm of the re- 
 formed church ; this is what may be called profitably using the 
 smallest parts of the genius of a people. And remember that 
 this passion for music has quickly passed from the drawing- 
 rooms of Paris into the streets, and even the crossways. In 
 the summer, if the night is at all fine, if there is any thing 
 like silence in the public place, you suddenly hear the sound 
 of all kinds of beautiful voices, which sing ingenious melodies. 
 To hear them, you would fancy yourself in some city of Ger- 
 many. It is truly noble music, they are real singers ; the people 
 slowly follow them, attracted, and as if fascinated, by these 
 unexpected melodies. Whence come they ? They proceed 
 from the school of a man named Wilhem, a worthy man of 
 natural genius, good to the poor, devoted to his art, the friend 
 of Beranger the poet, whose most charming songs he has set 
 to music. This Wilhem finding that he was idle, and that the 
 theatre was closed against him as well as the chapel, promised 
 himself that he would one day contradict the anti-musical repu- 
 tation of the good people of France. He would, he said, subdue, 
 to strict time, these bawling voices, these rebellious ears, and 
 replace, by a grave and simple harmony, the indecent song of the 
 alehouse. He wished that in future, whenever the temple needed 
 a thousand singers, a thousand singers should at once reply, 
 Here we are! He wished that, on the day when the national 
 hymn was to resound through the cities, these young, ardent 
 voices should make of the national hymn a song of glory and 
 not a death cry. " Ah," said he, " the cannibals have spoiled 
 la Marseillaise, they have poisoned it with their impure breath, 
 they have changed it into a scaffold complaint ! But imagine 
 this holy hymn, sung in choir by young soldiers just setting out 
 for the frontier ! Virtue, probity, innocent enthusiasm, these 
 are what great musicians need, to work prodigies ?" Thus spoke 
 the honest Wilhem, who had in himself all the noble instincts of 
 the poet. He is dead, after having accomplished a great work, a 
 
 Q
 
 22G AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 
 
 difficult task ; he has proved to the people of France that they 
 were fitted for musical inspiration. He has introduced music 
 into the schools for little girls, he has made it the most delightful 
 study of the young workmen, and he has done all this alone, by 
 the simple power of his own will. All these fine voices formed 
 by his care, accompanied the coffin of Wilhem, singing as they 
 proceeded ! 
 
 These Parisian ladies, if you knew what delightful officious- 
 ness they can find in their hearts, when they begin to seek for it ! 
 Apropos of this great art which they cultivate with so much affec- 
 tion, listen to a charming surprise. At the very moment when, 
 entirely absorbed by the music, I suffered my mind to wander in 
 a thousand waving dreams, I was suddenly arrested by a very 
 simple, sweet, little air, to which all the American children of 
 this generation have been brought up, an air by our friend and 
 master, the good Schlesinger, whom all New York has wept. 
 In fact, the little that we Americans know of the double science 
 of voices and instruments, we owe to Schlesinger ; he has set to 
 music our first verses to the first objects of our attachment ; he 
 was the mind and the leader of our first concerts. But you can 
 judge of my astonishment and my joy, when in this beautiful 
 Parisian drawing-room, I heard sung, by these lovely French 
 voices, the favorite air which our master had composed, expressly 
 for my little sister Nelly ; 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast, 
 As through an Alpine village passed, 
 A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 Do you wish to know the history of this worthy Schlesinger, 
 whom our virtuosos of Paris recalled to me with so much eager- 
 ness and kindness ? It is a history which does honor to the
 
 SCHLESINGER. 227 
 
 heads and the hearts of my American brethren, and this is why 
 it gives me so much pleasure to relate it. 
 
 This excellent artist Schlesinger was a composer by profession, 
 his instrument was the piano, he followed with a firm step the 
 powerful track of Liszt, of Thalberg, and of that great artiste 
 Madame Pleyel, the honor of her science. Schlesinger hesitated 
 long before he decided to go to America ; he had been told that 
 the real in life was alone reckoned worthy of attention, in this 
 kingdom of commerce. He was, in fact, neither a laborer, nor 
 an artizan, nor a merchant, nor a priest, nor a doctor, nor a 
 lawyer; he carried with him no precious wares, nor any means 
 of serving the wants or the ambition of men, and yet, he started. 
 You will imagine how long and painful the voyage across the 
 ocean seemed to him ; at last he reached his destination ; fearfully 
 he entered this grave country, where a whole generation is occu- 
 pied in making money. Mademoiselle Fanny Ellsler had not 
 then proved, by unanswerable demonstration, that the Americans 
 can push admiration to folly ; she.had not then harnessed to her 
 car, our gravest and most weighty magistrates. He who named 
 America, spoke of a land of misery and hunger for artists ; the 
 greatest names of art Michael Angelo and Titian, Handel, 
 Weber, Mozart, Haydn were, and still ^re, names almost un- 
 known in this vast and rich corner of the world, which will not 
 so speedily repose in the fine arts. Schlesinger however had no 
 sooner arrived in New York, had no sooner placed his powerful 
 fingers upon a piano, than he understood that he would soon 
 become popular. He possessed, in a high degree, the talent of 
 improvising, and the first evening they gave him for a theme one 
 of the beautiful airs of Lutsow " Was it the Rhine !" No, it 
 was the " Chasse de Lutsow :" and such was his facility and his 
 grace, that all these American minds were penetrated with sudden 
 admiration. He then played the American national air Yankee 
 Doodle, and every one began to applaud. But alas! this first 
 winter was full of anxieties and miseries; and you know that 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 DEATH OF SCHLESINGER. 
 
