PARIS:

 WITH

 PEN AND PENCIL

 ITS

 PEOPLE AND LITERATURE, ITS

 LIFE AND BUSINESS

 BY

 DAVID W. BARTLETT

 AUTHOR OF "WHAT I SAW IN LONDON;" "LIFE OF LADY JANE GRAY;" "LIFE OF JOAN OF ARC, " ETC. ETC. 

 ILLUSTRATED. 

 NEW YORK:

 HURST & CO. , PUBLISHERS, 122 NASSAU STREET. 

PREFACE. 

The contents of this volume are the result of two visits to Paris. Thefirst when Louis Napoleon was president of the Republic; and the secondwhen Napoleon III. Was emperor of France. I have sketched people andplaces as I saw them at both periods, and the reader should bear this inmind. 

I have not endeavored to make a hand-book to Paris, but have describedthose places and objects which came more particularly under my notice. Ihave also thought it best, instead of devoting my whole space to thedescription of places, or the manners of the people--a subject which hasbeen pretty well exhausted by other writers--to give a few sketches ofthe great men of Paris and of France; and among them, a few of therepresentative literary men of the past. There is not a generalknowledge of French literature and authors, either past or present, among the mass of readers; and Paris and France can only be truly knownthrough French authors and literature. 

My object has been to add somewhat to the general reader's knowledge ofParis and the Parisians, --of the people and the places, whose sociallaws are the general guide of the civilized world. 

[Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. SULSPICE. ]

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. 

LONDON TO PARIS, HISTORY OF PARIS, CHAPTER II. 

RESTAURANTS, A WALK AND GOSSIP, THE BOURSE, CHAPTER III. 

LAFAYETTE'S TOMB, THE RADICAL, A COUNTRY WALK, CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHURCHES, NOTRE DAME, L'AUXERROIS, SAINT CHAPELLE, EXPIATOIRE, MADELEINE, ST. FERDINAND, VINCENT DE PAUL, &C. 

CHAPTER V. 

LAMARTINE, VERNET, GIRARDIN, HUGO, JANIN, CHAPTER VI. 

PLACES OF BLOOD, PLACE DE LA CONCORDE, CHAPTER VII. 

THE LOUVRE, PUBLIC GARDENS, THE LUXEMBOURG PALACE AND GARDENS, THE GOBELINS, CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PEOPLE, CLIMATE, PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS, HOTEL DE INVALIDES, JARDIN D'HIVER, CHAPTER IX. 

M. GUIZOT, ALEXANDER DUMAS, EUGENE SUE, M. THIERS, GEORGE SAND, CHAPTER X. 

PERE LA CHASE, THE PRISONS, FOUNDLING HOSPITALS, CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS, LA MORGUE, NAPOLEON AND EUGENIA, THE BAPTISM OF THE PRINCE, CHAPTER XI. 

MEN OF THE PAST, THE FATHER OF FRENCH TRAGEDY, THE GREAT JESTER, THE DRAMATIST, CHAPTER XII. 

THE FABULIST, THE INFIDEL, THE GREAT COMIC WRITER, WHAT I SAW IN PARIS. 

CHAPTER I. 

LONDON TO PARIS--HISTORY OF PARIS. 

LONDON TO PARIS. 

Few people now-a-days go direct to Paris from America. They land inLiverpool, get at least a birds-eye view of the country parts ofEngland, stay in London a week or two, or longer, and then cross thechannel for Paris. 

The traveler who intends to wander over the continent, here takes hisinitiatory lesson in the system of passports. I first called upon theAmerican minister, and my passport--made out in Washington--was _vise_for Paris. My next step was to hunt up the French consul, and pay him adollar for affixing his signature to the precious document. At the firstsea-port this passport was taken from me, and a provisional one put intomy keeping. At Paris the original one was returned! And this is ahistory of my passport between London and Paris, a distance traversed ina few hours. If such are the practices between two of the greatest andmost civilized towns on the face of the earth, how unendurable must theybe on the more despotic continent?

The summer was in its first month, and Paris was in its glory, and itwas at such a time that I visited it. We took a steamer at the Londonbridge wharf for Boulogne. The day promised well to be a boisterousone, but I had a very faint idea of the gale blowing in the channel. IfI could have known, I should have waited, or gone by the express route, _via_ Dover, the sea transit of which occupies only two hours. The fareby steamer from London to Boulogne was three dollars. The accommodationswere meager, but the boat itself was a strong, lusty little fellow, andwell fitted for the life it leads. I can easily dispense with theluxurious appointments which characterize the American steamboats, ifsafety is assured to me in severe weather. 

The voyage down the Thames, was in many respects very delightful. Greenwich, Woolwich, Margate, and Ramsgate lie pleasantly upon thisroute. But the wind blew so fiercely in our teeth that we experiencedlittle pleasure in looking at them. When we reached the channel we foundit white with foam, and soon our little boat was tossed upon the waveslike a gull. In my experience crossing the Atlantic, I had seen nothingso disagreeable as this. The motion was so quick and so continual, theboat so small, that I very soon found myself growing sick. The rain wasdisagreeable, and the sea was constantly breaking over the bulwarks. Icould not stay below--the atmosphere was too stifling and hot. So Ibribed a sailor to wrap about me his oil-cloth garments, and lay downnear the engines with my face upturned to the black sky, and thesea-spray washing me from time to time. Such sea-sickness I neverendured, though before I had sailed thousands of miles at sea, and havedone the same since. From sundown till two o'clock the next morning Ilay on the deck of the sloppy little boat, and when at last the Boulognelights were to be seen, I was as heartily glad as ever in my life. 

Thoroughly worn out, as soon as I landed upon the quay I handed my keysto a _commissaire_, gave up my passport, and sought a bed, and was soonin my dreams tossing again upon the channel-waves. I was waked by the_commissaire_, who entered my room with the keys. He had passed mybaggage, got a provisional passport for me, and now very politelyadvised me to get up and take the first train to Paris, for I had toldhim I wished to be in Paris as soon as possible. Giving him a good feefor his trouble, and hastily quitting the apartment and paying for it, Iwas very soon in the railway station. My trunks were weighed, and Ibought baggage tickets to Paris--price one sou. The first class fare wastwenty-seven francs, or about five dollars, the distance one hundred andseventy miles. This was cheaper than first class railway traveling inEngland, though somewhat dearer than American railway prices. 

The first class cars were the finest I have seen in any country--veryfar superior to American cars, and in many respects superior to theEnglish. They were fitted up for four persons in each compartment, and adoor opened into each from the side. The seat and back were beautifullycushioned, and the arms were stuffed in like manner, so that at nightthe weary traveler could sleep in them with great comfort. 

The price of a third class ticket from Boulogne to Paris was only threedollars, and the cars were much better than the second class in America, and I noticed that many very respectably dressed ladies and gentlemenwere in them--probably for short distances. It is quite common, both inEngland and France, in the summer, for people of wealth to travel byrail for a short distance by the cheapest class of cars. 

I entered the car an utter stranger--no one knew me, and I knew no one. The language was unintelligible, for I found that to _read_ French inAmerica, is not to _talk_ French in France. I could understand no one, or at least but a word here and there. 

But the journey was a very delightful one. The country we passed throughwas beautiful, and the little farms were in an excellent state ofcultivation. Flowers bloomed everywhere. There was not quite that degreeof cultivation which the traveler observes in the best parts of England, but the scenery was none the less beautiful for that. Then, too, I saweverything with a romantic enthusiasm. It was the France I had read of, dreamed of, since I was a school-boy. 

A gentleman was in the apartment who could talk English, having residedlong in Boulogne, which the English frequent as a watering place, and hepointed out the interesting places on our journey. At Amiens we changedcars and stopped five minutes for refreshments. I was hungry enough todraw double rations, but I felt a little fear that I should get cheated, or could not make myself understood; but as the old saw has it, "Necessity is the mother of invention, " and I satisfied my hunger with amoderate outlay of money. A few miles before we reached Paris, westopped at the little village of Enghein, and it seemed to me that Inever in my life had dreamed of so fairy-like a place. Beautiful lakes, rivers, fountains, flowers, and trees were scattered over the villagewith exquisite taste. To this place, on Sundays and holidays, the peopleof Paris repair, and dance in its cheap gardens and drink cheap wines. 

When we reached Paris my trunks were again searched and underwent ashort examination, to see that no wines or provisions were concealed inthem. A tax is laid upon all such articles when they enter the city, andthis is the reason why on Sunday the people flock out of town to enjoytheir _fetes_. In the country there are no taxes on wine and edibles, and as a matter of economy they go outside of the walls for theirpleasure. 

When my baggage was examined, I took an omnibus to the hotel Bedford, Rue de l'Arcade, where I proposed to stay but a few days, until I couldhunt up permanent apartments. My room was a delightful one and fitted upin elegant style. I was in the best part of Paris. Two minutes walk awaywere the _Champs Elysees_--the Madeleine church, the Tuileries, etc. , etc. But I was too tired to go out, and after a French dinner and alounge in the reading-room, I went to sleep, and the next morning's sunfound me at last entirely recovered from my wretched passage across thechannel. 

My second trip to Paris was in many respects different from thefirst--which I have just described. The route was a new one, andpleasanter than that _via_ Boulogne. Our party took an express trainfrom the London bridge terminus for Newhaven, a small sea-port. The carswere fitted up with every comfort, and we made the passage in quicktime. At three P. M. We went on board a little steamer for Dieppe, wherewe arrived at nine o'clock. After a delay of an hour we entered arailway carriage fitted up in a very beautiful and luxurious style. AtDieppe we had no trouble with our passports, keeping the originals, andsimply showing them to the custom-house officials. Our ride to Paris wasin the night, yet was very comfortable. 

In coming back to London, we made the trip to Dieppe in the daytime, andfound it to be very beautiful. From Paris to Rouen the railway runs agreat share of the way in sight of the river Seine, and often upon itsbanks. Many of the views from the train were romantic, and some of themwildly grand. Upon the whole, this route is the pleasantest betweenParis and London, as it is one of the cheapest. There is one objection, however, and that is the length of the sea voyage--six hours. Those whodislike the water will prefer the Dover route. 

 * * * * *

HISTORY OF PARIS. 

The origin of Paris is not known. According to certain writers, awandering tribe built their huts upon the island now called _la Cite_. This was their home, and being surrounded by water, it was easilydefended against the approach of hostile tribes. The name of the placewas Lutetia, and to themselves they gave the name of _Parisii_, from theCeltic word _par_, a frontier or extremity. 

This tribe was one of sixty-four which were confederated, and when theconquest of Gaul took place under Julius Caesar, the _Parisii_ occupiedthe island. The ground now covered by Paris was either a marsh orforest, and two bridges communicated from the island to it. Theislanders were slow to give up their Druidical sacrifices, and it isdoubtful whether the Roman gods ever were worshiped by them, thoughfragments of an altar of Jupiter have been found under the choir of thecathedral of Notre Dame. Nearly four hundred years after Christ, theEmperor Julian remodeled the government and laws of Gaul and Lutetia, and changed its name to _Parisii_. It then, too, became a city, and hadconsiderable trade. For five hundred years Paris was under Romandomination. A palace was erected for municipal purposes in the city, andanother on the south bank of the Seine, the remains of which can stillbe seen. The Roman emperors frequently resided in this palace whilewaging war with the northern barbarians. Constantine and Constantiusvisited it; Julian spent three winters in it; Valentian and Gratian alsomade it a temporary residence. 

The monks have a tradition that the gospel was first preached in Parisabout the year 250, by St. Denis, and that he suffered martyrdom atMontmartre. A chapel was early erected on the spot now occupied by NotreDame. In 406 the northern barbarians made a descent upon the Romanprovinces, and in 445 Paris was stormed by them. Before the year 500Paris was independent of the Roman domination. Clovis was its master, and marrying Clotilde, he embraced Christianity and erected a church. The island was now surrounded by walls and had gates. The famous churchof St. German L'Auxerrois was built at this time. For two hundred andfifty years, Paris retrograded rather than advanced in civilization, andthe refinements introduced by the Romans were nearly forgotten. In 845the Normans sacked and burnt Paris. Still again it was besieged, butsuch was the valor of its inhabitants that the enemy were glad to raisethe siege. Hugues Capet was elected king in 987, and the crown becamehereditary. In his reign the Palace of Justice was commenced. Buildingswere erected on all sides, and new streets were opened. Under Louis leGros the Louvre was rebuilt, it having existed since the time ofDagobert. Bishop Sully began the foundations of Notre Dame in 1163, andabout that time the Knights Templars erected a palace. 

Under the reign of Philip Augustus many of the public edifices wereembellished and new churches and towers were built. In 1250 RobertSerbon founded schools--a hospital and school of surgery were also aboutthis time commenced. 

Under Charles V. The city flourished finely, and the Bastille and thePalace de Tourvelles were erected. The Louvre also was repaired. Nextcame the unhappy reign of Charles VI. , who was struck with insanity. In1421 the English occupied Paris, but under Charles VII. They were drivenfrom it and the Greek language was taught for the first time in theUniversity of Paris. It had then twenty-five thousand students. Underthe reign of successive monarchs Paris was, from famine and plague, sodepopulated that its gates were thrown open to the malefactors of allcountries. In 1470 the art of printing was introduced into the city anda post-office was established. In the reign of Francis I. The arts andliterature sprang into a new life. The heavy buildings called the Louvrewere demolished, and a new palace commenced upon the old site. In 1533the Hotel de Ville was begun, and many fine buildings were erected. Thewars of the sects, or rather religions, followed, and among themoccurred the terrible St. Bartholomew massacre. Henry IV. Brought peaceto the kingdom and added greatly to the beauty and attractiveness ofParis. 

Under Louis XIII. Several new streets were opened, and the Palais Royaland the palace of the Luxembourg begun. Under the succeeding king thewars of the Fronde occurred, but the projects of the preceding king werecarried out, and more than eighty new streets were opened. The plantingof trees in the Champs Elysees, also took place under the reign of LouisXIV. The palace of the Tuileries was enlarged, the Hotel des Invalides, a foundling hospital, and several bridges were built. 

Louis XV. Established the manufactory of porcelain at Sevres, and alsoadded much to the beauty of Paris. He commenced the erection of theMadeleine. Theaters and comic opera-houses were speedily built, andwater was distributed over the city by the use of steam-engines. 

Then broke out the revolution, and many fine monuments were destroyed. But it was under the Directory that the Museum of the Louvre was opened, and under Napoleon the capital assumed a splendor it had never knownbefore. Under the succeeding kings it continued to increase in wealthand magnificence, until it is unquestionably the finest city in theworld. 

I have now in a short space given the reader a preliminary sketch ofParis, and will proceed at once to describe what I saw in it, and theimpressions I received, while a resident in that city. 

CHAPTER II. 

RESTAURANTS--A WALK AND GOSSIP. 

[Illustration: Boulevard du Temple. ]

RESTAURANTS, CAFES, ETC. 

The first thing the stranger does in Paris, is of course to findtemporary lodging, and the next is to select a good _restaurant_. Pariswithout its _restaurants, cafes, estaminets_, and _cercles_, would beshorn of half its glory. They are one of its most distinguished andpeculiar features. Between the hours of five and eight, in the eveningof course, all Paris is in those _restaurants_. The scene at such timesis enlivening in the highest degree. The Boulevards contain the finestin the city, for there nearly all the first-class saloons are kept. There are retired streets in which are kept houses on the same plan, butwith prices moderate in the extreme. You can go on the Boulevards andpay for a breakfast, if you choose, fifty or even sixty francs, or youcan retire to some quiet spot and pay one franc for your frugal meal. Itis of course not common for any one to pay the largest sum named, butthere are persons in Paris who do it, young men who with us are vulgarlydenominated "swells, " and who like to astonish their friends by theirextravagance. 

[Illustration: PARIS & ARCH OF TRIUMPH. ]

Out of curiosity I went one day with a friend to one of the mostgorgeous of the _restaurants_ on the Boulevards. Notwithstanding thedescriptions I had read and listened to from the lips of friends, I wassurprised at the splendor and style of the place. We sat down before afine window which was raised, looking into the street. Indeed, so closesat we to it that the fashionable promenaders could each, if he liked, have peeped into our dishes. But Parisians never trouble strangers withtheir inquisitiveness. We sat down before a table of exquisite marble, and a waiter dressed as neatly, and indeed gracefully, as a gentleman, handed us a bill of fare. It was long enough in itself to make a man adinner, if the material were only palatable. Including dessert andwines, there were one hundred specifications! There were ten kinds ofmeat, and fourteen varieties of poultry. Of course there were manyvarieties of game, and there were eight kinds of pastry. Of fish therewere fourteen kinds, there were ten side dishes, a dozen sweet dishes, and a dozen kinds of wine. 

The elegance of the apartment can scarcely be imagined, and the savorysmell which arose from neighboring tables occupied by fashionable menand women, invited us to a repast. We called, however, but for a dish ortwo, and after we had eaten them, we had coffee, and over our cupsgazed out upon the gay scene before us. It was novel, indeed, to theAmerican eye, and we sat long and discussed it. In this _restaurant_there were private rooms, called _Cabinets de Societe_, and into them gomen and women at all hours, by day and night. It is also a common sightto see the public apartments of the _restaurants_ filled with people ofboth sexes. Ladies sit down even in the street with gentlemen, to supchocolate or lemonade. There is not much eaves-dropping in Paris, andyou can do as you please, nor fear curious eyes nor scandal-lovingtongues. This is very different from London. There, if you do any thingout of the common way, you will be stared at and talked about. _There_, if you take a lady into a public eating-house, _her_ position, at least, will not be a very pleasant one. 

There are many places in the Palais Royal, the basement floor of which, fronting upon the court of the palace, is given up to shops, where fortwo or three francs a dinner can be purchased which will consist ofsoup, two dishes from a large list at choice, a dessert, and bread andwine. There are places, indeed, where for twenty-five sous a dinnersufficient to satisfy one's hunger can be purchased, but I must confessthat while in Paris I could never yet make up my mind to patronize acheap _restaurant_. I knew too well, by the tales of more experiencedParisians, the shifts to which the cook of one of these cheapestablishments is sometimes reduced to produce an attractive dish. Thematerial sometimes would not bear a close examination--much less the_cuisine_. 

[Illustration: JARDIN DU PALAIS ROYAL. ]

I was astonished to see the quantities of bread devoured by thefrequenters of the eating-houses, but I soon equaled my neighbors. Parisbread is the best in the world, or at least, it is the most palatable Iever tasted. It is made in rolls six feet long, and sometimes I haveseen it eight feet long. Before now, I have seen a couple dining nearthe corner of a room, with their roll of bread thrown like a caneagainst the wall, and as often as they wanted a fresh slice, the rollwas very coolly brought over and decapitated. The Frenchman eats littlemeat, but enormously of the staff of life. The chocolate and coffeewhich are to be had in the French _cafes_, are very delicious, andthough after a fair and long trial I never could like French cookery aswell as the English, yet I would not for a moment pretend that any cooksin the world equal those of Paris in the art of imparting exquisiteflavor to a dish. It is quite common for the French to use brandy intheir coffee. 

