The American in Paris, during the summer

Front matter

DC

READING FOR THE MILLION.

BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO'S New Series. No. I. I i

Chapter I

Page Leaving Paris — ^Peculiarities of Paris — Retrospection— Wadsworth Longfellow — Paris the Centre of France — The Celebrated Men of the Provinces — Brittany — Provence — Burgundy — Normandy — The Seine — Celebrated Men of Paris — Moliere and Voltaii-e — 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 9

CHAPTER H.

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. Cherin — The old Miser — Her valuable Hoards — Her Death — The Opera ... 17

CHAPTER HI.

Parisian Churches — An Anecdote — Associations of Paris — ^The Val de Grace — The Jardin des Plantes — Santeul — Pans 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. Laromiguiere — Fete at the Sorbonne — Cathedrals of Saint Denis — Tombs of Saint Denis — Island of Saint Denis 25

CHAPTER IV.

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 ....... 39

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 45

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 — Toilet of Paris — Effect of Revolutions — Respect of the French for unfinished Monuments —The unfinished Louvre 54

6 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER VII.

Page The Postman — ^A welcome Messenger — An Invitation — The Croix de Berny — ^The High Road — The Steeple Chase — Enthusiasm of the French 58

CHAPTER VIII.

The Circus in the Champs Elysees — The Greenroom of the Actors — Their Freedom from Affectation — M. Baucher — Partisan — The Champs Elysees — The Alhe des Veuves— The Comet of 1843 61

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 EngHsh Workmen — Liberality of Feeling — The Exposition at the Louvre — Discussion about the Paintings — Eagerness of the Artists at the Opening of the Exposition — The Portraits — M. Ingres — His Portrait of M. Bertin — His Portrait of Count Mole — M. Champmartin — M. Winterhalter — Likenesses of the Dutchess 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 63

CHAPTER X.

A Visit — Delicate Health of the Parisian Ladies — Convalesence — ^Parisian Causerie —Europe a vast Saloon 71

CHAPTER XI.

Versailles — The Railroad— The Windmill at Versailles — Louis XIV. at VersaUles —His Chamber— The (Eil-de-BcEuf— The Chapel— Louis XIV. the real King of Versailles — 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 • . . 73

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 Loviis PMlippe — Forest of Fontainebleau — The Roche- qui-phure — Other Celebrated Rocks 79

CHAPTER Xni.

Saint Cloud — ^Passy — Franklin — Anecdote of M. de Richelieu — La Muette — ^M. Erard — Mount Valerien — 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 84

CHAPTER XIV.

The July Fetes — The Mat de Cocagne — The Parisian on the Seine — ^His Awkwardness — ^Various Amusements — ^The Place de la BastiUe — Beaumarchais — Destruction of the Bastille — Monument of July — History of an old Man — Phantoms of the BastiUe— The Colossal Elephant— The Revolution of July 87

CHAPTER XV.

Mineral Waters — The Lake 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 — imagination and Reality 92

CHAPTER XVI.

A Horticultural Fete — Ennui of the Flowers — The Dahlias — Useful. Flowers — Barbarous Latin — Nomenclature of the Roses — Vexatious Ignorance — Tulips — Daisies — Pansies — Flora and Pomona — Vegetables — Fruit — Flowers — Talent of the Parisian Ladies— The Carnations — Favorite Names 95

CONTENTS. 7

CHAPTER XVII.

Page Music — Friendly Reunions — Madame Damoreau — Nourrit — Madame Nathan- Treilhet — Countess de Montenegro — 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 100

CHAPTER XVIII.

Thoughts of Home — Impossibility of describing Paris — Parisiaii Urbanity to Strangers — Paris deserted in the Month of August — The Etoiles — Banks of the Seine — Arrival at Rouen — Dieppe — The Dutchess de Berri — Visit of Queen Victoria to the Chateau d'Eu — Mademoiselle — Nan-ow Escape of the French Royal Family — Arrival of the Queen — Enthusiastic Reception — Fete at the Mount d'Orleans — Intended Paintings illustrating the Royal Visit — ^The Concert — Excitement 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 110

THE AMERICAN IN PARIS

DURING THE SUMMER.

CHAPTER I.

LEAVING PARIS RETROSPECTION.