 when money stops in New York, every thing stops ; above all, 
 the fine arts must be abandoned. The unfortunate Schlesinger 
 had scarcely three pupils ; he consoled himself in his misfortunes 
 with Sebastian Bach and Maria de Weber. In the month of 
 April he gave his first public concert, to which very few people 
 came ; six months afterwards he gave a second ; the audience 
 was still small, but at the moment of seating himself at the piano, 
 he received news that his beloved and respected master, Fer- 
 dinand Ries, had just died. Immediately he changed his 
 programme, and commenced playing a funeral march of Beetho- 
 ven's, as the only oration which was worthy of Ries. 
 
 The following winter, roving artists, travelling violins, wan- 
 dering bass-viols, jugglers, rope dancers, all the wretched 
 tribe of the gipsies, occupied the attention of New York; 
 people ran to meet these gentlemen, with as much eagerness 
 as if the point had been to go and applaud Mademoiselle Ellsler. 
 Poor Schlesinger ! in spite of all his talent, he would soon have 
 been entirely forgotten if la Concordia had not named him the 
 leader of the orchestra. Schlesinger acquitted himself of this 
 task with a noble ardor ; the concerts of la Concordia were 
 attended with unanimous pleasure. At one of the last concerts, 
 the leader of the orchestra made himself heard, he arrived, his 
 eyes moistened with tears, and without uttering a word, played 
 upon his piano the ballad of Uhland, of which the chorus is, 
 My little daughter is in her coffin ; and in fact, he had just lost 
 his child. 
 
 This man was born unfortunate; he hoped for nothing, not 
 even for glory. He died, surrounded by some friends whom he 
 had made as much by his character, as by his talent. He died, 
 regretting only one thing, the last prayers of his French friends, 
 in the ancient church of Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois, a noble 
 church long outraged, but now rescued from ruin ; a noble 
 church, which recalled to the poor artiste his native land, and 
 happier days ! There he had received the waters of baptism,
 
 AN ELEGY. 
 
 there he had led his young wife to the altar, there he had heard 
 upon the powerful organ, the most melodious strains of Sebas- 
 tian Bach and of Palestrina. Saint Germain ! said he, Saint 
 Germain ! It was his last, his only dream. He fancied he heard, 
 even at that distance, the hymns of the inspired organ. It seemed 
 to him that this time at least, the friends of his childhood would 
 not fail him in this last rendezvous. Alas ! he was interred in 
 the cemetery of New York. But accompanying friends, those 
 regrets which honor both the living and the dead, the funeral 
 sermon, that last alms of good and Christian men, did not fail 
 the poor artiste. A fair, young, American girl, with blue eyes, a 
 modest and artless poet, wrote impromptu upon the tomb of her 
 master, this elegy full of feeling and sadness : 
 
 Frere, tu n'es plus avec nous, 
 
 Mais dans ce pays bien au-dela de la tombe, 
 
 Ton ame qui voltige nous attend; 
 Tu souris au chant de la bande aimee, 
 He las ! elle ob6issait naguere a ton geste imprieux, 
 
 Et maintenant elle pleure son maitre. 
 
 Frere, le soleil descend du ciel, 
 
 Au ciel monte notre melodic : 
 
 La cadence mourante de notre chant 
 
 Est m16e a la lumiere mourante. 
 O frere ! par ce rayon qui s'6vanouit, 
 
 Par ce triste chant d'adieu, 
 Nous nous souviendrons de toi. 
 
 Le sculpteur dans sa pierre ob&ssante, 
 Le peintre dans les couleurs de sa palette, 
 
 Le poete dans ses vers, 
 S'erigent a eux-memes un monument; 
 Mais de toi, de tant de passions soulevees, 
 Rien ne reste. La musique de ton ame 
 S'est 6vanouie tout entiere dans les airs. 
 
 Sad destiny of a man of rare talent, who was willing to brave 
 unknown manners, and lead his frightened muse into the midst of
 
 230 A MUSICIAN IN NEW YORK. 
 
 a city wholly occupied with the ambitions and the labors of the 
 present hour ! Be a musician in New York ! Seek melody in 
 the noise, in the tumult, in the precipitate and furious marching 
 of these men who are incessantly pursuing fortune ! it was 
 giving to the genius of our nation, a challenge which it was 
 impossible to sustain ! The unhappy artiste fell beneath the 
 effort ; he died for want of a ray of sun and a little hope ; he 
 died, possessing for his whole property, only that sweet and 
 plaintive elegy, softly murmured by a clear voice of sixteen 
 years old. 
 
 Where will you find better sentiments expressed in a loftier 
 and more touching way ? These beautiful verses I heard repeated 
 by the noble girl who wrote them with a grateful hand. Yet 
 later, I read them upon the tomb of the unfortunate exile, a 
 tomb surrounded by regrets and honors, to which nothing was 
 wanting, except to be placed beneath the arched roof of the 
 ancient basilic of Saint Germain 1'Auxerrois.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF HOME. 
 