People who take apartments in Paris often prefer to have their mealssent to their private rooms, and by a special bargain this is done byany of the restaurants, but more especially by a class of houses called_traiteurs_, whose chief business is to furnish cooked dishes tofamilies in their own homes. In going to a hotel in Paris, the strangernever feels in the slightest degree bound to get his meals there. Hehires his room and that is all, and goes where he pleases. The _cafes_are in the best portions of the town, magnificent places, oftenexceeding in splendor the restaurants. They furnish coffee, chocolate, all manner of ices and fruits, and cigars. At these places one meetswell-dressed ladies, and more than once in them I have seen well-dressedwomen smoking cigarettes. Love intrigues are carried on at these places, for a Paris lady can easily steal from her home to such a place undercover of the night. A majority, however, of the women to be seen at suchplaces, are those who have no position in society, the wandering nymphsof the night, or the poor grisettes. It is not strange that the poorshop-girl is easily attracted to such gorgeous places by men far aboveher in station. 

Outside of all the cafes little tables are placed on the pavement, withchairs around them. These places are delightful in the summer evenings, and are always crowded. A promenade through some of the best streets ofa summer night is a brilliant spectacle, and more like a promenadethrough a drawing-room than through an American street. The proprietorsof those places do not intend to keep restaurants, but quite a varietyof food, hot or cold, is always on hand, and wines of all kinds aresold. 

I well remember my first visit to a French _cafe_. It was when LouisNapoleon was president, not emperor of France, and when there was moreliberty in Paris than there is now. I dropped into one near theBoulevards, which, while it contained everything which could add toone's comfort, still was not one of the first class. Several officerswere dining in it, and in some way I came in contact with one of them insuch a manner that he discovered I was an American. At once his conducttoward me was of the most cordial kind, and his fellows rose and bade mewelcome to France. The simple fact that I was a republican from Americaaroused the enthusiasm of all. I found, afterward, that the regiment towhich these officers belonged was suspected by the president of beingdemocratic in its sympathies. 

The reading-rooms of Paris are one of its best institutions. They arescattered all over the city, but the best is Galignani's, which containsover twenty thousand volumes in all languages. The subscription pricefor a month is eight francs, for a fortnight five francs, and for a dayten sous. 

There are reading-rooms furnished only with newspapers, where for asmall sum of money one can read the papers. These places are few incomparison with their numbers in the days of the republic, however. Under the despotic rule of Louis Napoleon, the newspaper business hasdrooped. 

An anonymous writer in one of Chambers' publications, tells a goodstory, and it is a true one, of Pere Fabrice, who amassed a fortune inParis. The story is told as follows:

"He had always a turn for speculation, and being a private soldier hemade money by selling small articles to his fellow soldiers. When histerm of service had expired, he entered the employ of a rag-merchant, and in a little while proposed a partnership with his master, wholaughed at his impudence. He then set up an opposition shop, and lostall he had saved in a month. He then became a porter at the _halles_where turkeys were sold. He noticed that those which remained unsold, ina day or two lost half their value. He asked the old women how thecustomers knew the turkeys were not fresh. They replied that the legschanged from a bright black to a dingy brown. Fabrice went home, wasabsent the next day from the _halles_, and on the third day returnedwith a bottle of liquid. Seizing hold of the first brown-legged turkeyhe met with, he forthwith painted its legs out of the contents of hisbottle, and placing the thus decorated bird by the side of one justkilled, he asked who now was able to see the difference between thefresh bird and the stale one? The old women were seized with admiration. They are a curious set of beings, those _dames de la halle_; theiradmiration is unbounded for successful adventurers--witness theirenthusiasm for Louis Napoleon. They adopted our friend's idea withouthesitation, made an agreement with him on the principle of the divisionof profits; and it immediately became a statistical puzzle with thecurious inquirers on these subjects, how it came to pass that staleturkeys should have all at once disappeared from the Paris market? Itwas set down to the increase of prosperity consequent on theconstitutional _regime_ and the wisdom of the citizen-king. The oldwomen profited largely; but unfortunately, like the rest of the world, they in time forgot both their enthusiasm and their benefactor, and PereFabrice found himself involved in a daily succession of squabbles abouthis half-profits. Tired out at last, he made an arrangement with the olddames, and, in military phrase, sold out. Possessed now of about doublethe capital with which he entered, he recollected his old friend, therag-merchant, and went a second time to propose a partnership. 'I am aman of capital now, ' he said; 'you need not laugh so loud this time. 'The rag-merchant asked the amount of his capital; and when he heard it, whistled _Ninon dormait_, and turned upon his heel. 'No wonder, ' saidFabrice afterward; 'I little knew then what a rag-merchant was worth. That man could have bought up two of Louis Philippe's ministers offinance. ' At the time, however, he did not take the matter sophilosophically, and resolved, after the fashion of his class, not todrown himself, but to make a night of it. He found a friend, and wentwith him to dine at a small eating-house. While there, they noticed thequantity of broken bread thrown under the tables by the reckless andquarrelsome set that frequented the place; and his friend remarked, thatif all the bread so thrown about were collected, it would feed half the_quartier_. Fabrice said nothing; but he was in search of an idea, andhe took up his friend's. The next day, he called on the restaurateur, and asked him for what he would sell the broken bread he was accustomedto sweep in the dustpan. The bread he wanted, it should be observed, wasa very different thing from the fragments left upon the table; these hadbeen consecrated to the marrow's soup from time immemorial. He wantedthe dirty bread actually thrown under the table, which even a Parisianrestaurateur of the Quartier Latin, whose business it was to collectdirt and crumbs, had hitherto thrown away. Our restaurateur caughteagerly at the offer, made a bargain for a small sum; and Master Fabriceforthwith proceeded to about a hundred eating-houses of the same kind, with all of whom he made similar bargains. Upon this he established abakery, extending his operations till there was scarcely a restaurant inParis of which the sweepings did not find their way to the oven of PereFabrice. Hence it is that the fourpenny restaurants are supplied; henceit is that the itinerant venders of gingerbread find their firstmaterial. Let any man who eats bread at any very cheap place in thecapital take warning, if his stomach goes against the idea of a_rechauffe_ of bread from the dust-hole. Fabrice, notwithstanding someextravagances with the fair sex, became a millionaire; and the greatestglory of his life was--that he lived to eclipse his old master, therag-merchant. "

The same writer also gives a graphic description of one class ofrestaurants in Paris--the pot-luck shops:

"Pot-luck, or the _fortune de pot_, is on the whole the most curiousfeeding spectacle in Europe. There are more than a dozen shops in Pariswhere this mode of procuring a dinner is practiced, chiefly in the backstreets abutting on the Pantheon. About two o'clock, a parcel of men indirty blouses, with sallow faces, and an indescribable mixture ofrecklessness, jollity, and misery--strange as the juxtaposition of termsmay seem--lurking about their eyes and the corners of their mouths, taketheir seats in a room where there is not the slightest appearance of anypreparation for food, nothing but half-a-dozen old deal-tables, withforms beside them, on the side of the room, and one large table in themiddle. They pass away the time in vehement gesticulation, and talkingin a loud tone; so much of what they say is in _argot_, that thestranger will not find it easy to comprehend them. He would think theywere talking crime or politics--not a bit of it; their talk isaltogether about their mistresses. Love and feeding make up theexistence of these beings; and we may judge of the quality of the formerby what we are about to see of the latter. A huge bowl is at lastintroduced, and placed on the table in the middle of the room. At thesame time a set of basins, corresponding to the number of the guests, are placed on the side-tables. A woman, with her nose on one side, goodeyes, and the thinnest of all possible lips, opening every now and thento disclose the white teeth which garnish an enormous mouth, takes herplace before it. She is the presiding deity of the temple; and there isnot a man present to whom it would not be the crowning felicity of themoment to obtain a smile from features so little used to the business ofsmiling, that one wonders how they would set about it if the necessityshould ever arise. Every cap is doffed with a grim politeness peculiarto that class of humanity, and a series of compliments fly into the faceof Madame Michel, part leveled at her eyes, and part at the laced cap, in perfect taste, by which those eyes are shrouded. Mere Michel, however, says nothing in return, but proceeds to stir with a thickladle, looking much larger than it really is, the contents of the bowlbefore her. These contents are an enormous quantity of thick brownliquid, in the midst of which swim numerous islands of vegetable matterand a few pieces of meat. Meanwhile, a damsel, hideously ugly--but whoseugliness is in part concealed by a neat, trim cap--makes the tour of theroom with a box of tickets, grown black by use, and numbered from one towhatever number may be that of the company. Each of them gives four sousto this Hebe of the place, accompanying the action with an amorous look, which is both the habit and the duty of every Frenchman when he hasanything to do with the opposite sex, and which is not always a matterof course, for Marie has her admirers, and has been the cause of morethan one _rixe_ in the Rue des Anglais. The tickets distributed, uprises number one--with a joke got ready for the occasion, and a look ofearnest anxiety, as if he were going to throw for a kingdom--takes theladle, plunges it into the bowl, and transfers whatever it brings up tohis basin. It is contrary to the rules for any man to hesitate when hehas once made his plunge, though he has a perfect right to take his timein a previous survey of the _ocean_--a privilege of which he alwaysavails himself. If he brings up one of the pieces of meat, the glistenof his eye and the applauding murmur which goes round the assembly givehim a momentary exultation, which it is difficult to conceive by thosewho have not witnessed it. In this the spirit of successful gambling is, beyond all doubt, the uppermost feeling; it mixes itself up witheverything done by that class of society, and is the main reason of thepopularity of these places with their _habitues_; for when the customershave once acquired the habit, they rarely go anywhere else. "

[Illustration: Omnibus. ]

A WALK AND GOSSIP. 

One of my first days in Paris I sauntered out to find some Americannewspapers, that I might know something of what had transpired inAmerica for weeks previous. I directed my steps to the office of Messrs. Livingston, Wells & Co. , where I had been informed a reading-room wasalways kept open for the use of American strangers in Paris. The morningwas a delightful one, and I could but contrast it with the usual weatherof London. During months of residence in the English metropolis I hadseen no atmosphere like this, and my spirits, like the sky, were clearand bright. 

On my way I saw a novel sight, and to me the first intimation that thepeople of Paris, so widely famed for their politeness, refinement, andcivilization, are yet addicted to certain practices for which thewildest barbarian in the far west would blush. I saw men in open day, inthe open walk, which was crowded with women as well as men, commitnuisances of a kind I need not particularize but which seemed to exciteneither wonder nor disgust in the by-passers. Indeed I saw they werequite accustomed to such sights, and their nonchalance was only equaledby that of the well-dressed gentlemen who were the guilty parties. Ivery soon learned more of Paris, and found that not in this matter alonewere its citizens deficient in refinement, but in still weightiermatters. 

I soon reached the American reading-room, and walked in. My first actwas to look at the register where all persons who call inscribe theirnames, and I was surprised to notice the number of Americans present inParis. It only proved what I long had heard, that Americans take morenaturally to the French than to the sturdy, self-sufficient Englishman. As it is in the matter of fashions, so it is regarding almost everythingelse, save morals, and I doubt if the tone of fashionable society in NewYork is any better than in Paris. 

I was heartily rejoiced to take an American newspaper in my hand again. There were the clear open face of the plain-spoken _Tribune_, thesprightly columns of the _Times_, and the more dignified columns of theWashington journals. There were also many other familiar papers on thetable, and they were all touched before I left. It was like a coolspring in the wide desert. For I confess that I love the newspaper, ifit only be of the right sort. From early habit, I cannot live withoutit. Let any man pursue the vocation of an editor for a few years, and hewill find it difficult, after, to live without a good supply ofnewspapers, and they must be of the old-fashioned home kind. 

I did not easily accustom myself to the Paris journals. Cheap enoughsome of them were, but still the strange language was an obstacle. Theyare worse printed than ours, and are by no means equal to such journalsas the _Times_ and _Tribune_. They publish continued stories, or novels, and racy criticisms of music, art, and literature. The politicaldepartment of the French newspaper at the present day is the weakestpart of the sheet. It is lifeless. A few meager facts are recorded, andthere is a little tame comment, and that is all. There was a time whenthe political department of a French newspaper was its most brilliantfeature. During the exciting times which presaged the downfall of LouisPhilippe, and also during the early days of the republic, the Parispress was in the full tide of success, and was exceedingly brilliant. The daily journals abounded, and their subscription lists were enormous. Where there is freedom, men and women _will_ read--and where there isunmitigated despotism, the people care little to read the sicklyjournals which are permitted to drag out an existence. 

There is one journal published in Paris in the English language, "_Galignani's Messenger_. " It is old, and in its way is very useful, butit is principally made up of extracts from the English journals. It hasno editorial ability or originality, and of course never advances anyopinion upon a political question. 

On my return home I passed through a street often mentioned by EugeneSue in his Mysteries of Paris--a street formerly noted for the vilecharacter of its inhabitants. It was formerly filled with robbers andcut-throats, and even now I should not care to risk my life in thisstreet after midnight, with no policemen near. It is exceedingly narrow, for I stood in the center and touched with the tips of my fingers thewalls of both sides of the street. It is very dark and gloomy, andqueer-looking passages run up on either side from the street. Some ofthem were frightful enough in their appearance. To be lost in such aplace in the dead of night, even now, would be no pleasant fate, fordesperate characters still haunt the spot. Possibly the next morning, ora few mornings after, the stranger's body might be seen at _La Morgue. _That is the place where all dead bodies found in the river or streetsare exhibited--suicides and murdered men and women. 

Talking of this street and its reputation in Eugene Sue's novels, reminds me of the man. When I first saw it he had just been elected tothe Chamber of Deputies by an overwhelming majority. It was not becauseSue was the favorite candidate of the republicans, but he stood in sucha position that his defeat would have been considered a governmentvictory, and consequently he was elected. I was glad to find the manunpopular among democrats of Paris, for his life, like his books, hasmany pages in it that were better not read. At that time he was livingvery quietly in a village just out of Paris, and though surrounded withvoluptuous luxuries, he was in his life strictly virtuous. He was thesame afterward, and being very wealthy, gave a great deal to the poor. His novels are everywhere read in France. 

I was not a little surprised during my first days in Paris to see thepopularity of Cooper as a novelist. His stories are for sale at everybook-stall, and are in all the libraries. They are sold withillustrations at a cheap rate, and I think I may say with safety that heis as widely read in France as any foreign novelist. This is a littlesingular when it is remembered how difficult it is to convey the brokenIndian language to a French reader. This is one of the best features ofCooper's novels--the striking manner in which he portrays the languageof the North American Indian and his idiomatic expressions. Yet such isthe charm of his stories that they have found their way over Europe. Thetranslations into the French language must be good. 

Another author read widely in Paris, as she is all over Europe, is Mrs. Stowe. _Uncle Tom_ is a familiar name in the brilliant capital ofFrance, and even yet his ideal portraits hang in many shop windows, andthe face of Mrs. Stowe peeps forth beside it. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ waswonderfully popular among all classes, and to very many--what afact!--it brought their first idea of Jesus Christ as he is delineatedin the New Testament. But Mrs. Stowe's _Sunny Memories_ was veryseverely criticised and generally laughed at--especially her criticismsupon art. 

Walking one evening in the Champs Elysees, I found a little family ofsingers from the Alps, underneath one of the large trees. You shouldhave heard them sing their native songs, so plaintive and yet so mild. Father and mother, two little sisters and a brother, were begging theirbread in that way. They were dressed very neatly, although evidentlyextremely poor. The father had a violin which he played very sweetly, the mother sang, the two little girls danced, and the boy put in a softand melancholy tenor. I hardly ever listened to sadder music. It seemedas if their hearts were in it, saddened at the thought of exile fromtheir native mountains. After singing for a long time, they stopped andlooked up appealingly to the crowd--but not a sou fell to the ground. Once more they essayed to sing, with a heavier sorrow upon their faces, for they were hungry and had no bread. They stopped again--not asolitary sou was given to them. A large tear rolled down the cheek ofthe father--you should have seen the answering impulse of the crowd--howthe sous rattled upon the ground. They saw instantly that it was nocommon beggar before them, but one who deserved their alms. At once, asif a heaven full of clouds had divided and the sunshine flashed fullupon their faces, the band of singers grew radiant and happy. Such islife--a compound of sorrow and gayety. 

The Parisian omnibus system is the best in the world, and I found itvery useful and agreeable always while wandering over the city. Thevehicles are large and clean, and each passenger has a chair fastenedfirmly to the sides of the carriage. Six sous will carry a personanywhere in Paris, and if two lines are necessary to reach the desiredplace, a ticket is given by the conductor of the first omnibus, whichentitles the holder to another ride in the new line. The omnibus systemis worked to perfection only in Paris, and is there a great blessing topeople who cannot afford to drive their own carriages. 

THE BOURSE--GALIGNANI'S, ETC. , ETC. 

The Paris Exchange is on the Rue Vivienne, and is approached from theTuileries from that street or _via_ the Palais National, and asuccession of the most beautiful arcade-shops in Paris or the world. Ifthe day be rainy, the stranger can thread his way to it under the longarcades as dry as if in his own room at the hotel. I confess to afondness for wandering though such places as these arcades, where theriches of the shops are displayed in their large windows. In America itis not usual to fill the windows of stores full of articles with theprice of each attached, but it is always so in London and Paris. Ajewelry store will exhibit a hundred kinds of watches with theirdifferent prices attached, and the different shops will display whatthey contain in like manner. There are, too, in Paris and London placescalled "Curiosity shop". The first time I ever saw one of these shopswith its green windows and name over the door, memory instantly recalleda man never to be forgotten. Will any one who has read Charles Dickensever forget his "Curiosity Shop, " the old grandfather and little Nell?When I entered the shop--the windows filled with old swords, pistols, and stilettos--it seemed to me that I must meet the old gray-haired man, or gentle Nell, or the ugly Quilp and Dick Swiveller. But they were notthere. 

[Illustration: Palais de la Bourse]

But I have been stopping in a curiosity shop when I should be on my wayto the Bourse. The Paris Bourse, or Exchange, is perhaps the finestbuilding of its kind on the continent. Its magnificence is very properlyof the most solid and substantial kind. For should not the exchange forthe greatest merchants of Paris be built in a stable rather than in aslight and beautiful manner? The form of the structure is that of aparallelogram, and it is two hundred and twelve by one hundred andtwenty-six feet. It is surrounded by sixty-six Corinthian columns, whichsupport an entablature and a worked attic. It is approached by a flightof steps which extend across the whole western front. Over the westernentrance is the following inscription--BOURSE ET TRIBUNAL DE COMMERCE. The roof is made of copper and iron. The hall in the center of thebuilding where the merchants meet is very large--one hundred and sixteenfeet long and seventy-six feet broad. Just below the cornice areinscribed the names of the principal cities in the world, and over themiddle arch there is a clock, which on an opposite dial-plate marks thedirection of the wind out of doors. 

The hall is lighted from the roof--the ceiling is covered with finepaintings, or as they are styled "monochrane drawings. " Europe, Asia, Africa, and America are represented in groups. In one, the city of Parisis represented as delivering her keys to the God of Commerce, andinviting Commercial Justice to enter the walls prepared for her. 

The hall is paved with a fine marble, and two thousand persons can beaccommodated upon the central floor. There is a smaller inclosure at theeast end, where the merchants and stockholders transact their dailybusiness. The hours are from one o'clock to three for the public stocks, and till half past five for all others. The public is allowed to visitthe Bourse from nine in the morning till five at night. A very singularregulation exists in reference to the ladies. No woman is admitted intothe Bourse without a special order from the proper authorities. Thecause for this is the fact that years ago, when ladies were admitted tothe Bourse, they became very much addicted to gambling there, and alsoenticed the gentlemen into similar practices. It is not likely that theold stockholders were tempted into any vicious practices, but thepresence of women was enough to attract another class of men--idlers andfashionable gamblers--until the exchange was turned into agambling-saloon. The matter was soon set to rights when women were shutout. 