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 calumnies, 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 nothings of winter, the large fires on the spacious hearths, the drawing-rooms filled with chatting and wit, the brilliant reunions, 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 institutions 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 remembrance 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 anything 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 theunative elegance. You remember that long succession of chapters, in which Eugene Lami, the incomparable draftsman, had difficulty in following 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 smihng aspects of the Parisian world, and the struggle was, which should understand them the best. What happy descriptions we unitedly supplied : the Arc de Triomphe, the Chajwps 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

10 THE CENTRE OF FRANCE — BRITTANY — PROVENCE.

for my consolation 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 confessed the truth, my resolution was immoveable ; on the contrary, 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 everything to know, everything to learn, everything to guess. The whole history of France and its different provinces is enclosed within these formidable walls. He who was thoroughly 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 wonders assumes a certain form ; by degrees, each province detaches itself from this vast whole, and turns toward 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' Auvergne, 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 nobiUty, 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 toward Paris by that immense power which urges everything 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 Bordeaux 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 Proven9aI troubadours have been celebrated throughout Europe ; they remodelled the language which they found : rebelUous 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 Provencal ; Cardinal Maury was a Provencal ; and Mirabeau, the great leveller, whence did he appear, armed 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

BURGUNDY — NORMANDY — THE SEINE — CELEBRATED PARISIANS. 11

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, remembering 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 Villehardouins, of the sires de Joinville, of Cardinal de Retz. And that province worthy of being a kingdom, the subject of such inexhaustible 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 Avorld, would, of itself, suffice for contemplation 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 millstone, 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 livers, the Marne and the Oise, and thus it reaches 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, Videe Francaise.

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 skepticism, all the citizen-like good sense, which preside over the nineteenth century, after having shaken and thoroughly overturned the eighteenth. Do you ask what wonderful minds Paris has produced ? It has raised them all to its own attainments ; but besides this, it has produced him who may be called French genius par excellence — the comic poet, the profound philosopher, the ever-laughing, and yet serious Moliere ; besides Moliere, it has given you Voltaire : ask no more. All the other Parisians, strictly speaking, even those who are born in Paris, reassume, more or less, the particular genius of some one of the provinces of France. For instance, D'Alembert, 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; Bouhoxirs, 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 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, nevertheless, 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 somewhere; 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 among the princes and kings of the French monarchy, are bom in Paris I The Prince de Conde, however, weis born in Paris ; the witty Prince de Conti, the schoolfellow of Moliere, was born in Paris; the

12 MOLIERE AND VOLTAIRE A GREAT MISTAKE.

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, everywhere except in Paris. In point of Parisians, you have the three Coypels, and Madame Deshoulieres, a charming Parisian of the Place Royale; and Dorat, the coxcomb, with too much wit; and Pierre de I'Etoile, the historian of the reign of Henry III. ; and the clever family of the Estiennes, Robert, Henri, Charles, Robert-Estienne, Henry-Estienne, the celebrated printers; true Parisians 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 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 chymist, to whom Robespierre's executioners would not grant eight days' respite, that he might finish some experiments which he had commenced ; Ninon de I'Enclos, 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 Parisians ; two men, who could never have been bom or died in any other city — Moliere and Voltaire, the author of the Tartufe, and the author of the Essai sur les Maurs ; 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 ridicule ; 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 coinedy ; the second, who knows only of violence, wounds, bites, and stabs, and who would be veiy sorry if he corrected the smallest vice, withoxit 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 : Moliei^e who dares to attack religious 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 license, 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 postillion cracked his whip, the passers-by stopped

ST. Peter's at rome — victor hugo. 13

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 anything 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 for get to visit St. Peter^s at Romey But our traveller had entirely 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 Venetian 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 Gascon is at Bordeaux, does he think of Spain ; in vain, when the Provencal is in Provence, 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 flagelets. 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 everything 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 indifference, 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

14 LOVE OF THE HORRIBLE ANCIENT PARIS.

love ! No, no, he would never consent to follow on foot, the children playing in 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. Fy ! he pass through these beautiful gardens, adorned with flowers, water, and singing- birds ! He lose his time over the happy spectacle of the boulevards, where the loveliest crowd passes and repasses in its most elegant dress I 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 darkness, of the pillory, and the Cour des Miracles, the Paris of gipsies, 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 disgraceful things, and in the midst of the most menacing phrensy, the river which caiTies 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. Fy I 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 XI. is dead!