 IN the midst of your truest admiration, and most lively enjoy- 
 ments, in vain will you try ; believe me, it will be impossible for 
 you to forget your absent country ; it appears to you often like a 
 hope, more than once like a remorse ; a mere nothing recalls it to 
 you, the song of a bird to which you have listened in the garden 
 of your father's house, the sweet or wild smell of a flower, a tree 
 from your native land, tree of my country ! the step of a girl 
 who dances, the veil of a lady who happens to pass you, a look, 
 a tone of voice, a less than nothing, and suddenly you are again 
 in the midst of the artless transports of your youth, all the happy 
 accidents of your twenty years, all the delightful and maternal 
 love with which those distant and beautiful shores surrounded you. 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the most brilliant fete, sadness comes 
 into your mind, your eyes are rilled with ill-restrained tears, you 
 say to yourself What do I here, I who am a stranger to these 
 manners, to these men, to these customs, to these fetes, to these 
 pleasures ? What do I here, plunged as I am in Parisian idle- 
 ness, I, whose life ought at this hour to be so filled with activity, 
 zeal, ambition, labor? With remorse comes the regret of
 
 232 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 absence, your mother who calls you, your father whom you 
 have not seen for so long, your grandfather whom you will not 
 perhaps find living, your sister .... That which has recalled 
 my sister to me, is the history of our musician Schlesinger ; it is 
 the music of this unhappy artiste, who died so quickly, and was 
 forgotten so soon ! His melodies were certainly simple, but they 
 were delightful. To careless minds, his music seemed like a faint 
 and distant echo of Schubert's melodies ; but, he who heard 
 him when he was young at the mere sound of some few of these 
 plaintive notes sees again, with a glance, his whole life of child- 
 hood. To this air, to which no one listens, we young men wrote 
 our first love sonnets ; we danced our first country dance, to the 
 airy accompaniment of this rich and natural music. Oh happiness ! 
 my first waltz, when I held in my trembling hands the elegant 
 figure of Miss Fanny, this waltz was written by the composer of 
 our youthful days. You will therefore readily understand, how, 
 on this last well-filled evening, I found myself possessed with a 
 strong wish again to see our dear America and never again to 
 quit thee, thou world, which art for me the real world ! Thus 
 the visit which I paid as a simple evening call, was really the 
 last. A second time I took leave of those friends whom Paris 
 had lent to me, for in point of friendship, Paris does not give, 
 she lends. Adieu then, once more ! my mission is ended ; I 
 have seen Paris as it ought to be seen, under its double aspect 
 of winter and summer. I have seen the great city, in its 
 various attractions, in its different ornaments, in velvet robe and 
 in ball dress, in its fetes and in its churches, at the Opera and 
 upon the boulevards ; I have even seen it at the French Aca- 
 demy ; in a word, in every spot, where it loves to resort, this 
 beautiful Paris, dear to the artists, dear to the ladies, dear to the 
 poets. 
 
 Once more, adieu. I renounce the hope of understanding it 
 better than I have done ; I give up the idea of explaining and 
 describing this capital city of astonishment and wonders. Let
 
 PARIS NOT TO BE DESCRIBED. 
 
 him who dares, attempt this impossible work ; let him who will, 
 try to reproduce the image of this fabulous animal, which every 
 instant changes its form and color. Strange city, which needs 
 every morning a new revolution, by way of amusement ; an 
 immense crowd, which displays more passions than new dresses, 
 and which is never better amused than when on the edge of the 
 abyss ; turbulent minds, grave geniuses, mad reasoners, a com- 
 pound of truths and paradoxes, good and evil, vice and virtue, 
 belief and doubt, prayer and blasphemy mingled in the same 
 whirlwind ! From such an abyss, and from such thick clouds, 
 extricate yourselves, if you can, unfortunate travellers ! En- 
 deavour to comprehend this strange reality of the Parisian 
 world ; you know not where it commences, you know not where 
 it finishes. Is it believing, is it Voltairian ? Does it prefer M. 
 de Lamartine to Diderot, the gospel to the encyclopaedia ? Vice 
 or virtue, to which side does the city lean ? Is it true that she 
 encloses all this corruption, and that each morning from the 
 midst of these blasphemies and sins, Paris gives this frightful 
 proof of the wickedness of man? These accounts of dungeons 
 into which penetrates scarcely a ray of sun, of depraved minds 
 which have renounced even pity and hope, living corpses laden 
 with chains and infamy, do you believe them ? can you ever 
 believe them ? For my part, I can honestly say, that such is 
 not the city which I have seen. The city which I visited in 
 the winter fetes, in the soft joys of summer, was rich and 
 brilliant, and decorated ; she lived by intelligence ; in case of 
 necessity, she even had enthusiasm and heart. If you knew how 
 dazzling, how active, how young, how well-dressed she is ! how 
 she delights in the contemplation of that which is beautiful ! what 
 praises she lavishes upon the great artists ! what encouragements 
 upon the poets ! Oh ! I have seen her carelessly seated in the 
 corner by the fire, with her feet upon the Aubusson carpet, or 
 running in wild enjoyment, among the flowers of the garden, the 
 fresh paths of the country, and then, I said to myself; Here is
 
 234 FRENCH HOSPITALITY. 
 
 the Athenian city, the city of beautiful poems, of animated con- 
 versations, of elegant passions, the city of eloquence and the fine 
 arts ! Where then will you meet more urbanity and hospitable 
 grace ? you arrive, hands are held out to you, doors are open to 
 you ; in a short time the house has no secrets from you ; you are 
 the object of their affection, their confidant, a visiter, above all, 
 you are welcome. The gentleman of the house conceals nothing 
 from you ; the lady tells you everything, even her good actions ; 
 for these Parisians have time to be charitable ; they know the 
 way to the poorest houses. Such a one whom you meet so well 
 dressed, ask her where she is going .... she is seeking some 
 wretched roof, beneath which groans some unfortunate being. 
 Such another, on your arrival, hastens to conceal the book she is 
 reading, and does so with a blush. If you could secretly inter- 
 rogate the mysterious volume, you would see that the young lady 
 was simply reading in the original language Virgil or Titus 
 Livy, Dante or Petrarch, Byron or Smollett, Goethe or 
 Schiller ! 
 