Paris was formerly without an Exchange, and the merchants held theirmeetings in an old building which John Law, the celebrated financier, once occupied. They afterward met in the Palais Royal, and still later, in a comparatively obscure street. The first stone of the Bourse waslaid on the 28th of March, 1808, and the works proceeded with dispatchtill 1814, when they were suspended. It was completed in 1826. Thearchitect who designed it died when it was half completed, but the planwas carried out, though by a new architect. It is now a model buildingof its kind, and cost nearly nine millions of francs. In comprehensivemagnificence it has no rival in Paris--perhaps not in the world. TheRoyal Exchange of London, though a fine building, is a pigmy beside thismassive and colossal structure. The best view can be obtained from theRue Vivienne. From this street one has a fine view of the fine marblesteps ascending to it, and which stretch completely across the westernpart. 

The history of all the great panics which have been experienced on theParis Exchange would be an excellent history of the fortunes of France. The slightest premonition of change is felt at once at the Bourse, andas each successive revolution has swept over the country, it haswritten its history in ineffaceable characters on Change. Panic hasfollowed panic, and the stocks fly up or down according to the viewsoutside. The breath of war sets all its interests into a tremblingcondition, and an election, before now, has sent the thrill to the verycenter of that grand old money-palace. 

On my way home from the Bourse, I stopped to go over Galignani's ReadingRoom. It is a capital collection of the best books of all countries, some of them in French, some in English, and others in German. I foundon the shelves many American republications, but Cooper was always firstamong these. For a small sum the stranger can subscribe to this library, either for a month or a year, and supply himself with reading and thenewspapers of the world. 

The Messrs. Galignani publish an English journal in Paris. It is adaily, and has no opinions of its own. Of course, an original andindependent journal could not be allowed to exist in Paris. 

For this reason _Galignani's Messenger_ is a vapid concern. It presentsno thoughts to the reader. It is interesting to the Englishman in Paris, because it gathers English news, and presents it in the originallanguage. As there are always a great many Englishmen in Paris, thejournal is tolerably well supported. Then, again, the Paris shop-keepersand hotel-owners know very well that the English are among their bestcustomers, and they advertise largely in it. So far as my experience hasgone, I have found the _Messenger_ quite unfair to America. It quotesfrom the worst of American journals, and is sure to parade anything thatmay be for the disadvantage of American reputation. It also is generallysure of showing by its quotations its sympathy with "the powers thatbe. " This may all be natural enough, for it is for their interest tostand well with the despot who rules France, but to an American, and arepublican, it excites only disgust. At present the _Messenger_ is asgood, or nearly so, as any of the French journals, but when the latterhad liberty to write as they pleased, the contrast between the Frenchand English press in Paris was ludicrous. In one you had fearlesspolitical writing, wit, and spice. In the other, nothing but selections. 

Once, while in Paris, during the days of the republic, I called upon theeditor of one of the prominent French journals. It was a journal whichhad again and again paid government fines for the utterance of itshonest sentiments, both under Louis Philippe and the presidency of LouisNapoleon. Before the revolution it had a very great influence over thepeople, and in the days of the so-called republic. The struggle betweenit and the government, at that time was continued. Its editor's greataim was to express as much truth as was possible and escape thegovernment line, which in the end would suppress the journal. 

As I entered the building in which this journal was printed andpublished, I felt a kind of awe creeping over me, as if coming into thepresence of a great mind. We entered the editor's office; a little greenbaize-covered table by a window, pen and ink, and scissors, indicatedthe room. One might indeed tremble in such a place. What greater placeis there in this world than an editor's office, if his journal be onewhich sells by tens of thousands and sways a vast number of intelligentmen? A throne-room is nothing in comparison to it. Thrones aredemolished by the journals. Especially in Paris has such been the case. The liberal press has in past years controlled the French people to awonderful extent. Kings and queens have physical power, but here in thislittle room was the throne-room of intellect. A door opened out of itinto the printing-room, where the thoughts were stamped upon paper, afterward to be impressed upon a hundred thousand minds. 

The editor sat over his little desk, an earnest, care-worn, yet hopefulman. His fingers trembled with nervousness, yet his eye was like aneagle's. He did not stir when we first entered, did not even see us, hewas so deeply absorbed in what lay before him upon his table. I was gladto watch him for a moment, unobserved. He was no fashionable editor, made no play of his work. He felt the responsibility of his position, and endeavored honestly to do his duty. His forehead was high, his eyeblack, and his face was very pale. Suddenly he looked up and saw us, andrecognized my friend. It was enough that I was a republican, fromAmerica, and unlike some Americans, abated not a jot of my radicalismwhen in foreign countries. 

I looked around the room when the first words were spoken, and saweverywhere files of newspapers, old copy and that which was about to begiven to the printers. It was very much like an editorial apartment inan American printing office, though in some respects it was different. It was a gloomy apartment, and it seemed to me that the writings of theeditor must partake somewhat of the character of the room. 

We went into the printing-office, where a hundred hands were setting the"thought-tracks. " It seemed as if everyone in the building, fromeditor-in-chief down to the devil, was solemn with the thought of hishigh and noble avocation. There was a half sadness on everycountenance, for the future was full of gloom. I was struck with thefact that the office did not seem to me to be a _French_ office. Therewas a gravity, a solemnity, not often seen in Paris. The usualpoliteness of a Parisian was there, but no gayety, no recklessness. Anxiety trouble, or fixedness of purpose were written upon almost everycountenance. In one corner lay piled up to the ceilings copies of thejournal, and I half expected to see a band of the police walk in andseize them. It seemed as if _they_ half expected some such thing, butthey worked on without saying a word. I became at that moment convincedthat a portion of the French people had been wronged by foreigners. There is a large class who are not only intellectual, but they areearnest and grave. They do not wish change for the sake of it. They loveliberty and would die for it. Many of this class were murdered in coldblood by Louis Napoleon. Others were sent to Cayenne, to fall a prey toa climate cruel as the guillotine, or were sent into strange lands tobeg their bread. These men were the real glory of France, and yet theywere forced to leave it. 

CHAPTER III. 

LAFAYETTE'S TOMB--THE RADICAL--A COUNTRY WALK. 

LAFAYETTE'S TOMB. 

I am fond of being at perfect liberty to ramble where my fancy may lead. If the sun shine pleasantly this morning, and I would like to hear thebirds sing and smell the flowers, I go to some pleasant garden andindulge my mood. Or, if I am sad, I go to the grave of genius, and leanover the tomb of Abelard and Heloise. 

When I lived in Paris, I had no regularity in my wanderings, no methodin my sight-seeing, following a perhaps wayward fancy, and enjoyingmyself the better for it. 

One beautiful morning I sauntered out from my hotel, with a friend, whowas also a stranger in Paris. 

"Where shall we go?" he asked. 

"To a little cemetery called Picpus, far away from here. "

"Will it be worth our while to go so far to see a small cemetery?"

"You shall see when we get there. "

We went part of the way by an omnibus, and walked the rest, and when themorning was nearly spent, we stood before No. 15, Rue de Picpus. Theplace was once a convent of the order of St. Augustine, but is nowoccupied by the "Women of the Sacred Heart. " Within the convent, whichwe entered, there is a pretty Doric chapel with an Ionic portal. Therewas an air of privacy about, the little chapel which pleased me, and achasteness in its architecture which could not fail to please any onewho loves simple beauty. Within the walls of the court, there is a verysmall private cemetery, but though private, the porter, if you ask himpolitely, will let you enter, especially if you tell him you are fromAmerica. 

"Here is the cemetery which we have come to see, " I said to my friend. 

"Certainly, it is a very pretty one, " he replied; "still I see nothingto justify our coming so far to behold it. "

"Wait a little while and you will not say so. "

The first group of graves before which we stopped, was that of somevictims of the reign of terror--poor slaughtered men and women. Thegrass was growing pleasantly above them, and all was calm, and sunny, and beautiful around. Perhaps the sun shone as pleasantly when, on the"_Place de la Concorde_, " they walked up the steps of the scaffold todie--for _Liberty_! Oh shame! One--two--three--four--there were eightgraves we counted, all victims of the reign of terror. For a moment Iforgot where I was; the graves were now at my feet, but I saw the poorvictims go slowly up to their horrible death. The faces of grinning, scowling devils, male and female, were before me, all clamoring forblood. I could see the tiger-thirst for human flesh in everycountenance--the fierce eye--the flushed face--and yet, how still werethe winds, how cheerful the sky. 

Yet, though every pure-hearted man or woman must detest the horriblecruelties of the great revolution must shudder at the bare mention ofthe names of the leaders in it, is it not an eternal law of God, thatoppression at last produces madness? Have not tyrants this fact alwaysto dream over--_though you_ may escape the vengeance of outragedhumanity, yet your children, your children's children shall pay theterrible penalty. Louis XVI. Was a gentle king; unwise, but never atheart tyrannical; but alas! he answered not merely for his own misdeeds, but for the misdeeds, the tyrannical conduct of centuries of kingcraft. It was an inevitable consequence--and it will ever be so. But I ammoralizing. 

"You came to see these graves?" remarked my friend. "They areinteresting places to ponder and dream over. "

"Not to see these, though, did I come, " I replied. 

We soon came to the graves of nobility. There was the tomb of aNoailles, a Grammont, a Montagu. Plain, all of them, and yet with an airat once chaste and artistic. There was the tomb of Rosambo and Lemoignonamid the tangled grass. All of these names were once noble and great inFrance, and as I bent over them, I could but call up France in the daysof the _ancien regime_, when all these names called forth bows andfawnings from the people. Dead and buried nobility--what is it? Thenobility goes--names die with the body. 

"You came out to see buried nobility, " said my companion. 

"Me! Did I ever go out of my way to see even buried _royalty_? Never, unless the ashes had been something more than a mere king. To see thegrave of genius or goodness, but not empty, buried names!"

We went on a little farther--to a quiet spot, where the sun shone inwarmly, where the grass was mown away short, but where it was green andbright. The song of a plaintive bird just touched our ears--where it waswe could not tell, only we heard it. It was a still, beautiful spot, and there was a grave before us--yet how very plain! A pure, whitemarble, a simple tomb. 

Now my companion asked no questions, but I saw that his lips quivered. The name on the simple tomb was that of

"LAFAYETTE. "

Here, away from the noise of the city, amid silence chaste and sweet, without a monument, lie the remains of one of the greatest men ofFrance. Not in Pere la Chaise, amid grandeur and fashion, but in alittle private cemetery, with a cluster of extinguished nobles on oneside, and a band of victims of the reign of terror on the other!

We sat down beside his tomb, grateful to the dust beneath our feet forthe noble assistance which it gave to the sinking "Old Thirteen, " whenthe soul of Lafayette animated it. How vividly were the days of our longstruggle before us. We saw Bunker Hill alive with battalions, andCharlestown lay in flames. Step by step we ran over the bitter struggle, with so much power on one side, and on the other such an amount ofdetermination, but after all so many dark and adverse circumstances, solittle physical power in comparison with the hosts arrayed against us. It was when the heart of the nation drooped with an accumulation ofmisfortune, that Lafayette came and turned the balance in the scales. And we were grateful to him; not so much for what he reallyaccomplished, as for what he attempted--for the daring spirit, the noblegenerosity!

Then, too, I thought how Lafayette stood between the king and thepeople, before and after the reign of terror--thought of his devotion toFrance--of his stern patriotism, which would neither tremble before aking nor an infuriated rabble. Yet he was obliged to fly for life fromParis--from France. He lay in a felon's dungeon in a foreign land, forlack of devotion to kingcraft, and could not return to France because heloved humanity too well. Was it not hard?

France has never been just to her great men. She welcomes to her bosomher most dangerous citizens, and casts out the true and the noble. Shedid so when she sent Lafayette away. She did so in refusing Lamartineand accepting Louis Napoleon. 

 * * * * *

THE RADICAL. 

When I first visited Paris, while Louis Napoleon was president of therepublic instead of emperor, I became acquainted with a young man fromAmerica who had lived seventeen years in Paris. He was thoroughlyacquainted with every phase of Parisian life, from the highest to thelowest, and knew the principal political characters of the country. Hewas a thorough radical, and an enthusiast. He came to Paris for aneducation, and when he had finished it, he had imbibed the most radicalopinions respecting human liberty, and as his native town was NewOrleans, and his father a wealthy slaveholder, he concluded to remain inParis. When I found him, he was living in the Latin quarter, among thestudents, at a cheap, though very neat hotel. He was refined, modest, and highly educated, and was busy in political writing and speculations. At that time he showed me a complete constitution for a "model republic"in France, and a code of laws fit for Paradise rather than France. Thedocuments exhibited great skill and learning, but the impress of anenthusiast was upon them all. By his conduct or manner, the strangerwould never have supposed that my friend was enthusiastic. He neverindulged in any flights of indignation at the existing state of things, never was thrown off his guard so as to show by his speech or his mannerthat he was passionately attached to liberal principles. It was onlyafter I had come to know him well, that I discovered this fact--that hewas a great enthusiast, and so deeply attached to the purest principlesrespecting human freedom and happiness, that he would willingly havedied for them. Living in Paris, one of the most dissolute cities of theworld, he was pure in his morals, and as rigidly honest as any Puritanin Cromwell's day. But with all his own purity he possessed unboundedcharity for others. His friends were among all classes, and were goodand bad. One day I saw him walking with one of the most distinguishedmen of France. A few days after, while he was taking a morning walk, hemet a university student with a grisette upon his arm--his mistress. Thestudent wished to leave Paris for the day on business, and asked myfriend to accompany his mistress back to their rooms. With the utmostcomposure and politeness the radical offered his arm, and escorted thefrail woman to her apartments. 

Of course, this man was carefully watched by the police. He was wellknown, and the eye of the secret police was constantly upon him. Hestill clung to his old American passport, for it had repeatedly causedhim to be respected when other reasons were insufficient. 

I one day wrote a note to a friend in a distant part of the city, andwas going to drop it into the post-office when my friend, who was withme, remonstrated. "You can walk to the spot and deliver it yourself, "said he, "and you will have saved the two sous postage. I am going thatway; let _me_ have the postage and I will deliver it. "

"I will go with you, " I said, at the same time giving him the two sous. He took them without any remonstrance. On the way we met a poor oldfamily, singing and begging in the streets. "They must live, " said myfriend, "and we will give them our mite in partnership. " So he added twosous to those I had given him, and tossed them to the beggars. This wasgenuine charity, given not for ostentation, but to relieve suffering andadminister comfort. I found him at all times entirely true to hisprinciples, and became very much interested in him. 

We took a walk together one evening, to hear music in the LuxembourgGardens. As we approached them, the clock on the old building of theChamber of Peers struck eight, and at once the band commenced playingsome operatic airs of exquisite beauty. Now a gay and enlivening passagewas performed, and then a mournful air, or something martial andsoul-stirring. The music ceased at nine, and a company of soldiersmarched to the drum around the frontiers of the gardens, to notify allwho were in it that the gates must soon close. 

"What very fine drumming, " I said to my companion. 

"Yes, " he replied, "but you should hear a night _rappel_. I heard itoften in the days of the June fight. One morning I heard it at threeo'clock, calling the soldiers together for battle. You cannot know whata thrill of horror it sent through every avenue of this great city. Igot up hastily, and dressed myself and ran into the streets. It was notfor me to shrink from the conflict. But the alarm was a false one. Soldiers were in every street, but there was no fighting that day. "

A few months before, my friend ventured to publish a pamphlet on thesubject of French interference in Italy. He condemned in unequivocalterms the expedition to Italy, and showed how it violated the feelingsof the French nation. A few days afterward, he received the followinglaconic note:

"M. Blank is invited to call on the prefect of the police, at hisoffice, to-morrow, Friday, at eleven o'clock. "

M. Blank sat down, first, and wrote an able letter to the minister forthe interior, for he well knew that the note signified the suppressionof the pamphlet, and very likely his ejection from France. He sent thesame letter to the American minister, and the next day answered thesummons of the prefect. This is the account of the interview which hegave me from a journal he was in the habit of keeping at that time:

"I read the word '_Refugies_' over the door, and it reminded me of theinscription on the gates of hell--'Leave all hope far behind. ' Everyoneknows that the very reason that ghosts are dreaded, is that ghosts were_never seen_. It is the same for policemen--those 'Finders out ofOccasions, ' as Othello styles them--those 'rough and ready' to chokeideas, as the bud is bit by the venomous worm 'ere it can spread itssweet leaves to the air. ' I was about to encounter the assailing eyes ofknavery. A gentleman of the administration welcomed me in. 'Sir, ' Isaid, coldly, 'I was invited to meet the _prefect of the police_. I wishto know what is deemed an outrage to the established government ofFrance?'

"The reply, was, 'The procureur-general noticed several portions ofyour book; sit down and we will read them!'

"I listened to several extracts, where there were allusions to_princes_, (Louis Napoleon had been formerly a prince, and this wasobjected to, ) and remarked to them that France recognized _noprinces_--that what I had written about the expedition to Italy, I hadthe right, as a publicist, to write. The world had universallyrepudiated that expedition, and the president had tacitly done the samein his letter to Colonel Ney, and in dismissing the ministers whoplanned the expedition. The president being quoted as authority, theagent of the executive thought it useless to hold the argument anylonger, and backed out. The gentlemen of the police knew nothing ofbush-fighting, and might have exclaimed with the muse in Romeo, 'Is thispoultice for my aching bones?'"

The upshot of the examination was, that the pamphlet was untouched, andM. Blank remained in Paris. 

But he was watched closer than ever. When I left him, he was waiting indaily expectation of a _coup de etat_ on the part of Louis Napoleon. Iasked him what hopes there were for France. He shook his head sadly--hedespaired of success. It might be that Napoleon would be beaten down bythe populace, if he attempted to erect a throne, but he had faint hopesof it, for he had got the army almost completely under his influence. Orit was possible that Napoleon might not violate his solemn oaths tosupport the republic--not for lack of disposition, but fearing thepeople. I could see, however, that my friend had little faith in theimmediate future of "poor France, " as he called her, as if she were hismother. He thought the reason why the republic would be overthrown, wasfrom the conduct of those who had been at its head in the early part ofits history. The republicans, soon after Louis Philippe's flight, acted, he thought, with great weakness. If strong men had been at the helm, then no such man as Louis Napoleon would have been allowed afterward totake the presidential chair. I think he was more right than wrong. Avigorous and not too radical administration, might have preserved therepublic for years--possibly for all time. Louis Napoleon should nothave been allowed to enter France, nor any like him, who had provedthemselves disturbers of the peace. 

About a year after the time I have been describing, while walking downNassau street, in New York, I very suddenly and unexpectedly met myfriend, the radical!

"Aha!" said I, "you have left Paris. Well, you have shown good taste. "

"No! no!" he replied, "I did not leave it till Louis Napoleon forced meto choose exile or imprisonment. I had no choice in the matter. "

He seemed to feel lost amid the bustle of New York. His dream was over, and at thirty-five he found himself amid the realities of amoney-seeking nation. The look upon his face was sad, almost despairing. I certainly never pitied a man more than I did him. Pure, guilelessgenerous--and poor, what could he do in New York?

A WALK INTO THE COUNTRY. 

The summer and autumn are the seasons one should spend in Paris, to seeit in its full glory. The people of Paris live out of doors, and to seethem in the winter, is not to know them thoroughly. The summer weatheris unlike that of London. The air is pure, the sky serene, and the wholecity is full of gardens and promenades. The little out-of-door theatersreap harvests of money--the tricksters, the conjurors, the streetfiddlers, and all sorts of men who get their subsistence by furnishingthe people with cheap amusements, are in high spirits, for in theseseasons they can drive a fine business. Not so in the winter. Then theyare obliged either to wander over the half-deserted _places_, gatheringhere and there a sou, or shut themselves up in their garret or cellarapartments, and live upon their summer gains. To the stranger who mustbe economical, Paris in the winter is not to be desired, for fuel isenormously high in that city. A bit of wood is worth so much cash, and alog which in America would be thrown away, would there be worth a littlefortune to a poor wood-dealer. 

The country around Paris is scarcely worth a visit in the winter orearly spring months, but in the summer it is far different. I remember alittle walk I took one day past the fortifications. When I came to thewalls of the city, I was obliged to pass through a narrow gate. All whoenter the city are inspected, for there is a heavy duty upon provisionsof nearly all kinds which are brought from the provinces into Paris. Theduty upon wines is very heavy. Upon a bottle of cheap wine, which costsin the country but fifteen sous, there is a gate-duty of five sous. This is one reason why the poor people of Paris on _fete_ days, crowd tothe country villages near Paris. There they can eat and drink at a muchcheaper rate than in town, besides having the advantage of pure air andbeautiful scenery. I witnessed an amusing sight at this gate. A man wasjust entering from the country. He was very large in the abdominalregions, so much so that the gate-keeper's suspicions were aroused, andhe asked the large traveler a few leading questions. He protested thathe was innocent of any attempt to defraud the revenues of Paris. Thegate-keeper reached out his hand as if to examine the unoffending man, and he grew very angry. His face assumed a scarlet hue, and his voicewas hoarse with passion, probably from the fact that he was sensitiveabout his obesity. But the gate-keeper saw in his conduct only increasedproof of his guilt, and finally insisted upon laying his hand upon thesuspicious part, when with a poorly-concealed smile, but a polite "begyour pardon, " he let the man pass on his way. It is probable thegate-keeper was more rigid in his examinations, from the fact that notlong before a curious case of deception had occurred at one of the othergates, or rather a case of long-continued deception was exposed. A manwho lived in a little village just outside of the walls, becameafflicted with the dropsy in the abdominal regions. He then commencedthe business of furnishing a certain hotel in Paris with freshprovisions, and for this purpose he visited it twice a day with a largebasket on his head or arm. The basket, of course, was always dulyexamined, and the man passed through. He became well-known to thegate-keeper, and thus weeks and months passed away, until one day thekeeper was sure he smelt brandy, and searched the basket more carefullythan usual. Nothing was discovered, but the fragrance of the brandy grewstronger, and his suspicions were directed to the man. He was examined, and it was found that his dropsy could easily be cured, for it consistedin wearing something around his body which would contain severalgallons, for the man was really small in size, though tall, and he hadmade it his business to carry in liquors to the city, and evade thetaxes. But at last, unfortunately, the portable canteen sprung a leak, and this was the cause which led to the discovery. 

At another gate, a woman was detected in carrying quantities of brandyunder her petticoats, and only passing for a large woman. I knew of awoman who, in passing the Liverpool custom house, sewed cigars to agreat number into her skirt, but was, to her great chagrin, detected, and also to the dismay of her husband, whom she intended to benefit. 

Such taxes would not be endured in any American city, but the old worldis used to taxation. In the very out-skirts of London there aretoll-gates in the busiest of streets, but that is not so bad as thelocal tariff system. 

I soon came, in my walk, to the fortifications of Paris. They wereconstructed by Louis Phillippe, and are magnificent works of defense. There is one peculiar feature of this chain of defense which has exciteda great deal of remark. It is quite evident that a part of thefortifications were constructed with a view to defend one's self fromenemies _within_, as well as without. Louis Phillippe evidentlyremembered the past history of Paris, and felt the possibility of afuture in which he might like to have the command of Paris with hisguns, as well as an enemy outside the wall. But the fortifications andthe cannon were of no manner of use to him. So, very possibly, thegrand army which Louis Napoleon has raised may be of no use to him, andthe little prince, the young king of Algeria, may end his days awanderer in the United States, as his father was before him. It is to behoped, if he does, that he will pay his bills. 

The fortifications of Paris extend entirely around the city, and areseventeen miles in length. I went to the top of them, but I had notstood there five minutes before the soldiers warned me off. The approachto the city side of the wall is very gradual, by means of agrass-covered bank. While standing upon the summit, a train ofcars--came whizzing along at a fine rate. I saw for the first timepeople riding on the tops of cars as on a coach. The train was bound toVersailles, and as the distance is short, and probably the speedattained not great, seats are attached to the tops of the cars, and fora very small sum the poorer classes can ride in them. In fine weather itis said that this kind of riding is very pleasant. 

I passed out through the gates beyond the fortifications, and was in theopen country--among the trees, the birds and flowers, and the cultivatedfields. The contrast between what I saw and the city, was great. Here, all was beautiful nature. There, all that is grand and exquisite in art. The fields around me were green with leaves and plants; the branches ofthe trees swayed to and fro in the restless breeze; the little peasanthuts had a picturesque appearance in the distance, and the laborers atwork seemed more healthy than the artisans of Paris. I approached apeasant who was following the plow. I was surprised to find the plow heused to be altogether too heavy for the use to which it was put. Yet Iwas in sight of Paris, the city of the arts and sciences. Such a plowcould not have been found in all New England. I looked at the man, too, and compared him with an American farmer or native workman. He wasmiserably dressed, and wore shoes which might have been made in thetwelfth century. He had no look of intelligence upon his face, butstared at me with a dull and idiotic eye. This was the peasant under thewalls of Paris--what must he be in the provincial forests?

Leaving the plowman, I walked on, following a pretty little road, untilI came to a large flock of sheep in the care of a shepherd-boy and adog. While I stood looking at them, the boy started them off across thefields and through the lawns to some other place. All that he did was tofollow the sheep, but I certainly never saw a dog so capable andintelligent as that one. He seemed to catch from his master the idea oftheir destination at once, and kept continually running around theflock, now stirring them into a faster gait, then heading off somewayward fellow who manifested a strong disposition to sheer off to theright or left, and again turning the whole body just where the masterwished. It was an amusing sight, and well worth the walk from the city. To be sure, the dog was rather egotistical and ostentatious. He knew hissmartness, and was quite willing that bystanders should know it too, forhe pawed, and fawned, and barked at a tremendous rate. The flock seemedto know his ways, and while they obeyed his voice, they were notparticularly frightened at it. 

Leaving the flock and their master, I soon came to a little inn, and satdown to dine. It was not much like the restaurants on the Boulevard, oreven like those within the city on retired streets, but I got a verycomfortable meal, and for a very small sum of money. I found that themere mention that I was an American, in all such places as this, insuredme polite attention, and I could often notice, instantly, the change ofmanners after I had informed my entertainers of my country. It is but aslight fact from which to draw an inference, but yet I could not helpinferring that the more intelligent of the common people of Paris areyet, notwithstanding the despotism which hovers over France, in theirsecret hearts longing for the freedom of a just republic. 

A young American was a few months since visiting Paris with a muchyounger brother. The latter went out one day into the country, alone, and seeing that a party of people from Paris were enjoying themselves inthe gardens connected with a small public house, he drew near to witnesstheir gayety. They were artisans, but of the most intelligent class. They were neatly dressed, and their faces were bright and intelligent. Whole families were there, down to the little children, and they wereenjoying a holiday. Seeing a young man (he was but sixteen years' old)gazing upon them, and judging him to be a stranger, one of the partyapproached him, and with great politeness asked if he would not comeinto the garden and drink a glass of wine. The act was a spontaneousone, and arose from good-nature and high spirits. The young Americanentered, and in the course of a conversation told the company that hewas an American. Instantly the scene changed. He was loudly cheered, andone man remarked, with very significant gestures and looks, that "_hecame from a republic_!" Nothing would do but that the guest must sitdown and accept of food and wine to an alarming extent. He was, in fact, made so much of, that he became somewhat alarmed, for he was young andinexperienced. I may as well finish the story by saying what was thetruth, that so many of the party begged the privilege of drinking withhim, that he became somewhat giddy and unfit to retrace his steps. Hewas unused to wine, and the moment the Parisians saw it, they urged himto drink no more, and asking his hotel, they took him carefully andkindly to it in a carriage, after an hour or two had passed away and hehad pretty much recovered from his dissipation. Now there can be nodoubt that the enthusiastic politeness of the artisans, arose from thefact that he was a republican, and from a great republican country, andsuch facts which I have repeatedly witnessed, or heard of, assure methat the old republican fire is not extinguished in the hearts of thecommon people of Paris. 

After a frugal dinner at the inn, I sauntered still further into thecountry, so as, if possible, to get a glimpse of the farm-houses. Butone cannot get any fair idea of French agriculture so near Paris. Agreat deal of the land is used in cultivating vegetables for the Parismarkets, and this land is scarcely a specimen of the farms of France, itis more like gardens. I found a few buildings which were occupied bythese gardeners, and one or two genuine farmers, and while there wasevidently scientific culture bestowed upon the land, the tools weregenerally clumsy, and altogether too heavy for convenience and dispatch. It struck me as very singular. Paris excels in the manufacturing oflight and graceful articles of almost every kind. Certainly, in jewelry, cutlery, and all manner of ornamental articles, it is the first city inthe world. How comes it, then, that so near Paris, agriculturalimplements are so far behind the age? I would by no means have thereader infer that the best of agricultural tools are not manufactured inFrance. Such is not the fact, as the Paris Exhibition proved, but _whobuys them_? Now is it not a significant fact, that within a bow-shot ofParis I found tools in use, which would be laughed at in the free statesof America? The true reason for this, is to be found in the condition ofthe French agricultural laborer. He is ignorant and unambitious. Wherethe laborer is intelligent, he will have light and excellent tools towork with. This is a universal fact. The slaves of the southern statesare in a state of brutal ignorance, and their agricultural implementsare heavy and large. Such is the fact with all those men and women whoare in a condition somewhat similar. After looking upon the plowman Ihave before alluded to, I could easily believe what reliable Frenchmentold me--that in the famous (shall I call it _in_famous?) election, verymany of the farmers of the interior supposed they were voting forNapoleon the Great, instead of Louis Napoleon!

I passed, in returning to my hotel, one of the finest buildings inParis--the _Palace d' Orsay_. It was begun in the time of Napoleon, andis a public building. 

[Illustration: Palais de Quai D'Orsay. ]

[Illustration: CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME. ]

CHAPTER IV. 

CHURCHES--NOTRE DAME--L'AUXERROIS--SAINT CHAPELLE--ST. FERDINAND--EXPIATOIRE--MADELEINE, ETC. 

NOTRE DAME. 

The churches of Paris are full of gorgeous splendor--how much vitalreligion they contain, it is not, perhaps, my province to decide. But inbeauty of architecture, in the solemnity and grandeur of interior, nocity in the world, except Rome, can excel them. The church of theMadeleine is the most imposing of all; indeed, it seemed to me that inall Paris there was no other building so pretentious. But Notre Dame hasthat mellow quality which beautifies all architecture--hoary age. 

I started out one morning to see it, crossing on my way one of thebridges to _Isle la Cite_, and was soon in sight of the two majestictowers of the old cathedral. You can see them, in fact, from all partsof Paris, rising magnificently from the little island city, like beaconsfor the weary sailor. 

The morning was just such an one as Paris delights to furnish in themonth of June--fair, clear, and exhilarating--no London fog, mud, orrain, but as soft a sky as ever I saw in America. We stopped a momentbefore the church, to gaze at the high-reaching columns, and admire thegeneral architecture of the church. Workmen were scattered overdifferent portions of the building and towers, (this was on my firstvisit to Paris, ) engaged in renewing their ancient beauty. My firstemotion upon entering, was one of disappointment, for althoughexternally Notre Dame is the finest church in Paris, internally it isgloomy, exceedingly simple, and has an air of faded beauty. Still, the"long-drawn aisles" were very fine. Gazing aloft, the eye ached to watchthe beautiful arches meet far above. Then to look away horizontally oneither hand through the graceful aisles, filled one with pleasure. 

I scarcely know how, but as I was passing a little altar where a priestwas saying mass, I unaccountably put my cap upon my head. I wasinstantly required to take it off. I was reminded of the fact that but afew days before, when entering a Jewish synagogue, upon taking off myhat, I was instantly required to replace it. Such is the differencebetween the etiquette of a Catholic church and a Jewish synagogue. 

I noticed that the threshold of Notre Dame, like that of St. Germainl'Auxerrois, was very much worn away by the feet of the crowds who havecrossed it during many centuries. The organ is an excellent one. It isforty-five feet high, thirty-six broad, and has three thousand fourhundred and eighty-four pipes. Its power is great, and as the organisttouched some of the lower notes, the cathedral walls reverberated withthe sound. 

The _Porte Rouge_ is a splendidly sculptured door-way. Under thearch-way there is a sculpture of Jesus Christ and the Virgin crowned byan angel. Behind it there are bas-reliefs representing the death of theVirgin--Christ surrounded by angels, the Virgin at the feet of Christin agony, and a woman selling herself to the Devil. The interior of thechurch abounds with sculpture of every description, and some of it wasexecuted in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 

There now remains only one of the old peal of bells which used to existin Notre Dame--but one has escaped the fury of French revolutions. Itwas hung in the year 1682, and was baptized in the presence of LouisXIV. And Queen Theresa. Its weight is thirty-two thousand pounds--theclapper alone weighing a thousand pounds. A clock in one of the towersis world-renowned for the intricacy and curiosity of its mechanism. Thefeats it performs every time it strikes the hour and quarter-hour, canhardly be credited by one who has not seen them. 

It is supposed that the first foundations of a church on this spot werelaid in the year 365, in the reign of Valentian I. It was subsequentlyseveral times rebuilt, a portion of the work which was executed in thetwelfth and thirteenth centuries still remaining. The other portionswere built in 1407, by the duke of Burgundy, and are of a deep redcolor. The _Porte Rouge_ was built under his special superintendence. Heassassinated the duke of Orleans, and built this red portal as anexpiation for his crime. 

In 1831, when the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois was sacked, the mobcrowded into Notre Dame and completely destroyed everything within itsreach, including, among other things, the coronation robes of Napoleon. The archbishop's palace was next attacked, and in one short hour all itsrich stores of ancient and modern literature were thrown into the Seine. The palace itself was so completely ruined, that the governmentafterward removed every vestige of it. Nothing is more terrible in thisworld than a mob of maddened people. And though such Vandal acts asthese cannot be defended, still it be hooves us to remember, that theconduct of the inhabitants of these palaces was such as to bring down ontheir heads the just indignation and censure of the people. 

Slowly passing through the aisles of the cathedral, I passed again thethreshold into the street. The majestic towers and turrets were brightbeneath the gaze of the sun, and it seemed to me that I could stand forhours to look at them. It is not so with the Madeleine. Itsarchitectural beauty is great, but it is new--it has no age. Notre Damehas seen centuries, and is full of historical associations, and I couldhave lingered about it and dreamed over them till the sunlight fadedinto night. 

 * * * * *

ST. GERMAIN L'AUXERROIS. 

The oldest church in Paris, is called the St. Germain l'Auxerrois. It isone of the quaintest specimens of architecture I ever saw. A church wasfounded on the spot, many centuries ago, by Childebert. It was of acircular form, and was destroyed by the Normans, in 886. A monastery wasestablished here in 998, and the church at that time was dedicated toSt. Germain l'Auxerrois. The ecclesiastics were formed into a college, to which were attached upwards of forty clergymen. It was for many yearsone of the most celebrated schools in France. In 1744 the college wasunited to that of Notre Dame, and it was considered to be the college ofthe royal parish. 

This church passed through the terrible scenes of the revolutionunscathed, and it would have been perfectly preserved until now, but fora foolish attempt of the royalists to celebrate in it the death of theduke de Berry. This occurred on the 13th of February, 1831. A greattumult arose, and the interior of the church was entirely destroyed. Itwas with the greatest difficulty that the furious mob was prevented fromtearing it down. On the same day, the palace of the archbishop was alsocompletely devastated. St. Germain l'Auxerrois was now closed, andremained so until 1838. It was then restored, and reopened for publicworship. At one time it was one of the finest interiors in Paris, theroyal painters and artists vying with each other in its adornment. It isnow, however, only as a third-rate church in its decoration. It iscruciform in shape, with an octagonal termination. At one corner thereis a tower which was built in 1649, and some portions of the buildingwere erected in 1400. The western front has a finely sculptured portico, with five low, but rich Gothic arches. The three central ones are higherthan the others, and crowned with a parapet The porch was built in 1431, by Jean Gossel. The other parts of the church were built before theregency of the duke of Bedford. The door-ways are splendidly sculptured, and the church has a rich and ancient appearance. 

We entered at one of the little side doors, the friend who was with meremarking, "See how the feet of centuries have worn away these solid stones. "

It was true. A path two feet deep had been worn into the stepping-stoneat the entrance. It was a striking exhibition of the power of time. 

The interior of this church afforded me one of the most impressivesights I ever witnessed. It had recently been painted in the Byzantinestyle, and the fresco paintings were as varied and beautiful as thetraceries of the frost upon our autumnal woods. You can scarcelyconceive the effect it had upon me, just emerged from the ever busystreet. The beauty overwhelmed me. 

There was a large fresco painting of Christ upon the cross, whichparticularly arrested my attention. You saw in it every feature of theman, united with the holiness and majesty of the Divine. The faceexpressed every shade of sweetness and agony; yet it was only a frescopainting. Another represents Christ preaching on the Mount of Olives, with his disciples and the people gathered about him. I was struck witha series of frescoes which were executed to illustrate the mostimportant precepts of Christ. One is that of a warrior, sheathing hissword in the presence of his deadly enemy. It would well grace the wallsof a non-resistant, but not those of a French church, which everreverberate to the music of the drum. The church has generallyillustrated that precept of Christ by pictures, not by works. Another ofthe frescoes represents two brothers embracing each other. Stillanother, a beautiful young woman giving alms in secret to a poor oldblind man. A painting to the right represents Christ issuing thecommand, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to everycreature. " The Magdalen kneels below, in devout admiration, and stilllower is the Virgin surrounded by a group of pious women. 

On the keystone of one of the vaults, "The Last Supper" is sculptured insolid stone; on another, "The Ordination of the Shepherd. " Within thechurch there are several chapels. The first in the southern aislecontains a magnificent fresco by M. Duval, representing Christ crowningthe Virgin. Not far from it there is a fine fresco by Guichard, representing the descent from the cross. The windows upon this side aremagnificently decorated with figures of saints and stained glass. 

In the center of one transept there is a marble basin for holy water, surmounted by a finely sculptured group of three children supporting across. The design is by the donor--the wife of Alphonso de Lamartine, the poet. I noticed in one compartment some admirable traceries in solidoak, and before the high altar an elaborate gilt-bronze lamp--the giftof the wife of Louis Phillippe; but the most brilliant portion of theulterior is the fresco painting. 

As we walked slowly from chapel to chapel, and transept to transept, Icould see men and women--principally the latter--with great apparentdevotion kneeling before the altar, or at the confessional. It was notSunday, yet many people were constantly passing in and out. I mightperhaps infer from this fact, that the French possess much religiousfeeling--but I cannot believe it. Art and literature swallow upreligion. 