 I left Paris at the end of the month of August ; the city was 
 entirely deserted. He who was not in the country or at some 
 village of mineral waters, or absent somewhere, dared not 
 show himself; if you went to call upon him, the portress would 
 reply to you with a roguish air, Monsieur has left for the 
 Pyrenees or for the sea baths ! As, after all I had a little time 
 before me, I resolved to abandon myself to the course of the 
 river, and to ascertain for myself, in what manner the French bathe 
 in the sea. Let us go there ; the Seine is covered with boats, 
 which ask nothing better than to take you : one of them is 
 named the Etoiles, courageous stars which have kept up a 
 rivalry even with the railroad. Not that the boat goes with equal 
 speed, but these shores of the Seine are truly enchanting ; the 
 water softly bears you from one bank to the other ; you pass from 
 a feudal ruin to some little, white house, half lost in its luxuriant 
 foliage. On your left, on your right, you have all kinds of joyous
 
 BANKS OF THE SEINE. 235 
 
 cries, from the mowers of wheat, and the mowers of grass. The 
 Norman apple tree bends, without breaking, beneath the weight of 
 the fruit with which it is laden. Around your boat the broken 
 wave rolls to a distance, upon the pebbly shore ; whole cities pass 
 before your eyes, surrounded by flowers and verdure, the bridges 
 dance, suspended above your heads ; in these fertile and abundant 
 countries, you would in vain seek to recognise the former fields 
 of battle. The soil has devoured all the dead ; the plough has 
 rid the earth of the stumps of swords ; tumultuous stones have 
 been ground to dust beneath the feet of the plough horse. The 
 Norman earth is no longer anything but verdure, abundance, 
 fertility; and yet, in these noble ridges, armies have met, 
 Normans, Bretons, Burgundians, French, English, Saxons, some 
 come from Ireland, and others from Flanders. How much blood 
 has been spilt ! And yet the last harvest was very beautiful, the 
 plain was verdant, the river was triumphant, and you can hardly 
 believe all the brilliancy of these stars, of this sun. 
 
 When the mind and imagination are occupied to such a point 
 that you forget every thing, when even the past and the future 
 lose themselves to your view, in an unknown distance filled with 
 hopes, you can say to yourself, that you are occupied with great 
 things or great reveries. Thus dreaming, the longest route 
 appears to you soon accomplished, you arrive and say, Already ! 
 You endeavour to recall all the vanished images, the estates, the 
 landscapes, the hamlets, the cities, the manufactures, the dazzling 
 apparitions of the mountain and the plain, of the water, the earth, 
 and the sky. Vain efforts ! the wave takes you and throws you 
 onward, the shore calls and attracts you ; in spite of yourself, you 
 hear a voice which cries, Proceed, proceed ! Come then, there 
 must be no hesitation, no delay ; you must obey ; continue your 
 course, straight before you, even to that veil of thick darkness 
 which Shakspeare's Hamlet dared not raise with his trembling hand. 
 Others more eloquent, will describe to you all the beauties of this 
 voyage from Paris to Rouen by the steam boat ; they will give
 
 236 THE DUCHESS DE BERRI. 
 
 you the whole history of this stirring country of so much art, 
 poetry, and science ; for my part, I have told you, that I renounce 
 descriptions ; when once I have started, I can think of nothing 
 but arriving. Just as I was happy in the saloons of the great 
 city, in the same proportion do I feel wretched on the burning 
 deck of the steam-boat. 
 
 At last however do you see that arrow shot in the air ? do you 
 see, proudly seated upon the banks of the river, the old Norman 
 capital, which has united within its double enclosure, England 
 and France, Richard Cceur-de-Lion and Philip Augustus, king 
 Louis XIV. and William the Conqueror. Industrious country 
 of Pierre Corneille ! the great poet, from the height of his 
 pedestal, seems to watch over the destinies of this nation of mer- 
 chants and laborers, who surround him with so much praise, ad- 
 miration, and respect. 
 
 From Rouen to the baths of Dieppe is not far. Dieppe is the 
 careless city, which sleeps during ten months of the year, that 
 she may awake, active and devoted, at the voice of the bathers. 
 Dieppe also, like all the cities of Normandy, has had her days of 
 battles and rude labors; she has furnished to history her full 
 share of soldiers and celebrated mariners. The New World, 
 when Europe took possession of it, could have told you much 
 about these courageous sailors ; but Dieppe, at the present day 
 reposes in the calm do nothing of a happy city, where the idle 
 of France and England come, every year, to pass a few fine days. 
 