The war-spirit soon eats out vital religion--and revolution and bloodsap the morals of any people. The reader will remember that even ourrevolution rapidly dissipated the good morals of the nation. Never wasthere a time in the history of New England when vice of every sort madesuch progress as in the time of the revolution. This is not strange, forwar necessarily blunts the religious sensibilities, and opens the doorof almost every vice. 

We left the interior of the church and stood upon its steps. The Louvrein all its magnificence stood before me. I looked up at the tower of thechurch, and listened to the very bell which, more than three hundredyears ago, gave the signal for the commencement of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. While I stood there it seemed to me that I could go backto the past--to that night of horror when the Protestants were gatheredat the fete of St. Bartholomew. When twelve had struck, in the dead ofnight, the bell in St. Germain l'Auxerrois gave out the solemn signal, and there ensued a scene of horrible atrocity, such as the world hasrarely witnessed, and which will make the names of its perpetratorsinfamous so long as the world lives. 

It was in the house of the dean of St. Germain l'Auxerrois that thebeautiful Gabriel d'Estrees lived for awhile and died. 

 * * * * *

SAINTE CHAPELLE. 

The Sainte Chapelle is one of the finest specimens of florid Gothicarchitecture in the world, and I went with a Frenchman one day to seeit. It is impossible to give the reader any adequate idea of itspeculiar beauty, but I can briefly sketch it, and at least point outsome of its most striking features. It was erected by St. Louis in 1248, and set apart for the reception of relics bought of the emperor ofConstantinople. The Chapelle consists of an upper and a lowerchapel--the upper communicating with the old palace of the ancient kingsof France. It was formerly appropriated to the king and court. The lowerchapel opens into the lower courts of the palace, and was appropriatedto the use of the common people in and around the palace. The interiorhas of late undergone extensive repairs, and it is now thoroughlyrestored. 

The entrance is unpleasant, for it is very narrow--so much so that agood view of the front cannot be had. It has a portico of three Gothicarches with intersecting buttresses, and in connection with lateralbuttresses there are two spiral towers with spiral stair-cases. Betweenthe towers there is a splendid circular window, which was constructed byCharles VIII. The spires of the church are octagonal, and are adornedwith mouldings and traceries, and also at about half-height with a crownof thorns. The different sides of the Chapelle are in the samestyle--with buttresses between the windows, gables surmounting these, and a fine open parapet crowning all. The roof is sloping, and theheight is over a hundred feet. The spire measures, from the vaulting, seventy feet. We entered by a stair-case the upper chapel, and anexquisite view presented itself. A single apartment, a half-circularchair, with fine, large windows, detached columns with bases andcapitals, and fine groining--these all strike the eye of the visitor ashe crosses the threshold. The whole is gorgeously painted andinterspersed with _fleur de lis_. In the nave there is a carved woodenstair-case of the thirteenth century. The windows are filled withstained glass of 1248, which has escaped destruction during two greatrevolutions. 

Near the altar there is a side chapel, to which access is had frombelow. Here Louis XI. Used to come, amid the choicest relics, and sayhis prayers. Some of the relics are still preserved, and consist of acrown of thorns, a piece of the cross upon which Christ was crucified, and many antique gems. The Chapelle and the relics cost Louis twomillions eight hundred thousand francs--the relics alone costing anenormous amount. 

There was a richly endowed chapter in connection with the Chapelle andwhat is a little singular, the head of it became renowned for hislitigous disposition. The poet Boileau, in _Lutrin_, satirized thischaracter--and was, after death, buried in the lower chapel. 

At the time of the great revolution, this ancient and beautiful buildingescaped destruction by its conversion by the government into courts ofjustice. The internal decorations were, however, many of them destroyed. The church, as it exists now, in a state of complete restoration, is oneof the finest church interiors in Paris, and the best specimen of itspeculiar kind of architecture in the world. 

My friend was a little surprised at the enthusiasm I manifested. _He_seemed to look as coolly upon the exquisite architectural beauty, and tocontemplate the age of the building as quietly, as a farmer would surveyhis promising wheat-field. I reminded him that I came from a land wheresuch things do not abound, and where one cannot gratify the desire tolook upon that which is not only ancient, but around which cluster thechoicest historical associations. 

 * * * * *

CHAPELLE EXPIATOIRE. 

While wandering one day though the Rue d'Anjou St. Honore, I cameunexpectedly upon one of the most beautiful chapels my eyes everbeheld--the _Chapelle Expiatore_. It was originally a burial-ground inconnection with the Madeleine church, but was afterward set apart tocommemorate the sad fate of the elder Bourbons. When Louis XVI. And hisqueen were executed, in 1793, they were obscurely buried on this spot. Afriend, M. Descloseaux, at once cared for their remains, else they wouldhave been lost amid other victims of the bloody revolution. It is asingular fact, that Danton, Herbert, and Robespierre were also buriedin this same place, together with the Swiss Guard. 

An early entry in the parish records of the Madeleine, still shows toany one who has the curiosity to see, the plainness with which the queenwas buried. It is as follows: "_Paid seven francs for a coffin for theWidow Capet_. "

M. Descloseaux watched carefully over the graves of the king and queen, purchased the place containing their bodies, and converted it into anorchard, with the view of shielding them from the fury of the populace. His plan was successful, and it is said that he sent every year abeautiful bouquet of flowers to the duchess d'Angouleme, which weregathered from the ground beneath which her royal parents were sleeping. 

The restoration came, and the orchard was purchased from M. Descloseaux. The bodies were transferred to St. Denis, with great pomp. The earthwhich had surrounded the coffins was preserved, as also were all remainsof the Swiss Guards, and buried on the spot. Over it an expiatory chapelwas built, with buildings adjoining, the whole forming a very beautifulstructure. An inscription on the front informs the gazer of theprincipal facts I have enumerated. The adjoining garden is filled withcypresses. 

The interior of the chapel is simple, but gives a pleasant impression. It contains two statues, one of Louis XVI. , and the other of MarieAntoinette. Each is supported by an angel, and on the pedestal of theking his will is inscribed in letters of gold, upon a black marble slab. On the pedestal of the queen's statue are extracts, executed in a likemanner, from her last letter to Mme. Elizabeth. 

There are several niches in the chapel which contain very finecandelebra, and on a bas-relief the funeral procession to St. Denis isrepresented. 

I was struck while here (as indeed I was in many other places) with thefact, that the whole past history of Paris and France is written in herchapels and churches. The stranger cannot, if he would, shut out thefact from his sight. It glares in upon him from every street. Therevolutions of France have imprinted themselves upon Paris inineffaceable characters. 

As I stood in this chapel, the sad history of Marie Antoinette came intomy thoughts, and she stood before me as she stood before the crowd onthe day of her execution. Her downfall, the wretched neglect with whichher poor body was treated, and the obscure burial, were all before me. Only "seven francs, " for the coffin of "Widow Capet!" What a contrast tothe pomp and ceremony of her second burial, aye what a contrast to herlife!

I had seen enough for that day, and set out sadly on my way back to myapartments. The gayety in the streets, the bright and balmy air, couldnot take the hue of melancholy from my thoughts. For always to me thehistory of Marie Antoinette has been one of the most sorrowful I everread. I have few sympathies for kings, and much less for kingly tyrants, but I could never withhold them from her, queen though she was. And Inever wish to become so fierce a democrat that I can contemplate suchsorrows as were hers, such a terrible downfall as she experienced, witha heartless composure. 

THE MADELEINE. 

[Illustration: Eglise de la Madeleine. ]

The Madeleine looks little like a church to the stranger, but more likea magnificent Grecian temple. Its impression upon me was by no means apleasant one, for the style of its architecture is not sufficientlysolemn to suit my ideas of a place where God is publicly worshiped. Itis, however, one of the finest specimens of modern architecture in theworld, and is so widely known that I can hardly pass it over without aslight sketch of it. 

An edifice was erected on the spot where the Madeleine stands, in 1659, by Mademoiselle d'Orleans. That building was soon found to be too smallfor the accommodation of the people in its neighborhood, and in 1764, the present building was commenced by the architect of the duke ofOrleans. The revolution put an end for a time to the work upon thechurch, but Napoleon, after his Prussian campaign, determined todedicate the Madeleine as a Temple of Glory, "to commemorate theachievements of the French arms, and to have on its columns engraved thenames of all those who had died fighting their country's battles. " Thenecessary funds were given and architects were set at work immediatelyupon it. But Napoleon's plans were frustrated, and in 1815 Louis XVIII. Restored the building to its original destination, and ordered thatmonuments should be erected in it to Louis XVI. , Marie Antoinette, LouisXVII. , and Mme. Elizabeth. The revolution of 1830, however, interruptedthis work, and it was not till the reign of Louis Phillippe, that it wascompleted. The entire cost of the Madeleine was two millions six hundredand fifteen thousand and eight hundred dollars. It stands on a raisedplatform, three hundred and twenty-eight feet long and one hundred andthirty-eight broad, and has at each end an approach consisting oftwenty-eight steps, the entire length of the facade. The architecture isGrecian, a colonnade of fifty-two Corinthian columns entirelysurrounding the building, giving to it a grandeur of appearance to whichfew structures in Europe attain. Between the columns there are niches, and a row of colossal statues stand in them. They represent St. Bernard, St. Raphael, and a score of others. The colonnade is surmounted by abeautiful piazza, and a cornice adorned with lion's heads and palmleaves. 

The pediment of the southern end contains a large altorelievo byLemaire. It is one hundred and twenty-six feet long and twenty-four feethigh. In the center is a figure of Christ; the Magdalene is beneath in asuppliant attitude; while HE is pardoning her sins. On theright hand the angel of Pity gazes down upon the poor woman, with a lookof deep satisfaction. On the other hand is the figure of Innocence, surrounded by the angels, Faith, Hope, and Charity. In the angle of thepediment is the figure of an angel greeting the new-born spirit, andraising his hand, points to the place prepared for him in heaven. 

On the left of the pediment the angel of Vengeance is repelling theVices. Hatred is there with swollen features; Unchastity, withdisheveled hair and negligent dress, clings to her guilty paramour;Hypocrisy, with the face of a young woman, a mask raised to herforehead, looks down upon the spectator; and Avarice is represented asan old man clinging to his treasures. 

The pediment is filled completely by the figure of a demon, which isforcing a damned soul into the abyss of woe. This is the largestsculptured pediment in the world, and occupied more than two years inits execution. The figure of Christ is eighteen feet in length, whichwill give the reader an idea of the size of the sculpture. 

The doors of the Madeleine are worthy of particular notice. They are ofbronze, measuring more than thirty feet by sixteen. They are dividedinto compartments each of which illustrates one of the Ten Commandments. In the first, Moses commands the tables to be obeyed; in the second, theblasphemer is struck; in the third, God reposes after the creation; inthe fourth, Joshua punishes the theft of Acham, after the taking ofJericho, etc. Etc. The doors were cast in France, and are only surpassedin size by the doors of St. Peter's. 

On entering the Madeleine, the magnificent organ meets the eye of thevisitor. On the right, there is a chapel for marriages, with asculptural group upon it, representing the marriage of the Virgin. Onthe left, there is a baptismal font, with a sculptured group, representing Christ and St. John at the waters of the Jordan. There aretwelve confessionals along the chapels, which, together with thepulpit, are carved out of oak. The walls of the church are lined withthe finest marbles, and each chapel contains a statue of the patronsaints. The architecture of the interior it is useless for me to attemptto sketch, it is in such a profusely ornamented style. Fine paintingsadorn the different chapels. One represents Christ preaching, and theconversion of Mary Magdalene; another the Crucifixion; still another, the supper at Bethany, with the Magdalene at the feet of her Lord. Overthe altar there is a very fine painting by Ziegler, which intends toillustrate, by the representation of persons, the events which, in theworld's history, have added most to propagate the christian religion, and to exhibit its power over men. 

The Magdalene, in a penitent attitude, stands near Christ, while threeangels support the cloud upon which she kneels, and a scroll, upon whichis written, "_She loved much_. " The Savior holds in his right hand thesymbol of redemption, and is surrounded by the apostles. On his left, the history of the early church is illustrated. St. Augustine, theEmperor Constantine, and other personages, are painted. Then follow theCrusades, with St. Bernard and Peter the Hermit, with a group ofnoblemen following, filled with holy enthusiasm. 

Near the Magdalene there is a group of men who figured in early Frenchhistory--the Constable Montmorenci, Godefroy de Bouillon, and Robert ofNormandy. The struggles of the Greeks to throw off Mussulman rule, arerepresented by a young Grecian warrior, with his companions in arms. 

On the left of the Savior, some of the early martyrs are painted--St. Catherine and St. Cecelia. The Wandering Jew's ghostly form is upon thecanvas, and, to come down to a later day, Joan of Arc, Raphael, MichaelAngelo, and Dante each occupies a place in the mammoth picture. 

The choir of the Madeleine forms a half-circle, and is very richlyornamented. The great altar is splendidly sculptured. The principalgroup represents the Magdalene in a rapturous posture, borne to heavenon the wings of angels. A tunic is wrapped around her body, and the longhair with which she wiped her Savior's feet. This group of sculpturealone cost one hundred and fifty thousand francs. 

I have thus given the reader a sketch of the most gorgeous church inParis, that he may get an idea of the style of religion which obtains atpresent there. It is like this church. It is pretentious, imposing, inbad taste, without simplicity and a real sanctity. I was disgusted withthe Madeleine from the moment I knew it to be a church. At first I sawit only as a fine building--an imitation of the Parthenon--and I wasstruck with admiration. But when I was told that it was a temple for thewarship of God, I was shocked, and still more so when I entered it. Theinterior, as a collection of fine paintings and statues, as a specimenof gorgeous Gothic architecture, is one of the best in the world; but Iwould as soon think of attending public worship amid the nakedness ofthe Louvre, as in the Madeleine. Had Napoleon's idea been carried out, and this modern Parthenon been dedicated to Mars, it would adorn Paris, and add much to the pleasure of the stranger; but as it is now, it onlyserves to illustrate one of the weak points in the French character. 

The genuine Parisian is so fond of appearance, that he cares little forthe substance. The churches of Paris, therefore, abound with all thatcan impress the eye, however repugnant to a refined taste. For I dareto hold, that the French love not the true refinement in matters ofreligion. Having little vital piety, it is impossible for them to judgeof church architecture. Solemn old St. Paul's in London, will alwayslinger in my memory as a fit temple of the living God. Its impressivegrandeur contrasts strongly with the rich magnificence of the Madeleine. The latter inspires only admiration, as the figure of a Greek warrior, but St. Paul's inspires awe; and that is just the difference betweenthem. 

 * * * * *

CHAPEL OF ST. FERDINAND. 

The interior of this chapel is one of the most beautiful in Paris. Itwas the scene of the death of the duke of Orleans in 1842. He left Parisin the forenoon of the 13th of July, in an open carriage, with but onepostillion, intending to call upon the royal family at Neuilly, andproceed to the camp at St. Omer. As he approached Porte Maillot, thehorses became frightened. The driver began to lose his control of thehorses. 

"Are you master of your horses?" asked the duke. 

"Sir, I guide them, " was the reply. 

"I am afraid you cannot hold them, " again cried the duke. 

"I cannot, sir, " was the reply. 

The duke then endeavored to get out of the carriage, but his feet becameentangled in his cloak, and he was thrown with great force to theground, his head striking first. It was dreadfully fractured, and he wascarried into the house of a grocer near at hand, where he expired atfour o'clock the same day, entirely unconscious. The royal family werewith him when he died. The house with the adjacent property was bought, and two distinguished architects were commanded to erect a commemorativechapel on the place. In July, 1843, it was consecrated by thearchbishop, in the presence of the royal family. 

The building is fifty feet long, twenty in height, is built in theLombard-Gothic style, and resembles an ancient mausoleum. 

Opposite the entrance there stands an altar to the Virgin, on the veryspot where the duke breathed his last, and over it there is a strikinglybeautiful statue of the Virgin and child. Beyond, there is a Descentfrom, the Cross in marble. On the left, is another altar dedicated toSt. Ferdinand, and on the right a marble group, which represents theduke on his death-bed. An angel kneels at his head, as if imploring theDivine Mercy upon the sufferer. It is a fine figure, and is doublyinteresting from the fact that the Princess Marie, sister of the duke, with her own hands wrought it, long before he was still in death. Beneath this marble group there is a bas-relief, representing Franceleaning over, and near, the French flag drooping at her feet. There arefour circular windows of stained glass, with St. Raphael, Hope, Faith, and Charity, upon them. There are fourteen pointed windows, stained withthe patron saints of the royal family. Behind the altar the very room ispreserved in which the duke died--the sacristy of the chapel now. Theoaken presses, chairs, and prayer-desk are all clothed in black, givingan air of gloom to the whole apartment. Opposite the entrance there is alarge painting by Jacquard, representing the death of the duke. He islying upon a couch with his head supported by physicians; his father isopposite, apparently stupefied by his deep emotions. On the left is agroup, consisting of the queen and Princess Clementine, the DukesAumale, and Montpensier, Marshals Soult, Gerard, and the cure of Mery. The picture is a touching one. There is a small apartment detached fromthe chapel, which was fitted up for the accommodation of the royalfamily--the family now exiled from the land. In another room there is aclock with a black marble case, on which France is represented asmourning for the death of the duke. The hands of the clock mark tenminutes to twelve, the exact moment when the prince fell; and in anotherapartment there is a clock with the pointers at ten minutes past four, the moment when he died. 

The interior of this chapel impressed me as the saddest I ever was in. Everything in it was in perfect keeping with the sentiment of completemelancholy, though it was rather too luxurious to express deep grief. Sorrow which is poignant, is not expressed in so sensuous a manner. Butthe chapel is unique; there is nothing else like it in the world, andthat is quite a recommendation. 

ST. VINCENT DE PAUL. 

In my enumeration of the splendid churches of Paris, it would never doto omit that of St. Vincent de Paul. It is in the Rue Lafayette, and isnow a Protestant church. 

The approaches to the building are fine, and the structure forms aparallelogram of two hundred and forty-three feet by one hundred andeighty. At the southern end, there are two large towers with Corinthianpilasters. The church stands upon the brow of a hill, and presents astriking appearance from the streets Lafayette or Hauteville. 

The interior of this church is profusely decorated, and is, in fact, sorichly ornamented as to detract from its beauty. Over the portal, thereis a stained window representing St. Paul surrounded by the sisters ofcharity. The choir is semi-circular, and has a fine skylight. A richlysculptured arch, over sixty feet in height, gives access to it. Thealtar-piece is a crucifix on wood. Behind it is a stained window, representing the Virgin and the Savior. The chapels have alsobeautifully stained windows. There are no oil-paintings in St. Vincentde Paul, but in other respects it is as faulty as the Madeleine. It maybe the result of early education, but I sickened of this excess ofornament. It was too forced--too unnatural. If I had never entered thechurch I should have received a good impression, for its exterior iseverything of which the Ionic order is capable, and its situation is thefinest of any church in Paris. 