 It is not yet twenty years, since Dieppe was the favourite city 
 of a princess, whom France had adopted as her daughter, the 
 Duchess de Berri. To the borders of this complaisant sea, the 
 Duchess de Berri came every year, bringing in her suite all the 
 youth and all the elegances of that court, of which she was the 
 young and benevolent sovereign. She was good, she was happy, 
 she knew that she was beloved. Her slightest word was graceful ; 
 at the very expectation of seeing her, the city of Dieppe clapped 
 her hands. But alas ! with the reverses of the noble princess, the
 
 DIEPPE. 237 
 
 city of Dieppe has lost much of her good fortune. You would 
 say, that, in leaving, the Duchess de Berri had taken with her 
 all which formed the charm and brilliancy of these delightful 
 reunions. Those cities are indeed to be pitied, whose fortune 
 depends upon the caprices of a lady, the chances of a revolution ! 
 
 Nevertheless, when I reached Dieppe, the city was as agitated 
 as if the Duchess de Berri were expected ; I found the tumult 
 of a f(6te, the enthusiasm of triumph. Every house was full, 
 and it was with great difficulty that I procured a wretched lodging 
 in this city, which generally speaking, is nothing but a vast hotel 
 open to all. 
 
 But do you know what august person was expected in this 
 neighborhood? The Queen of England, yes, the queen her- 
 self, that young woman who bears so lightly upon her graceful 
 head, the weight of three crowns, the object of attachment to 
 so many millions of men, the brilliant pearl of so powerful a 
 royalty, the queen and the delight of the sea. In a happy 
 moment of enthusiasm, queen Victoria wished to know some- 
 thing of this kingdom of France, and suddenly she determined 
 to profit by the profound peace of waters and nations, of the 
 earth and the sky, to cross that narrow space over which 
 have passed so many kings of England, so many dukes of Nor- 
 mandy, William the Conqueror and his son, and the Plantagenets, 
 and Henry I., Henry II., Richard Cceur de Lion, without 
 counting the English of Cressy and Agincourt. A happy voyage 
 this ! a peaceful voyage of the young lady, who came to visit her 
 father's old friend. Thus the winds were propitious, the waves 
 were calm, the ocean restrained his anger and even his caprices. 
 Come then, since fortune favors us so far beyond our hopes, we 
 will go to the chateau d' Eu, to those shores, on which the queen 
 of England is expected. From Dieppe, the route is delightful, 
 the Norman country displays on both sides of the road its richest 
 productions. The chateau d' Eu is one of the most celebrated 
 in Normandy, its position is excellent, its gardens are magni-
 
 238 
 
 THE CHATEAU 
 
 ficent; the old park, planted by the daughter of Henry the 
 Great, is filled with ancient and majestic trees ; the sea, a silvery 
 mirror, reflects in its poetic wave the ancient and venerable cha- 
 teau. You have no sooner entered it, than suddenly appear to 
 you, like so many phantoms, all the ancient lords of these 
 dwellings. They are all there, not only the masters of the 
 place, but even the guests of an hour, those who have but passed 
 and slept beneath these important ceilings. Under this head 
 you see Joan of Arc, the chaste, the admirable and sainted 
 heroine of the middle age ; under this head you will see Queen 
 Victoria. Joan of Arc and the Queen of the English beneath 
 the same roof! Oh what an advance has been made, by the two 
 nations on the two sides of the channel ! But the most serious 
 and most terrible remembrances of the chateau d' Eu belong 
 who would think it ? to the family of the Guises, those factious 
 and courageous geniuses, and to M. de Lauzun, that ill- 
 tempered man who so much abused the kindness of the great 
 Mademoiselle. You must read the memoirs of this unhappy 
 princess, so affectionate and so devoted, to know how much she 
 loved M. de Lauzun, and all that she suffered. Love inspired 
 this noble person, the greatest lady of the court of France 
 after the queen for even she had thought of being queen of 
 France with a charming idea. Lauzun, who knew it but too 
 well, asked her one day whom she loved ? She breathed upon the 
 glass, and on the warm vapor of her breath, she wrote, with a 
 loving finger, the name of Lauzun T Sombre dwellings, what 
 recitals of murder, and of love, of devotion, and of perfidy, do you 
 recall ! what heroisms, what soldiers, what kings and queens, 
 what young men ! 
 
 At the present day, the chateau d' Eu has become a kind of 
 chapel of ease to the chateau de Neuilly. Even the Guises, who 
 seem yet to obey Le Balafre, are only there as an ornament to the 
 walls. The house is filled with young princes, and fair children, 
 and young women, for each day brings a new one to this popular
 
 ESCAPE OF THE ROYAL FAMILY. 239 
 
 court ; yesterday, the Princess de Joinville, to-morrow, perhaps, 
 the Duchess d' Aumale, and before long Madame de Montpensier ; 
 Montpensier ! the favorite name in these royal dwellings. The 
 day of which I speak, was one of great excitement at the chateau 
 d'Eu. The expected queen might arrive, every thing was ready 
 for her reception. The cannon was placed upon the heights ; 
 large vessels brought the finest soldiers of the French army. In 
 the night, the Prince de Joinville had started with his pilots, to 
 escort the royal yacht from a greater distance. Meantime we, 
 the travellers, the curious, the enthusiasts, the lovers of fine 
 sights, we remained upon the shore, seeking to discover from 
 afar the approaching vessel. 
 