I will simply allude to a few of the other churches in Paris. The _NotreDame de Lorette_, is a very beautiful church in the street _FountainSt. George_. It is built in the renaissance style, and the sculptures ofthe interior are of the highest order. The gorgeous decorations of thechurch are unsurpassed. The interior is one blaze of splendor, and thefeelings inspired by a contemplation of it, are not the ones appropriatefor a place of worship. The choir of the church is fitted up withstalls, a gilt balustrade separating it from the rest of the nave. Thewalls are adorned with rich marbles. The altar is executed in thehighest style of magnificence. Behind it is a piece entitled "TheCrowning of the Virgin, " wrought on a background of pure gold. TheParisians boast a great deal of this church, as a gem of the renaissancestyle, and with reason, when it is regarded simply as a work of art, butthe less they boast of it as _a church_, the better. The cost was onemillion eight hundred thousand francs. 

_St. Roch_, in the _Rue St. Honore_, was built under the patronage ofLouis XIV. And Anne of Austria, in 1653. The renowned financier, Law, gave one hundred thousand livres toward its completion. The steps arehigh, and from them crowds of people during the revolution saw theexecutions which took place but a short distance away. A mob once filledthe steps, and were cleared away by Napoleon's cannon. The duke ofOrleans, and Corneille, the poet, lie buried in it, together with otherdistinguished persons. St. Roch is not beautiful in its architecturaldecorations, but is, nevertheless, the richest church in Paris. 

_St. Eustache_ is the largest church, except Notre Dame, in Paris, andis very old. The style is a mixed Gothic. 

The _St. Paul et St. Louis_, is a church built in the Italian style, andis a fine edifice. 

All the churches of Paris are open every day of the week, from early inthe morning till five or six o'clock. They have bare pews or slips, andno seats. There are a plenty of chairs which may be had on Sundays andfestival days, for two cents each, of an old woman who attends them. This custom is a singular one to the American, accustomed as he is towell-cushioned, and even luxurious pews. The pulpits, too, are nothingbut upright boxes, with a spiral stair-case leading to them--not like ourbroad platforms, with rich sofas and tables in front. 

[Illustration: Church of St. Eustache. ]

CHAPTER V. 

LAMARTINE--HORACE VERNET--GIRARDIN--HUGO--JANIN

LAMARTINE

[Illustration: LAMARTINE. ]

Lamartine is a poet, a historian, and a statesman. He has not beensuccessful in the last-mentioned capacity, but take his qualitiestogether, he is, perhaps, the most distinguished of living Frenchauthors. 

Alphonse de Lamartine was born on the 21st of October, 1791, at Mecon. His father was captain in a regiment of cavalry. Refusing to join withthe terrorists in 1794, he fled from Paris into the country with hiswife and two children. But he did not escape the spies of his enemies, who arrested and put him at once into a dungeon. Some months after, theterrorists having lost power, he was released. Resolving to provide forthe future peace of his family, he purchased the chateau of Milly, aspot in the open, and nearly wild country. Lamartine gives us sketchesof his life here. His mother was a good, pious soul, and taught him outof the old family bible lessons from the sacred scriptures. She oftenmade visits to the poor, and Alphonse accompanied her on thesebenevolent errands, and thus very early in life learned to be gentle andgood. He left the grounds of Milly at eight years of age, to enter theschool of Belley, under the care of the Jesuits. 

He took the prizes with ease, and his teachers discovering that he had atalent for poetry, encouraged it. His parents took counsel as to whatshould be done with their son. The father wished to make a soldier ofhim, but the mother was opposed to this plan--she did not care to make ahuman butcher of her boy. He paused some time at Lyons, on his returnfrom school, and afterward he traveled over Italy. He here met a youngman who was an excellent singer, and became quite intimate with him, somuch so, that he often slept upon his shoulder. When the two friends hadarrived at Rome, Lamartine was called down to the breakfast-room onemorning, to behold--_not_ his male companion, but a young woman ofbeauty, who greeted him familiarly. It was his friend who had beentraveling in male costume, and who now said blushingly, "Dress does notchange the heart. "

Lamartine went to Naples and his purse ran low, when he chanced to meetan old classmate who had plenty of money, and together the young menenjoyed their good fortune. At Naples, Graziella, the daughter of a poorfisherman, fell in love with the poet. The story of this girl he tellsvery touchingly. When he returned home he was welcomed very warmly. Thefamily had removed to Macon. His mother grew pale and trembling, to seehow long absence and agony of heart had changed her son. She told himthat their fortune had been considerably affected by his travels andimprudences, and she spoke not by way of reproach, for said she, "Youknow that if I could change my tears into gold, I would gladly give themall into your hands. "

He wished to go to Paris, and his father gave him, for his maintenance, the moderate sum of twelve hundred francs a year. The mother pitied herson, and going to her room, she took her last jewel and put it into hishands, saying, "Go and seek glory!" He took a plenty of recommendationswith him, but was resolved to accept nothing from the emperor. When ayoung man he had dreamed of a republic, but now, after coming to Paris, he became a Bonapartist. He entered the most aristocratic circles, andchanged again to a legitimist. He now made a second voyage to Italy, following the inclinations of his dreamy nature. During his stay there, he composed the first volume of his _Meditations_, which afterward wonhim so much fame. 

He was on the borders of the gulf of Naples, when he heard of theestablishment of the Bourbon dynasty, and he hastened home and soliciteda place in the army, to the great joy of his father. During the HundredDays he threw aside the sword, and would not take it again when LouisXVIII. Regained the throne. 

Lamartine now loved a young woman devotedly, but she died, to hisexcessive grief. He was severely ill from this cause, and it wrought agreat change in his character. When recovered from his illness, hedestroyed his profane poetry, and kept only that which bore the impressof faith and religion. He published his first volume of _Meditations_in 1820. He sought in vain two years for a publisher, until at last aman by the name of Nicoll, as a personal favor, issued the volume. Itmade his fortune. France welcomed the new poet as a redeemer, who haddispelled the materialism of Voltaire. He became an _attache_ of theambassador in Tuscany, and there met a young English woman, who was inlove with him before she saw him, from reading his _Meditations_. Thiswoman he shortly married. She brought him beauty, goodness, and a largefortune. 

In 1823 the second volume of _Meditations_ appeared, and had the samesuccess as the first. An uncle died at this time, leaving him a fortune, and he was now independent of the world. He lived alternately in Londonand in Paris, occasionally accepting the post of secretary to a foreignambassador, and finally becoming charge d'affaires at an Italian court. Like almost all the distinguished authors of France, Lamartine foughthis duel. He had written something disparaging to modern Italy, and oneColonel Pepe, an Italian, challenged him to fight a duel. He acceptedthe challenge and was wounded. For six months he hung between life anddeath. All Florence condemned with severity the brutal colonel, who hadtaken offense at one of the poet's verses, and they came to inquire forhis health every hour of the day, as if he had been a monarch. When heleft Florence, great was their sorrow. In the midst of his diplomaticlabors he continued to write poetry, and on his return to Paris in themonth of May, 1829, he published "_Harmonies Poetiques etReliegieuses_, " and this book created for him such a reputation, andgave him so much honor, that in 1830 he was elected a member of theAcademy. 

The government about this time was resolved upon sending a ministerplenipotentiary to Greece, and Lamartine was chosen as the man; but atthe juncture the revolution broke out, and the project fell to theground. The poet was discouraged, and went to live in the country, on anestate bequeathed to him by one of his uncles. He soon became tired ofhis quiet life, and took ship at Marseilles, with his wife and hisdaughter Julia, for the Orient. The vessel was his own, and he sailed atpleasure. France lost for a time her brilliant son, but gained there-fora beautiful book--_Le Voyage en Orient_. It achieved a great success, and if he would have been content with literary renown, he now couldhave wished for nothing more to add to his happiness. While he wasabsent in the East, he kept an eye upon the politics of home. 

His daughter Julia was taken very ill at Beyrout, and died. She wasbrought back to Marseilles in her coffin. This was a terrible blow tothe poet, who possessed as soft a heart as ever throbbed in the breastof woman. 

During his absence, the electors of Dunkirk decided to offer Lamartine aseat in the Chamber of Deputies, and he was elected. Well had it beenfor the poet if he had rested satisfied with his literature, but heentered the field of politics to become distinguished, but to win nolaurels. He was unsuccessful, at first, in the Chamber. He became aradical, and that party flattered him. They were poor--he was rich andgenerous. He gave freely for his party, and found himself almostpenniless. He gave to all who needed, so long as he had anything togive. At this time a man wrote to him--"I die of hunger. " The poet sentfive hundred francs, and begged pardon for not sending more, adding--"You have all my heart. "

At this time the _History of the Girondins_ appeared, and had aremarkable success. Lamartine was severely blamed by many for writingit, but none disputed the wonderful literary merit of the work. The nextrevolution came--and Louis Phillippe fled from France. The peopleflocked around Lamartine. They had been charmed by his grand words forhumanity; they were now fascinated by his commanding mien and noblecountenance. They thought because he sang sweetly, wrote nobly, that hewas a statesman. They mistook. The author had no talents forstatesmanship, and he fell. He was too ideal--not sufficientlypractical; and he could not hold the position which the populace hadgiven him. For a short time his ambition--never an impure one--wasgratified, for he saw France turn toward him as a deliverer; but he hasever since had the bitter reflection that he was unequal to theoccasion, and that he had acted wisely never to have invaded the domainof politics. 

The history of Lamartine during the revolution of 1848 is everywhereknown, and we need not repeat it. He soon gave up politics forever. Since that time he has attended only to literature. Recently, heventured into speculations, and lost his fortune. I had the good luck tomeet him last June, in the office of the editor of _L'Illustration_, inthe Rue Richelieu. He was in good health, and I was much struck with hisgeneral appearance. He looks to be what he has always been--one ofnature's noblemen. His hair is almost white, but his figure is erectand noble. He is tall and dignified, and his manners are pleasing. Lamartine has struggled hard to save from the hands of his creditors hisestate of Saint Point, where the bones of his ancestors lie. Everyautumn he repairs thither with Madame Lamartine, and spends a few monthsin the golden quiet of the country. His wife is the angel of hishousehold, and has proved a treasure far above earthly riches. Bothhusband and wife are exceedingly generous. A friend of theirs, who wasvery intimate with the family, was so angered at their liberality, thathe one morning entered the house, demanding all the keys, and declaringthat he would for a time take charge of their expenses. They willinglyacceded to his demand. He locked up everything valuable, and left thehouse. Soon a sister of charity came, and sought alms for the poor. Madame Lamartine tried the desk for money--it was locked. She called thevalet and had it broken open, and gave the sister eight hundred francs. Lamartine smiled, and kissed her for the generous act. The friendreturned and found that there was not money enough left for dinner!

Lamartine possesses a noble heart, a conscience, and is a christian. Heis a bright example, but alas! a rare one, among the authors of France. 

HORACE VERNET

[Illustration: HORACE VERNET. ]

Horace Vernet, the great modern painter of France, was born in theLouvre on the 30th of June, 1789. The kings of France were in the habitof giving to distinguished artists a domicile in the Louvre, and thefather of Horace Vernet, at the time of his birth, had apartments in thepalace. He is descended from a dynasty of artists. 

Antoine Vernet, the great-grandfather of Horace, lived in the time ofMademoiselle de L'Enclos, a very celebrated courtesan, and it is said bysome that he was the author of the portrait of her which exists at thisday, but it is proved that he never left Argnon, where he lived as anartist. The grandfather of the subject of this sketch--Claude-JosephVernet--studied in Rome, and became a distinguished marine painter underthe reign of Louis XV. , who commissioned him to paint a series ofpictures. Carle Vernet, the father of Horace Vernet, was also an artist. When quite young, he fell violently in love with the daughter of anopulent furnisher. The marriage was impossible, and his friends, to weanhim from his love, sent him to Italy, where he studied the art ofpainting, and took a high prize--but he could not forget the woman hehad loved. In his grief he resolved to give himself up to a monasticlife, and his letters from Italy apprised his friends of that fact. Hisfather hastened to Italy and brought him back to France, where he atonce acquired distinction as a painter, and was elected a member of theAcademy of Painting. He painted several grand battle-scenes under theempire, and in 1789 became the father of the Horace Vernet, so justlydistinguished in modern times. 

Horace was taught the art of his father, and he learned to draw at thesame time that he learned to read. In 1793 the family of artistsexperienced many dangers, and on the 18th of August, while his fatherand Horace were crossing the court of the Tuileries palace, Horace wasshot through the hat, while a ball pierced the clothes of the father. Carle Vernet was about to hasten from France when new terrors detainedhim. His sister had married M. Chalgrin, an architect, who adhered tothe fortunes of the court of Provence. For this, the mob had revengeupon his beautiful wife, who was thrown into the Abbaye prison. CarleVernet hastened to his brother artist, David, who was in favor with therevolutionists, and who could easily save his sister's life. Hebesought David to save his sister, but he coolly replied:

"She is an aristocrat, and I will not trouble myself about her. " Sheperished, and the reason was, that in early life she had refused thematrimonial offers of the painter. 

The youthful Horace was reckoned very beautiful by all his friends, andespecially by his father. He was a model, in fact, and as he grew up, heshowed that he had inherited the artist-genius of his father, and addedto it a wit peculiarly his own. His sallies were often exceedinglyamusing to the people in whose company he chiefly spent his time. Heentered college, and as soon as he had quitted it he was alreadydistinguished as an artist. Instead of going back to ancient times, hepainted his own age. He was enthusiastic in all his efforts, andcatching the spirit of the times, grew rapidly popular. He did not livein the past, but in the living present, and endeavored to glorify themen, deeds, and places of to-day. 

The figure of Vernet was small, his face was fine-looking, his handwhite, and his foot very small. He went to masked balls and arrayedhimself as a woman, and was constantly importuned by suitors. On oneoccasion a marshal of France was so pressing in his suit, that he puthimself under the care of his wife, who took the supposed lady home withher in the family carriage!

From 1811 to 1815 Vernet appeared at court and was quite popular. Hepainted portraits of the different members of the royal family. He wasso celebrated for his drawings, that the editors disputed for them, andpaid him the highest prices. In 1814 he was decorated with the cross ofthe Legion of Honor. At the restoration, he for a time was under acloud. He was not idle, but such were his subjects that he was shut outof the Louvre. He, however, executed many paintings, which subsequentlybecame celebrated. Disgusted with the treatment he received, hejourneyed with his father into Italy. 

The Louvre continued shut against Vernet's pictures, but the peers tookup his cause with great unanimity and enthusiasm. A list of his bestpictures was published and warmly eulogized, and as they could be seenat his studio, the crowd of artists and critics, and others, wendedtheir way thither. The painter was recompensed. In the midst of thiscrowd, and the confusion necessarily consequent upon their visit, HoraceVernet went on quietly in his work, in their presence, and executed thatseries of grand paintings, which in after years brought him so wide arenown. The duke of Orleans was his warm friend. He bought many picturesof him, and ordered himself painted in every style. Charles X. Grewjealous, and concluded it wise to withdraw his persecution of theartist. He ordered a portrait of himself, and the Louvre was open tohim. 

He now wrought a revolution in the art of painting in Paris, andestablished a new school. It was his desire to triumph over David, andhe boasted that he would do so. The public pronounced him the firstpainter of the age. Some of his best pictures at this time were paintedat Rome. Upon his return he found his old friend king, under the titleof Louis Philippe. He was, of course, a favorite at court. The king gavehim the use of a studio at Versailles, of a magnificent description, inwhich he wrought at great national pictures. He was an indefatigableworker. He never hesitated to make the longest journey to study thescene of his pictures. He traveled up and down the Mediterranean, visited Arabia, Africa, and other distant spots, lived in tents, put upwith privation and suffering, that he might paint from nature. Hismemory was so excellent that having once looked upon a spot, nothing wasafterward forgotten; every characteristic of the place was sure toreappear upon the canvas. The least detail of position or gesture, heremembered for years with ease. Indeed, his faculty for daguerreotypingsuch things upon his mind, was wonderful. He met his friend, the marquisde Pastorel, one day, who said:

"How are you, Horace; where have you kept yourself for these two years?I have not met you for years. "

"You are mistaken, " replied the artist; "I met you six months since inthe garden of the Tuileries. "

"You are dreaming, " said the marquis. 

"No, " said Vernet, "a lady was with you--wait a moment and I will sketchher face. "

He drew a few hasty lines upon a bit of paper, and lo! the marquisbeheld the face of an intimate lady friend of his, and at the sameinstant remembered that he had escorted her across the Tuileries gardenssix months before. 

"It is well for you that you live _now_" said the marquis, "for twocenturies earlier they would have burned you for a sorcerer. "

Horace Vernet has been a great student of the scriptures, and hemaintains that in painting historical scenes from the bible, thecostumes should be such as the Arabians use at this time, and in hisscripture paintings he has followed out this plan. 

In 1834 and 1835 he was principally on the coast of Africa, engaged inpainting. But he returned to his studio at Versailles, and in 1836produced several grand battle-pictures. The king desired that he shouldfill an entire gallery with his pictures at Versailles, and Vernet wentat his giant work. He occupied six years, and the gallery was called _laGalerie de Constentine_. The king came into his studio one day, andoffered to make Vernet a peer. The painter declined the honor, saying"the _bourgeois_ rise--the nobles fall--leave me with the arts. "

He was one day painting _the Siege of Valenciennes_ for the king, whenthe latter requested that the painter would represent Louis XIV. Asprominent in the siege. Vernet consulted history, and found that duringthe siege the king was three leagues away with one of his mistresses. Hetherefore utterly refused to lie upon canvas. The king was very angry, and several persons were sent to persuade Vernet to consent, _for pay_, to make the concession. He however remained firm, and picking up hiseffects and selling his pictures, started for St. Petersburgh, where hewas received with open arms by Nicholas. While at the Russian court, Vernet spoke freely his sentiments, and condemned the taking of Poland. "Bah!" said the Czar, "you look from a French point of view--I from theRussian. I dare say, now, you would refuse to paint me _the taking ofWarsaw_. "

"No, sire, " replied the painter, sublimely; "every day we representChrist upon the cross!"

Louis Philippe sent by his ambassador for Vernet to return to Paris. "You may paint the Siege of Valenciennes without any Louis XIV. In it, if you please, " he said. The painter was received warmly, and the oldquarrel was forgotten. He at once commenced a picture of immensesize--the taking of Smala, which in eight months he finished. 

The repose of Horace Vernet is in his travels, and he is one of thegreatest of modern travelers. It is said that the Arabian tribes loveand respect him, and that he returns gladly to their society wheneverduty requires it. 

Horace Vernet has been blessed with but one child, a daughter, whomarried Paul Delaroche, a distinguished artist. This only child died in1846. 

In the later revolutions which have passed over France, Vernet has notparticipated. He has lived only in his profession and among his personalfriends. He resided for years at Versailles, where he had a splendidmansion, but he removed to Paris a few years since. He is one of thegreatest of modern artists, and is revered as an honor to the nation. 

EMILE DE GIRARDIN. 

[Illustration: EMILE DE GIRARDIN. ]

Girardin has been for so many years one of the leading minds of Paris, has been so distinguished as a journalist, that I have thought a slightsketch of his life and character would be acceptable to my readers. 

It is said that he never knew the day of his birth, but it occurred inthe year 1802. He does not appear to be as old as he in reality is, forhis forehead is unwrinkled, his eye sparkles with a fascinating fire, and his hair is not gray. He carries almost always an eye-glass, whichgives him the reputation--undeserved--of impertinence. His manners arethose of a gentleman of the most refined cast, and, as editor of _LaPresse_, he has long wielded a powerful influence over a class of minds. 

Girardin was the illegitimate child of a count of the empire; hismother, taking advantage of the absence of her husband from France, conducted herself in a shameful manner with her lovers, and before herhusband had returned, she had presented one of them with the subject ofthis sketch. Many scandalous stories have been coined by the enemies ofGirardin respecting his birth, but the facts we have stated areundeniable. He was placed out at nurse with a woman named Choiseul, whotook illegitimate children to the number of ten, from the wealthy andhigh-born, to care for and nurse. Had it not been for the shrewdness ofthis old nurse, Girardin would never have known his parents. For a timethey came to see their child, in stolen visits, but gradually theirvisits died away, and were finally given up altogether. But the nurse inher walks about the streets met and recognized the familiar faces of theparents, and ascertained their condition in life. 

The father was at this time unmarried, but at the instigation of hismaster, Napoleon, he wedded a young wife, and soon neglected hisillegitimate child. Fearing that his wife would discover his secret, andtake revenge upon him, he had the boy secretly removed to the care of anold servant of his, who was furnished with the means to take care of himand teach him all he knew himself, which was but little. He was strictlyenjoined to call the child _Emile Delamothe_. This occurred in 1814. Thefather now thought that he had acquitted himself of his duty to the boy, and cared no more for him. But he was not blessed in his union--he hadno legitimate children. 

The man into whose care Emile was given, was a harsh man, and gave theyouth no rest from his severe discipline. He allowed him none of thepastimes of other children, and under this regime he suffered. Atfourteen he had bad health, and a bilious color overspread his face, which never left it. Seeing that his health was suffering, the mastersent him, under the care of his brother, into Normandy. This brother wasa kind old soul, and gave the boy pleasant words, and a healthy, homelyfare. In the country Emile enjoyed himself heartily. He wandered amongthe fields, played among the animals, and slept at night upon a litterof straw, and grew well again. In his ramblings he was oftenest alone, and pondered over his wretched fortunes. At eighteen he left the countryfor Paris. His first care was to visit his old nurse, and try todiscover the condition of his parents. She could only give him a clew, but there had been such great changes since he left Paris, that she hadno idea where his father dwelt, if he was alive. Emile then went to seethe old man who first had care of him--his guardian--and plied him withquestions. But he was impenetrable, and would reveal nothing. More thanthis--he read the law respecting illegitimate children, to Emile. It wasa heavy blow upon his hopes. His guardian showed him proof of his birth, and a paper which gave to him, at twenty-one, the command of a small sumof money, the interest of which had heretofore supported him. In hisanger he tore up the proof of his birth. Perhaps naturally, he at oncetook up against the laws of marriage, and became a bitter reformer. Hefrequented a reading-room, where he met several literary men who were inthe habit of speaking of their books with pride. Emile was excited totry his own capabilities, and soon presented to his friends themanuscript of _Emile_, a story, the principal parts of which were truerecords of his own life. The literary friends were at variance in theircriticisms upon the manuscript. Some declared it worthless, and advisedhim to get a style, while others praised the effort. Finding nopublisher, our hero learned from a court directory the secret he hadstruggled after so long--the address of his father--and sent to him hisstory, written in a manner calculated to move the paternal heart. Hereceived no direct reply, but eight days after, he was presented with anexcellent situation with the secretary of Louis XVIII. Undoubtedly hewas indebted to his father's recommendation for the place. So hisstory--afterward published--though it did not appear as he had intendedwhen he wrote it, was not without its effect. 

His time not being wholly occupied in the bureau, Girardin employed hisspare moments in writing one or two novels, which appeared some timeafterward. He has not been a voluminous author, _Emile_ being hisprincipal book. But his career has been that of a journalist, and thoughhe has been everything by turns, yet he has had fame and influence. 

By a turn in the wheel of fortune Girardin lost his place with thesecretary, and went upon the exchange and solicited an humble office forthe purpose of studying the chances there. As soon as he consideredhimself fit to decide, he ventured in buying very heavily certainstocks, and lost nearly all his little property. He was in despair andwrote to his father, who sent back an unfeeling letter. It is told ofhim that he presented himself before his father with a loaded pistol ineither hand, and threatened to shoot him, and then himself, if he wouldnot give him his name. This tale was undoubtedly invented by hisenemies. He tried to enter the army but was rejected on account of hissickly appearance. He was go discouraged at this, that he attempted tocommit suicide, and was saved from death as it were by a miracle. Heresolved never again to give way to a similar rashness, and tried oncemore to succeed in life. He boldly took the name of Girardin, and thoughit was against law, yet his father feared scandal too much to institutelegal measures against him. He now offered his book--_Emile_--to thepublishers. It was eagerly caught up and sold rapidly. In the midst ofhis success he went to the minister and demanded employment, naming hisfather as reference! This bold application was successful, and he had asinecure given him, as a kind of inspector of the fine arts. 

He started a weekly journal with a friend, which was made up ofselections. It was called _The Voleur_, and at the end of a month had acirculation of ten thousand. It was a dishonest mode of getting money, as no original writing was given. The name, _Voleur_, means thief. Oneof the authors whose writings were often quoted from in the _Voleur_, loudly remonstrated against the injustice of the procedure, and gainingno satisfaction, he fought a duel with Girardin, who was wounded in theshoulder, but the wound was not dangerous. It was not his first duel--hehad fought with pistols in 1825. He withdrew from the conductorship ofthe _Voleur_, and under the patronage of the duchess de Berri, started anew journal, called _la Mode_. It had a great success, but as it waxedmore and more liberal, the duchess repented her patronage, and finallywithdrew it. The act gave the journal three thousand new subscribers. Heforesaw the revolution of 1830, and sold out both his journals, thustaking excellent care of his property. Under the new _regime_ he starteda weekly paper, which acquired a circulation of one hundred and twentythousand copies. He soon fell in love with Madamoiselle Delphine Gay, atalented and beautiful young woman, and married her. 

After his marriage Girardin for several years turned his attention moreparticularly to philanthropic projects, which should benefit the people. He advocated savings banks, and gave much of his time to theirestablishment. He also founded an agricultural school. His wife turnedhim somewhat from his political and speculative plans, to more practicalones of this kind. 

In 1833 he started _le Musee des Familles_, and to get subscribers, heplacarded the walls of Paris with monstrous bills, initiating a nuisancewhich has ever since been used by all kinds of impostors. In 1834 he waselected to the Chamber of Deputies, and a year later he fought his thirdduel. 

In 1836 _La Presse_ was established, the journal with which his greatestfame is connected. In starting this new paper Girardin intended to ruinall the other Paris journals. His plan was to furnish more matter forone-half the ordinary price of a journal than the usual dailies gave totheir readers. He made, as he might have expected, bitter enemies out ofhis contemporaries. They attacked him, and with such unfairness, and insuch a personal manner, that he flew to the courts for relief, orrevenge. The journalists then accused him of cowardice--of fearing totrust his reputation to public discussion. It was at this time that hehad his sad and fatal quarrel with Armand Carrel--a brother editor. Girardin shot Carrel in the groin. He died the next day. Girardin waswounded in the thigh. The loss of Carrel was deeply felt, and hisfuneral was attended by multitudes of the Parisians. For a time Girardinwas exceedingly unpopular in Paris, and his enemies knew well how tomake use of his unpopularity. They attacked him with redoubled severityand criticised all his questionable acts. He, however, replied to theirfire with so much spirit, and with such terrible bitterness, that theywere in the end if not conquered, willing to let him alone. 

In his journal Girardin defended the throne, and was generally thefriend of good morals. He is accused of signing his own name to all themost brilliant articles which appeared in his journal, whether he was inreality the author or not, for the sake of his reputation. He madeenemies in all quarters, but his paper gained an immense circulation. His wife became his disciple, and rendered him great assistance in hisliterary labors. She has rendered her own name illustrious in France byher writings. She was entirely devoted to her husband, and not onlyloved the man but espoused his cause and principles. Whenever herhusband was attacked she resented it, and often used a bitter and wittypen in his defense. Her verses upon Cavaignac are yet remembered inParis. When that general arrested her husband, she flew to his house anddemanded if she were living in the reign of terror. 

"No, " replied Cavaignac, "but under the reign of the sword. "

"Attach a cord to your sword and you will be a guillotine!" replied theintrepid woman. 

The drawing-rooms of Madame Girardin were among the most celebrated ofthe French capital. There might be seen the most distinguished authors, political celebrities, and soldiers of the time, and she was the leadingspirit among them. Her husband rarely condescended to attend their_reunions_, as he had no taste for society and conversation. In the laterevolutions which have swept over France, Girardin continued to savehimself from exile or imprisonment. The truth is, he always loved moneyand power too well to make a sacrifice of himself for the cause of thepeople, and his course has been too much that of a demagogue from thefirst. His great object, during the latter part of his life, seems tohave been to gain the portfolio of a minister--and without success, forfrom the days of the 1848 revolution, his influence rapidly declined. 

VICTOR HUGO

[Illustration: VICTOR HUGO. ]

France has given birth to few men, in modern times, who exceed VictorHugo in all that is noble and great. He is not simply a man of genius, apoet, and an orator, he is in its full sense _a man_. Too many of thebrilliant men of France have lacked principle, have been ready to sellthemselves to the highest bidder. It has not been so with Victor Hugo, and for that reason he is now an exile from the shores of his nativeland. His passionately eloquent orations, delivered on various sadoccasions since he was exiled, have awakened the interest of the world, and people who cared little for him as the successful author, feel adeep sympathy for the noble exile. 

Victor Hugo was born at Besancon in 1803, and of a rich family. Hisfather was a general in the service of Joseph Bonaparte, who was thenking of Naples. He followed him into Spain, where he distinguishedhimself by his valor. He returned in 1814, and journeyed through Italy. Victor was then very young, but accompanied his father on his Italiantour. When but fourteen years old, Victor wrote a poem, to compete withmany older persons for a prize, and though his poem was undoubtedlydeserving of the reward, yet from his extreme youth, only honorablemention was made of his effort. This early poetical ambition, however, was an indication of his future career. 

When he was twenty-two years of age, Charles X. Gave him an audience, and Victor Hugo presented his majesty with some of his poetry. The kinghanded it to Chateaubriand, who was near, and demanded his opinion. 

"Sire, " said he, "the youth has a sublime genius!"

Hugo was displeased with the judgment of the Academy, which had notgiven him the prize for his first verses, and he wrote for an Academy atToulouse, won several prizes, and was honored with a degree in thepresence of Chateaubriand. He lived during this time in Paris, with hismother, who loved him to idolatry, and the affection was as warmlyreturned on the part of her son. She was a royalist and suggested hisfirst poems. When she died he was overwhelmed with grief, and wrote asad romance entitled _Han d' Glande_, which was severely attacked by thecritics, many of whom knew his youth. But he triumphed over them all, asgenuine genius is always sure to do. He now fell in love with abeautiful young girl, named Mademoiselle Foucher, and they married. Hewas twenty, and she was but fifteen years of age. They loved each otherfondly, and if they were poor in gold, they were "very rich in virtues. "

The publisher who brought out Hugo's romance, says that he visited theyoung family to purchase the second edition, and found them living in apleasant little dwelling with two children to grace their fireside. Herecame troops of friends, for Hugo had already made them among the wiseand great. The politicians of the day, Thiers and others, were hiscompanions. He often took his wife and children and went out to saunterin the public gardens or on the Boulevards, and wherever they went theycarried happiness with them. 

Hugo was still a royalist. It was more a sentiment than a principle withhim, for he had not yet regarded politics with conscientious study. In1826 a publisher made a collection of his poems, and issued them in onevolume. It brought him wealth and renown. But though all this while Hugowas very happy in his family, yet the critics were bitter in theirattacks upon him. He was accused of plagiarism, and especially when anew romance of his came out, he was accused of stealing it from WalterScott. 

The poet lost his first-born, and Madame Hugo took it so much to heartthat he thought it wise to close their residence. Besides, changes hadbeen made in the street so as to render it less pleasant as a residence. After one or two changes he finally settled down in the Place Royale, where he spent many years of his life. This dwelling was furnished tosuit the taste of a poet, and was beautiful in every respect. It wasfilled with statues, paintings, and exquisite furniture, and his study, especially, was a charming apartment. Here his friends came--and theywere numerous as the leaves upon a tree. Young authors flocked to hisrooms and received counsel, and old men came to enjoy his conversation. 

He next published _The Last days of the Condemned, and Notre Dame deParis_, which had a fine success, and covered his name with glory inFrance. He now wrote _Marion Delorme_ for the theater, but the censorwould not allow it to be played. The king himself was appealed to, andconfirmed the decision of his officer, and it appeared after his fall. This was the play which Dumas stole. When this play was rejected by thecensor, Hugo wrote another for the theatrical manager who had engagedit, entitled _Hernani_, which had a splendid success. The oppositionwhich he met from the actors and actresses was at first great, but heconquered all obstacles. The king, as if to appease him for the conductof his censor, gave him a pension of six thousand francs a year, but henobly refused to take a franc of it. 

The success of _Delorme_ was very great, and the Parisian public weptover it in dense crowds. One peculiarity of Hugo has been, that havingonce written a book or play he never recalls a sentence. Not to pleasemanagers, censors, or friends even, has he ever recalled a line, thoughit were to save himself from severe penalties. He has always been tooproud and too conscientious to stoop in this way to either the populaceor the government. In the meantime his house was besieged withpublishers and theatrical managers, who besought him to use his pen forthem. 

He wrote, when once at a piece of work, with rapidity, and appliedhimself very closely. In writing _Notre Dame_, he was occupied for sixmonths, and during that time he did not leave his house for a day, suchwere the urgent demands of his publisher upon him. He wrote for hispublishers and for the managers and constantly increased hisreputation. _Lucretia Borgia_ appeared on the stage and had an almostunheard of success. It eclipsed all of his plays which had preceded it. He also published two or three volumes of songs at this time, which wereenthusiastically received by the French people. He was always the warmfriend of the poor. In 1834 he petitioned the duke of Orleans in favorof a poor family he chanced to know, and the duke gave a hundred louisto relieve them. In return the poet addressed the duke in song. 

The manager who had brought out _Lucretia Borgia_ offered him tenthousand francs for another, and very soon _Marie Tudor_ made itsappearance. There seems to have been trouble in its representation, fromquarrels between rival actors. The manager acted dishonorably toward thepoet. He announced his new play in an objectionable manner. Hugocomplained, and he promised amendment the next day. But when the nextday's announcement came Hugo saw no change, and what was worse still, the manager tried to deceive him by asserting that the bills werealtered according to his wish. Hugo upbraided him for his falsehood, anddemanded the play back. The manager would not give it up, for he hadannounced it. Said he:

"To-morrow your play will appear, and I will cause it to prove afailure. "

"Instead of that, " replied Hugo, "I will make your theater bankrupt. "

The representation came on, and it proved eminently successful. But Hugowould not forgive such deception and insolence. He wrote a newplay--_Angelo_--for a rival theater. In vain the old manager offered ahigh price for it. In a few months he and his theater were bankrupt, and he found, too late, that it was unwise to attempt to deceive andinsult a man like Victor Hugo. 

It is said that M. Hugo has a talent of high order for music, and alsofor drawing. During the cholera of 1832, he filled an album withcaricatures to amuse his wife and children, and draw their attentionfrom the dreadful ravages of the epidemic. 

In 1841 Victor Hugo was elected a member of the Academy. Two years laterhe was raised to the dignity of peer of the realm. The duke of Orleanscongratulated him upon the event. 

A short time previous to this, Barbes was condemned to death. Anapplication for a reprieve had been made to the king without beinggranted. A sister of Barbes came to Hugo, and besought him to use hisinfluence with the king. Marie Wirtemburg had just died and the count deParis was but a few weeks old. Hugo addressed a few touching lines ofpoetry to the king, and with allusions to the dead and the newly born, besought a pardon. It was instantly granted. 

The history of Hugo from this time forward the whole world knows. He wasan honest and hearty reformer. He was not content with glory as a man ofletters--he wished to be of service to his suffering fellow-men. He wasto a certain extent a communist, and a thorough republican. He hated theman Louis Napoleon, and was exiled. Belgium would not hold him, norLondon--the latter was too full of smoke and fog to be endured. He said, after trying London, "The good Lord will not take the sunshine, too, from us. "

He lives now in the island of Jersey, in a simple English mansion, butvery comfortable. Behind it there is a beautiful garden terminated by aterrace, upon which the sea lashes its foam when the wind is high. Fromthe window the sad exile beholds the distant shores of his nativeFrance. 

In his retreat he has occupied himself with literary labors. He has beenwriting a volume of poetry to appear in the epic form. He has also beenbusy upon a volume of philosophy, a drama of five acts in which Mazarinis to figure as the principal character, two volumes of lyrical poetry, and a romance upon a modern subject, for which he has been offered onehundred and twenty thousand francs. 

Madame Hugo and the children partake of exile with Victor Hugo, togetherwith ten grandchildren. Charles Hugo, his son, who is with him, isdistinguished as an author, but busies himself principally on the islandin taking daguerreotype views. He has already made a hundred differentpictures of his illustrious father, and sent them to his admirers inFrance. 

Victor Hugo is a little over fifty years of age, and is full of life andanimation. Let us hope that by political changes, or the clemency of thetyrant who sits upon the French throne, that he may soon return to theland he loves so well. 

JULES JANIN

[Illustration: JULES JANIN. ]

"Oh! what a year in which to be born!" exclaims Janin of the year1804--the year in which Napoleon, conqueror at the Pyramids and Marengo, placed upon his head the imperial crown--and the year which gave birthto the prince of French critics--Jules Janin. His parents were poor andhumble, but honest and intelligent, and resided in Saint Etienne, nearLyons. At Lyons he entered school and became distinguished. At fifteenhe imagined himself well versed in Greek and Latin, and in short, was ayoung egotist. His family fostered this self love. An uncle said, "Letme send the prodigy to college in Paris!" An aunt paid the expenses ofthe first year--for he entered the college of Louis-le-Grand. This auntloved the boy dearly, and for a week before he left, could not see him, such was her tenderness. 

The whole family expected great things of him, and thought that histalents would be immediately recognized. But they were doomed todisappointment. He gained no prize in college, and no honors. His aunthad expected that after one year, such were his talents, that thecollege would gladly give him the rest of his education, but she wasobliged to support him for two years more. 

He made himself unpopular with his teachers in college from fighting theJesuits. When he left college he would not return to Saint Etienne, where his companions would mock him. He resolved to stay in Paris, evenif he starved. He wrote to his kind old aunt, who at once came to Parisand made a quiet home for him. But this would not do--the rent of thehouse was half her income. He first took a class of pupils and taughtthem Latin, Greek, and history. This was a slight addition to theirincome. Summer came and his pupils left. He now was forced to engagewith a professor of a boarding-school, at the rate of ten dollars amonth, to teach. The professor was unfortunate and his furniture wasattached, he, at the time, owing Jules for three months' work. He was anhonest and good man, and Jules offered to give him the sum due, thoughhe had not money enough left to get him a dinner. But he contrived aplan by which he cheated the law officers of a part of their goods, andgot his pay. He was noted at this time more for his appetite thananything else, and would sacrifice more for a good dinner, probably, than for aught else. But in the absence of good living he took tosolitary reading, and acquired a taste for literature. 

He one day chanced to meet a college-friend who was a journalist. 

"I am miserable, " said Janin. 

"Become a journalist, then, " the friend replied, "if you have not anincome"

That very night he was invited to dine with his friend, and made hisresolution to live by his pen. He commenced his articles in thejournals, writing at first criticisms upon theatrical performances. Heat once commenced his system of flattering those who paid him welleither in praise or gold, and denouncing authors and actors who wereindependent of him. 