 Attention, however, was not fixed so strongly upon the sea, 
 but that we wished to visit the perilous bridge, from the top of 
 which, not three days previously, the monarchy of July had been 
 nearly engulphed in the waves. They were all in the same car- 
 riage, the king, the queen, the Duchess d'Orleans, the Count 
 de Paris, and the other children ; suddenly the bridge breaks, 
 and the forward horses fall. Picture to yourself this whole 
 monarchy suspended over the abyss, and saved as if by miracle ! 
 The king, always master of himself and of the present hour, 
 always a king, seized, from the arms of his tearful mother, the 
 young Count of Paris, the son of his son, the future king of 
 France ; immediately he threw the child into the apron of a 
 country woman ; but this good woman, who held a whole mo- 
 narchy in her apron did she suspect the heavy burden which, 
 for one moment she bore ? 
 
 Suddenly the cannon roar, the music resounds, the shore utters 
 cries of joy. They sing and play the national air of England 
 God save the Queen ! much astonished at finding itself upon 
 these banks. It is she, it is the queen ! Do you see afar off, 
 that black speck gradually enlarging? It is she, it is the queen 
 whom England confides to France. I have seen her as often as 
 it was possible to see her, this lady who would be taken at a
 
 240 ARRIVAL OF QUEEN VICTORIA. 
 
 distance for a lovely child. The king of the French has come 
 to meet the queen with the eagerness of a young man who awaits 
 his bride; he holds her in his arms as if he had found his 
 daughter again ; the queen receives her with emotions truly 
 maternal. The duchess of Orleans, imposing silence for a 
 moment on that severe grief which has not left her during this 
 long year of mourning, salutes queen Victoria as a sister. The 
 entrance of the young queen into the chateau d' Eu is a com- 
 plete triumph. The people who have crowded to these shores, 
 feel so delighted with the young and gracious sovereign for her 
 confidence, and for the enjoyment she gives to her royal host ! 
 
 During the stay of the queen in the neighborhood, I, who 
 had so much desired it, saw her every day. 
 
 Indeed, every one could approach this brilliant court, which 
 comprised no less than three queens, and contemplate at their 
 ease these assembled majesties. The forest which surrounds the 
 chateau d' Eu is vast and magnificent ; it may be traversed in 
 every variety of equipage ; its shade is favorable to every kind of 
 magnificence. Upon one of the edges of the forest, rises the 
 mount d' Orleans. This mount terminates in a vast plain sur- 
 rounded by the most ancient trees. On this plain had been 
 erected a splendid tent, and on each side you could see hastening, 
 on horseback, or in carriages, all the guests of the chateau d' Eu ; 
 Queen Victoria by the side of the king of the French and the 
 queen of the French, and Queen Louisa of Belgium, and the 
 Duchess d' Orleans and the Princess de Saxe Cobourg, and the 
 new Princess Madame de Joinville, with the grace of a French 
 woman, the look of a Spaniard, a grave and elegant beauty ; a 
 better contrast could not have been found, to the fair and juvenile 
 grace of the Duchess de Nemours. The princes of the house of 
 France and Prince Albert attended by the side of the carriages. 
 Next came M. Guizot, that clever man, who has thrown so much 
 light upon the history of England Lord Aberdeen, and the 
 ambassadors and officers of her Britannic Majesty ; then in the
 
 THE ROYAL PARTY. 241 
 
 midst of this immense concourse, a few Parisian artists, M. Alaux, 
 M. Morel-Fatio, M. Simeon-Fort, M. Eugene Isabey, the sea 
 painter par excellence; and above all M. Eugene Lami, our 
 worthy fellow laborer, or, to speak more correctly, our master in 
 all these Parisian excursions; for it is one of the customs of 
 the king of the French, to have the history of his times written 
 by painters and sculptors, rather than by historians and poets. 
 He loves the beautiful historical pages, which the artist adorns 
 with his brilliant colors. As the principal ornament of his 
 chateau d'Eu, the king chooses that painters should represent for 
 him, all the splendors of this royal visit. He has set apart for 
 these paintings, of which the Queen of England will be the 
 august heroine, the finest saloon in the chateau d' Eu, which will 
 bear the name of Queen Victoria. The artists are already at 
 their task, and you may be sure they will not delay, so much 
 are they pleased with the heroine, the beauty of the scene, the 
 magnificence of the sea and the sky. 
 
 Assuredly, the loveliness of these fresh landscapes, the old king 
 aged by labor more than by years, the three queens, the young 
 women so beautiful and so graceful, the duchess d' Orleans with 
 her imposing figure, her sincere and profound grief, the count of 
 Paris, who gives his hand to his mother, the people who cry 
 Vivat ! and at your feet, even to a distance, the extensive pano- 
 rama which prolongs, beneath the clear sunbeams, its endless 
 beauties, here is a subject for a vast and admirable painting. 
 The evening arrived, the gallery of the Guises is lighted in the most 
 splendid manner ; already it is filled by those who are invited to 
 the evening fete, and by some foreigners who enter without being 
 invited, so great is the hospitality of this royal house ! When 
 the king and queen appear, the concert commences, a concert 
 composed of chefs d'reuvre, the richest melodies, the most 
 admirable compositions of the greatest masters, for it is known 
 that the Queen of England entertains the most lively and deeply 
 felt passion for music. On that evening, were played the beau- 
 
 R
 
 THE CONCERT. 
 
 tiful overture of Iphigenie en Aulide, that exquisite work of 
 Gluck's ; the overture to the Enchanted Flute by Mozart ; 
 an air from the Siege of Corinth, and that admirable chorus 
 from Iphigenie, the application of which was easy, What grace, 
 what majesty, and the chorus from Armide, Never in these 
 lovely spots. This is what may be called music and genius. 
 These skilful artists also executed the symphonie en la by 
 Beethoven, a masterpiece which the Queen of England knows 
 by heart. Unfortunately, they only played the andante and 
 the minuet, and then the queen slightly knit her brow. " There 
 are some chefs d'ceuvre," said she, " in which nothing ought to 
 be retrenched." To make amends for this, they gave her the 
 whole overture of Zanetta, by M. Auber. 
 
 This visit of the queen's, I can honestly say, was full of 
 elegance and courtesy. The whole city of Paris, seeing that 
 the Queen of England was at her gates, prepared to give her 
 a suitable reception. The Opera would have offered her, Robert 
 le Diable, its masterpiece ; the Hotel de Ville, that palace 
 worthy of the greatest monarch in the world, the Paris citizen, 
 wished to invite her majesty to one of those fetes which appear 
 fabulous. Already the galleries of the Louvre opened their 
 doors to the visit of her majesty. The palace of Versailles, 
 happy and proud, at last to see a Queen of England reigning and 
 obeyed, after having sheltered Henrietta of England, the con- 
 quered and despoiled queen, opened all her gates, to show Vic- 
 toria, Louis XIV. and the great century. At the same time, 
 Fontainebleau would have taught the royal traveller the art, 
 the taste, and the splendors of the age of Francis I. Thus 
 delight was every where, the eagerness was general, the joy 
 was unanimous. These French, when they choose it, are still, 
 all things considered, the most gentlemanly men in the world ; 
 their benevolence is natural ; when they cry Vivat ! the cry 
 comes from their hearts ; you must believe in their enthusiasm, 
 it is an honest enthusiasm ; in their admiration, it is lively and
 
 THE QUEEN'S DECISION. 243 
 
 deeply felt : their hospitality is generous, brilliant, impassioned ; 
 and certainly, a young queen, courteous, polite, benevolent, has 
 reason to expect from the polished city, the best and most loyal 
 reception. Above all, the king of the French, who understands 
 doing the honors of this beautiful kingdom, from the midst of all 
 the splendors with which the city is filled, would have chosen 
 that he might present them to the queen, as the finest ornament 
 of his reign and of his century, the statesmen, the orators, the 
 poets, the literati, the artists, all the great names, all the glorious 
 names of France ; he would have presented them all to her 
 Britannic majesty, with the legitimate pride of a king who knows 
 well, where lies the strength and the greatness of his kingdom. 
 .... The queen decided otherwise ; she wished simply to 
 make a visit to the king her neighbor and her ally. This journey 
 through France appeared to her too long, she was afraid of 
 exciting too much jealousy in England ; therefore she remained 
 at the chateau d'Eu, where each day a new fete awaited her. 
 They even gave her comedy, little pieces thoroughly Parisian, 
 and above all, M. Arnal, one of those happy actors, who have 
 only to show themselves, to excite laughter and wild delight. 
 Certainly, a vaudeville played by M. Arnal is an amusing thing ; 
 but with equal certainty, if the Queen of England had been at 
 Versailles, the vaudeville would not have dared to show itself 
 in these magnificent places, filled with the wit and brilliancy of 
 French poetry ; the queen would then have had a play worthy 
 of the palace of Versailles, Moliere's Misanthrope, Racine's 
 Britannicus, or what is better still, the Cinna of the great 
 Corneille ; for this happy country of France counts only by 
 chefs d'ceuvre ; chefs d'reuvre for the king's palace, buffooneries 
 for the little apartments. 
 
 At last, after four days of this royal and paternal hospitality, 
 the queen took leave of her host, her departure being no 
 less magnificent than her arrival. Early in the morning, the 
 chateau d'Eu was filled with soldiers under arms. The ex-
 
 244 THE QUEEN'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 pectation was general. Very soon, the doors of the palace open, 
 and the king appears, giving his arm to queen Victoria, who bows 
 adieu to the crowd which salutes her. I know not how to tell 
 you the number of the horses, the richness of the carriages, the 
 livery of the servants, all the brilliant crowd, which conducted 
 the young queen back to her vessel. The bark was dressed 
 and impelled by twenty-four rowers. The music played, the 
 artillery thundered, the rising sun illumined the heavens, and his 
 golden rays broke upon the queen's vessel, which shone in the 
 distance. Eight beautiful steamers composed the royal escort; 
 the Pluto, the Tartarus, the Cyclops, the Napoleon, the Prome- 
 theus, the Heine Amelie, and an infinite number of boats, and 
 light barks, all laden with adieus and vivats. The king and the 
 queen, and all the royal family, conducted her majesty Victoria 
 to her beautiful vessel, the Victoria and Albert. They bade 
 adieu to each other, a tender and paternal adieu on the side of 
 the king, a filial adieu on the part of the queen. The two queens 
 embraced each other; and then you might have seen disappearing 
 in the distance, the Victoria and Albert. The king, however, 
 wished to see his young ally once more, and followed the royal 
 yacht in his boat; the queen stopped for a moment, and with a 
 charming gesture, bade the king of the French once more fare- 
 well! 
 
 Those readers, who have been able to follow me in the account 
 of this two-fold journey to Paris, know very well that I am not 
 a courtier. We children of America, are but little accustomed to 
 composing the dithyrambus ; on the contrary, like the dogmatical 
 beings that we are, satire is our great delight, and we have made 
 of irony a tenth muse. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me not 
 to congratulate myself, at the happy chance which has crowned 
 with such success, this history of a summer in Paris ; a brilliant 
 history, at least for me, a spectator moved and interested with so 
 many charming details of this Parisian society, which has not its 
 equal under the sun ; an elegant and polite society, benevolent
 
 PARISIAN SOCIETY. 245 
 
 and calm, which demands from each, only what he can give, and 
 is contented with that; a happy mixture of artists and great 
 lords, in which predominates the citizen, that is to say, good sense ; 
 a people tried by so many revolutions, and who have finished by 
 bearing them with the best grace in the world, and without its 
 being known by any one beyond the city ; men who understand 
 business as well as pleasure; great citizens who bear the favor 
 of the people as well as their disapprobation ; who know how to 
 renounce popularity when it is necessary to be unpopular, and to 
 defend liberty against its own excess ; a world of raillers and of 
 sceptics, who go gravely to church to hear Christian discourses, 
 and to judge them, under the double point of view, of literature 
 and eloquence ; a formidable city ! in less than two years, she has 
 surrounded herself with bastions, fortresses, fosses . and walls, 
 sufficient to defy the whole of Europe ; but already they walk upon 
 these ramparts, already they dance upon these walls, already they 
 cultivate flowers in the depth of these fosses. For my part, I, 
 who have seen her under her two-fold aspect, during the frosts of 
 winter, and in all the joys of summer, lavishing by the side of 
 the fire her wit and her brilliant conversation, or else confiding 
 to the old oaks of the forest her poetry and her eloquence; I, 
 who have seen her in her ball dress, the head laden with 
 flowers, the shoulders covered with diamonds ; or in the ample 
 muslin dress, wearing a straw bonnet as a protection from the 
 wind and the sun ; I, who know, how she expends talent, in- 
 vention, genius, wisdom and folly, truths and paradoxes, winter 
 as well as summer, summer as well as winter, I still ask myself 
 which of these two cities is to be preferred. Imitate me ; let my 
 conclusion be yours ; if you wish thoroughly to understand all 
 these elegances, study Paris during the winter ; if you would 
 penetrate into some few of the mysteries of its wit and its grace, 
 study it during the summer, study it incessantly, so that after 
 having carefully examined it, you may still think of it with 
 regret.
 
 246 DEATH OF M. HUGO'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And where, I pray you, does a more delightful study, or a 
 more extensive subject ever present itself, I do not say to the 
 meditations of philosophers, but simply to the observation of a 
 sensible man ? The beautiful and good city par excellence, the 
 city of easily formed friendships, innocent anger, sudden excite- 
 ments, of infinite graces, and idlenesses, and coquetteries! She 
 has, at the same time, so much art and so much nature ! Her 
 elegance is so unpremeditated ! She owns her follies so frankly ! 
 She does herself such strict justice, whenever she finds herself 
 leaning to a wrong inclination ! Wild in prosperity, grave and 
 calm in her days of trial; handling with unequalled skill the 
 epigram, which she showers liberally upon the rest of the world, 
 while she reserves for herself the most cutting epigrams, but ask 
 Moliere, M^oliere that Parisian mind, that Parisian genius, the 
 moralist of the great city, of which he is the popular and beloved 
 child he will describe Paris to you far better than I can. 
 
 Here concludes naturally the account of this new excursion, 
 an interesting account which I ought to have written with more 
 ease and brilliancy. At the chateau d' Eu, I said farewell 
 to this pleasant country of France, as Marie Stuart called it. 
 Indeed, after this last happiness of my journey, what could I 
 hope ? I had visited all the royal dwellings, Versailles, Saint 
 Cloud, Fontainebleau, Meudon. I had been present at all the 
 joys, at all the fetes of the month of April, and the month of May. 
 As a last adventure, after having arrived by the first train of 
 the railroad, I departed just in time to salute with mind and look 
 the greatest lady in the world. A complete fete . . . But alas ! 
 where is there a complete fete in this world ? where is the 
 brilliant landscape, where is the corner of earth, where is the 
 wave of the sea, which has not its history of woe and mourning ? 
 In the very wave over which I have passed, to return to my home 
 in New York, perished, not a week since, a fragile bark ; in this 
 bark, died the daughter of the great poet, the first-born of 
 M. Victor Hugo's children she was not twenty years old !
 
 LAST MEDITATIONS. 247 
 
 engulphed by the wave ! And now the sea appeared calmer than 
 ever, the earth more blooming, the sun more brilliant. 
 
 As I was thinking of these misfortunes which strike the highest 
 heads the grief of M. de Chateaubriand who has lost his 
 daughter ; M. de Lamartine who weeps his only child, and now 
 M. Victor Hugo inconsolable in his turn, I felt a blow upon my 
 shoulder, given by one of my Yankee friends a worthy man, 
 but not much disposed to weep over calamities which do not 
 directly affect him. What are you thinking about ? said he to 
 me, / was thinking, that perhaps I was wrong not to sell my 
 cottons at the price last quoted. And I, was my answer, was 
 thinking that the sea is brilliant and treacherous, that the ocean 
 sometimes bears upon its bosom strange treasons, I was thinking 
 that in a week there would be a feHe a grand fete in the park of 
 Saint Cloud, I was thinking of the landscapes, the gardens, the 
 splendors of the chateau de Meudon. 
 
 J. Haddon, Printer, Castle Street, Finsbury.

 
 
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