His kind aunt now died, after having expended her last franc, and Janintook up a new residence. He soon acquired such fame in his criticalwritings, that he was at ease. He engaged with the _Figaro_ journal, andcontributed powerfully to its success. He was, of course, well paid forhis services. He fell in love with a young girl in humble life. Anartist did the same. The two men quarreled about her, and Janin wrote abook in which the woman was the heroine. But he was unsuccessful--theyoung woman married the painter and was happy. Janin rose to the highestposition as a fashionable critic in Paris, and still he has neveracquired beyond France the reputation of a profound critic and scholar. 

In October, 1841, he was married, and instead of spending a pleasantevening, he celebrated his marriage by going to his room and writing anewspaper article, greatly to his prejudice amongst his friends. Of lateit has been remarked, that Jules Janin is less imperious in hiscriticisms than he was formerly. He has been very severely reviewed byDumas and Roqueplan, and has behaved more wisely since. 

We have not sketched Jules Janin as a great man, but as a man who makesgreat pretensions, and who has long been acknowledged, in Paris andFrance, as the prince of critics. 

CHAPTER VI. 

PLACES OF BLOOD--PLACE DE LA CONCORDE. 

Almost every fine square in Paris has a high-sounding name, Forinstance, that spot which has been the theater of so much tragedy, uponwhich so much human blood has been poured, is called the _Place de laConcorde_. It much more appropriately might be called the Place ofBlood. So there are other, many other spots in Paris, which deserve ascarlet title, and when wandering a stranger through its streets, whenever I came to one of these, I was strongly inclined to stop andindulge in reverie. The past history of France and Paris arose before mymind, and I could not, if I would, away with it. The characters whoacted parts in Paris and perished in those places were before me, andtheir histories lent a powerful interest to the spot upon which theysuffered and died. The reader can have no adequate idea of the feelingswith which a stranger visits these places of sad memories, unless herecalls them to mind, nor will it be out place for me to do so. 

A prison was often pointed out to me in which the celebrated MadameRoland was confined, and the spot upon which she suffered death. I gazedlong at the grim walls which shut out the sunlight from that noblewoman--long upon the stones which drank her blood in the Place de laConcorde. Her whole history was as vividly before me as if I were livingin the terrible days of blood. Her maiden name was Manon Philipon, andher father was an engraver. They lived in Paris, where she grew up withthe sweetest of dispositions, and one of the finest of intellects. Hermother was a woman of refinement and culture. She was excessively fondof books and flowers, so much so that many years later she wrote, "I canforget the injustice of men and my sufferings, among books and flowers. "Her parents gave her good masters, and she applied herself to herstudies with ardor and delight. They were never harsh in their treatmentof her, but always gentle and kind. She acted nearly as she pleased, butseems not to have been spoiled by such a discipline as we might haveexpected. When she was only nine years old, Plutarch fell into herhands, and she was intensely interested in it--more so than with all thefairy tales she had ever read. From him she drank in republicanism atthat early age. She also read Fenelon and Tasso. She spent nearly thewhole of her time in reading, though she assisted her mother somewhat inher household duties. The family belonged to the middle-classes, anddespised the debaucheries of the higher and lower orders of the people. The mother was pious, and Manon was placed for a year in a convent. Shethen spent a year with her grandparents, and returned to her father'shouse. Her course of reading was very much enlarged, and her attentionwas now specially directed to philosophical works. She was thus a greatdeal alone, and gave little of her time to gossip and promenade. Shewent, however, once to Versailles, and saw the routine of court, butreturned with a great delight to her old books and the heroes in them. She was dissatisfied with France and Frenchmen. She says: "I sighed as Ithought of Athens, where I could have equally admired the fine artswithout being wounded by the spectacle of despotism. I transportedmyself in thought to Greece--I was present at the Olympic games, and Igrew angry at finding myself French. Thus struck by all of grand whichis offered by the republics of antiquity, I forgot the death ofSocrates, the exile of Aristides, the sentence of Phocion. "

She began, at last, to repine at her situation. She felt conscious ofher abilities, and that her thoughts were high and noble, and she longedfor a higher position, in which she might use her talents. Her fathergrew more and more poor and unable to care for his family, and hermother was anxious that she should be married. She did not lack offers. She was beautiful and accomplished, and many suitors presentedthemselves, but not one whom she could love. Her mother now died, to hergreat sorrow. She now persuaded her father to retire from the businesswhich he was ruining, and save the little property he had left, and sheretired to a little convent. She prepared her own food, lived verysimply, and saw only her own relations. 

It was about this time that Manon became acquainted, through aschool-friend, with M. Roland, who was the younger son of a poor, butnoble family, and whose lot in life was not an easy one. He was nowconsiderably advanced in years, and was superintendent of themanufactories at Rouen and Amiens. He had written several works uponthese subjects, and was somewhat celebrated. She took great pleasure inhis society, and after five years of friendship, respected, and perhapsloved him. He offered himself and was finally accepted. She says: "Inshort, if marriage was as I thought, an austere union, an association inwhich the woman usually burdens herself with the happiness of twoindividuals, it were better that I should exert my abilities and mycourage in so honorable a task, than in the solitude in which I lived. "

The married couple visited Switzerland and England, and then settleddown near Lyons, with her husband's relations. She had one child--adaughter--and her life and happiness consisted in taking care of her andher husband. She thus gives a beautiful picture of her life:

"Seated in my chimney corner at eleven, before noon, after a peacefulnight and my morning tasks--my husband at his desk, and his little girlknitting--I am conversing with the former, and overlooking the work ofthe latter; enjoying the happiness of being warmly sheltered in thebosom of my dear little family, and writing to a friend, while the snowis falling on so many poor wretches overwhelmed by sorrow and penury. Igrieve over their fate, I repose on my own, and make no account of thosefamily annoyances which appeared formerly to tarnish my felicity. "

The revolution came amid all their sweet and quiet pleasure, but foundher ready for it. M. Roland was elected to the National Assembly, torepresent Lyons. The family at once repaired to Paris, and the house ofRoland was at once the rendezvous for the talented, the men of genius, but more especially the Girondists, as the more conservative of therepublicans were called. The genius and beauty of Madame Roland soonbecame known, and made her house the fashionable resort of the _elite_of Paris. The arrest of the king filled her with alarm. She was notwilling to push matters to such extremes. She was one of the noblest ofrepublicans, out she was merciful and moderate in some of her views. Herhusband again retired to the country--to-Lyons. Amid the solitude oftheir own home she grew discontented. She could not, having tasted thesweets of life in Paris, abandon it without a pang of sorrow. Thefollowing winter a new ministry was formed of the Girondists, and herhusband was named minister for the interior. They again returned toParis, and now in greater state. Roland was one of the most honest menof the revolution, but was so precise and methodical in his papers whichwere prepared for the public, that without the assistance of his wife, his success would have been far less than it was. 

M. Roland wishing to save the king, if possible, determined uponremonstrating with him upon his course. Madame Roland wrote the letterof remonstrance, though, of course, it appeared in his name. It was boldand severe, and accomplished no good. The result of it was, that Rolandwas dismissed from the office, and retired to private life. Soon after, however, he was recalled under the republic, and endeavored to do hisduty. Madame Roland writes in September of this year: "We are under theknife of Marat and Robespierre. These men agitate the people andendeavor to turn them against the National Assembly. " She and herhusband were heartily and zealously for the republic, but they weremoderate, and entirely opposed to those brutal men who were in favor offilling Paris and France with blood. Madame Roland writes, later:"Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his torch anddagger: this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves until themoment when we shall become his victims. You are aware of my enthusiasmfor the revolution: well, I am ashamed of it; it is deformed by monstersand become hideous. " Madame Roland now struggled to overthrow theJacobins--but was only overthrown herself. She was at this timecelebrated for her wit and beauty. A writer of that time says of her:

"I met Madame Roland several times in former days: her eyes, her figure, and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had afreshness and color which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuousappearance, imparted a singular air of youth. Wit, good sense, proprietyof expression, keen reasoning, _naive_ grace, all flowed without effortfrom her roseate lips. "

During the horrible massacres of September Roland acted with greatheroism. While the streets of Paris ran with human blood, he wrote tothe mayor, demanding him to interfere in behalf of the sufferers. Maratdenounced him as a traitor, and from that moment his life was in danger. Madame Roland was charged with instigating the unpopular acts of herhusband by the radicals, and she was in equal danger with her husband. After the execution of the king, Roland became discouraged, andconvinced that he could do no more for France, and he retired with hiswife to the country. Here they lived in constant danger of arrest. Roland finding the danger so great, made good his escape, but she wasarrested a short time after. She had retired to rest at night, whensuddenly her doors were burst open and the house filled with a hundredarmed men. She was instantly parted from her child and sent off toParis. One of the men who had her in charge, cried out, "Do you wish thewindow of the carriage to be closed?" "No, gentlemen, " she replied, "innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance ofguilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself. "

She was shut up in prison at once. She asked for books--for Plutarch, and Thompson's Seasons. On the 24th of June she was liberated, and thensuddenly rearrested. This deception was more than cruel, it wasinfamous. She was placed in the prison of St. Pelaige--a filthy andmiserable place. The wife of the jailor pitied her and gave her a neat, upper apartment, and brought her books and flowers, and she wascomparatively happy again. It was in this prison that she wrote her ownmemoirs. She usually kept a stout heart, but at times when thoughts ofher husband and child came over her, she was overwhelmed with grief. 

The chief Girondists now began to fall under the stroke of theguillotine, and her turn was quickly coming. The day that her friendBrissot perished, she was transferred to the _Conciergerie_ the prisonwhich suggested this sketch of her to my mind. I went over this prison, and the very apartment was pointed out to me in which Madame Roland wasconfined. Here she spent her last days, and wretched days they were, indeed. But she conducted herself nobly and courageously through all. The mockery of a trial was held, and she wrote her own defense, a mosteloquent production. She was sentenced to death in twenty-four hours. Twenty-two victims had just poured out their blood, and she was tofollow their example. A French writer speaks of her at that time as"full of attractions, tall, of an elegant figure, her physiognomyanimated, but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of melancholyon her face that tempered her natural vivacity. Something more than isusually found in the eyes of woman, beamed in her large, dark eyes, fullof sweetness and expression. She often spoke to me at the grate, withthe freedom and courage of a great man. This republican language fallingfrom the lips of a pretty French woman, for whom the scaffold wasprepared, was a miracle of the revolution. We gathered attentivelyaround her in a species of admiration and stupor. Her conversation wasserious, without being cold. She spoke with a purity, a melody, and ameasure which rendered her language a soul of music of which the earnever tired. She spoke of the deputies who had just perished withrespect, but without effeminate pity; reproaching them even for nothaving taken sufficiently strong measures. Sometimes her sex hadmastery, and we perceived that she had wept over the recollection of herdaughter and husband. "

She was led out to execution on the 10th of November, on that place ofblood--_La Concorde_. She was dressed in white, and inspired themultitudes who saw her with admiration. Another victim accompanied her. She exhorted him to ascend first, that his courage might not be shakenby witnessing her death. She turned to the statue of Liberty, exclaiming, "Oh, Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name. "She was thirty-nine years of age, and though she ended her life thusyoung, she had achieved immortality. 

M. Roland was at this time in safety in Rouen, but when he heard of thedeath of his noble wife, he resolved to give himself up at once to theauthorities. The interests of his child, however, tempted him to anothercourse. Should he give himself up he would certainly perish, and by thelaw of France his possessions would be confiscated, and would not, therefore, descend to his child. Were he to die, even by his own hand, the case would be different--he would save the property for his child. Five days after his wife perished upon the scaffold, he fell upon hissword on a high road near Rouen. The following lines were found upon hisperson:

"The blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve:indignation caused me to quit my retreat. As soon as I heard of themurder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on an earth taintedby crime. "

I had occasion often while in Paris to cross the street of the _Ecole deMedicine_. It is a rather pleasant street, and leads into the street of_Ancienne Comedie_, named so after the _Theater Francaise_, which wasformerly located upon it. Just opposite it is a _cafe_ which Voltaireused to frequent, and I have stopped to take a cup of chocolate in it. But one day I hunted up number eighteen of the street of _Ecole deMedicine_. The house was one which Marat used to occupy in the time ofthe great revolution. We paused a moment upon the threshold, and thenpassed up a flight of stairs and entered the room where Marat used towrite so many of his blood-thirsty articles. A little room at that timeopened out of it, and in the apartment was a bath-room. He often wrotein his bath in this room. 

The last day Marat lived, was the 13th of July, 1793, and it was spentin this little room. He was the monster of the revolution, loved thesight of blood as a tiger does, and his influence over the multitudegave him power to sacrifice whoever he pleased. If he but pointed hislong finger at a man or woman, it was death to the victim. No one wassafe. Under his devilish prompting, already some of the truestrepublicans in France had been beheaded, and every hour some unfortunateman or woman fell beneath his hellish ferocity. Should a fiend beallowed to personate liberty longer? Should a wretch whose very touchscorched and blistered, whose breath was that of the lake of fire, anylonger be allowed to pollute France with his presence? These were thequestions which presented themselves to the mind of a youngcountry-girl. Who would have thought that the young and beautifulCharlotte Corday would have taken it upon herself to answer thesequestions and avenge the murdered innocents?

She had learned to love, to adore liberty, among the forests and hillsof her native country. She saw Marat perpetrating murders of theblackest die in the name of liberty. He went further still, hesacrificed her friends--the friends of liberty. She resolved that _thewretch should die_. No one could suspect the dark-haired girl. Enthusiastic to madness, she flew to Paris with but one thought fillingher breast--that she was amid the terrors of that time, in the absenceof all just law, commanded by God to finish the course of Marat. Everything bent to this idea. She cared nothing for her ownlife--nothing for her own happiness. She came to the threshold of thehouse many a time and was turned away--she could not gain admittance. Marat's mistress was jealous of him, and Charlotte Corday had heard ofthis and feared that it would be impossible to see him alone. Shetherefore wrote to the monster, and with great eloquence demanded aprivate interview. The request was granted. 

On the morning of the 13th of July she came in person, and Marat orderedthat she be shown into his room. He lay in his bath, with his arms outof water, writing. He looked up at her as she entered, and asked herbusiness. She used deception with him, declaring that some of hisbitterest enemies were concealed in the neighborhood of her countryhome. She named, with truth, some of her dearest friends as theseenemies. "They shall die within forty-eight hours, " said Marat. This wasenough--in an instant she plunged a dagger, which she had concealedabout her person, to the center of his heart. 

She was executed for this deed upon the _Place de la Concorde_. Theytell the story in France, to show how modest she was, that after herhead had fallen from the body a rough man pushed it one side with hisfoot, _and her cheeks blushed scarlet_. Marat was interred with greatpomp in the Pantheon, but a succeeding generation did better justice tohis remains, for they were afterward, by order of government, disinterred and thrown into a common sewer. I scarcely ever stopped onthe _Place de la Concorde_ without thinking of Charlotte Corday, andbringing up the dreadful scene in Marat's house, and her own execution. I fancied her as she appeared that day--a smile upon her face, a wildenthusiastic joy in her eyes, as if she had executed her task, and waswilling, glad, to leave such a horror-stricken land. No man can doubtthe purity of Charlotte Corday's character. She was no ordinarymurderer. She did not act from the promptings of anger, or to avengeprivate wrongs. She felt it to be her duty to rid France of such anunnatural monster, and undoubtedly thought herself God's minister ofvengeance. 

Another spot which may justly be denominated a place of blood, is theConciergerie. It is yet as grim and awful as ever, in its appearance. The spot is still shown in the stones where the blood ran from theswords of the human butchers. If the history of this prison werewritten, it would make a dozen books, and some of the most heart-rendingtragedies would be unfolded to the world. The great and good, and thewretchedly vile, have together lived within its walls and lost theirhopes of life, or their desire for it. I could never pass it without ashudder, for though it was not so much a place of execution as aprison, yet so terrible a place was it that many a prisoner hasjoyfully emerged from its dark walls to the scaffold. It has witnessedthe death of many a poor man and woman, stifled with its foul air, itshorrid associations, and the future with which it terrified its inmates. Many a noble heart has been broken in its damp and dimly-lighted cells, for it has existed for many centuries. As early as 1400 it was the sceneof wholesale butchery, and on St. Bartholomew's night, its bells rangout upon the shuddering air, to add their voice with the others, whichfilled every heart with fear. 

Paris is one of the most singular cities in the civilized world for onething--for the atrocities which it has witnessed. Certainly, in moderntimes no city in the world has been the scene of such hideous acts asthe city of the fine arts. Deeds have been done within a century, whichwould put a savage to the blush. The place is still pointed out where apoor girl was burned by a slow fire. She had wounded a soldier, and as apunishment, she was stripped naked, her breasts cut off, her skinslashed by red hot sabres, while she was being burned. Her yells couldbe heard over half Paris. 

Think, too, of later times--when Louis Napoleon aimed his cannon at thehouses of inoffensive people, and shot down, in cold blood, some of thebest inhabitants of Paris. A more hellish act was never perpetrated inthis world of ours than that--yet he is the patron of moderncivilization, and is on excellent terms with the amiable Queen Victoria. I do not wonder that Rousseau argued that the primitive and savagecondition of man is to be preferred to French civilization. This is onephase of Paris life as it is to-day, and as it always has been, and itis right that the stranger should not pass it by. 

Paris is crowded with such places as these I have been describing--spotsto which bloody histories cling. The paving-stones are, as it were, redto this day with the blood they drank in the times of the revolution. 

 * * * * *

PLACE DE LA CONCORDE. 

There is no public square or place in the world, which in broadmagnificence surpasses the _Place de la Concorde_. The stranger can formlittle idea of it, except by personal inspection. Stand in the centerand look which way you will, something grand or beautiful greets theeye. Look toward the south, and see the fine building which contains thesenate chamber, the bridge over the Seine, and the _Quai de Orsay_. Tothe north, and see the row of buildings named Place de la Concorde, withtheir grand colonnades and the pretentious Madeleine. To the east, andthere the green forest of the Tuileries gardens, with its rich array offlowers and statuary--and the palace--greets you, and farther away thegrand towers of Notre Dame. Or look where the sun sets--the Elysianfields are all before you with their music and dancing and shows; theirtwo long promenades, and in the distance Napoleon's grand triumphalarch. 

To look at the Place de la Concorde itself, you should stand upon thebridge across the Seine--from its center look down upon the great open_plaza_, see the wonderful fountains, gaze up at the obelisk of Luxor inthe center, and you will be struck with admiration of the grand scenebefore you. 

But I confess that I was attracted to the Place de la Concorde more bythe historical associations connected with it, than by its presentmagnificence. Leaning upon the parapet of the bridge and looking downupon the Seine, a pleasant July morning was present to my imagination, and a crowd was gathered upon the place to witness an execution. Theslight form of a beautiful woman passes up yonder winding steps to theblock. Her hair is dark--not so dark, though, as her genius-lighted eyes-and her forehead is white and nobly pure. She kneels, bows down herhead to the block, and is forever dead. It was Charlotte Corday, theenthusiast, who assassinated Marat in his bath. I have seen the placewhere she killed him--have looked at the very threshold where she waitedso long before she gained admittance. The house is standing yet, and theroom where Marat lay in his bath writing--where he looked up from hismanuscript at Charlotte Corday and promised death to some of her dearestfriends in a provincial town--where she plunged her dagger to the centerof his black heart!

It was on the Place de la Concorde that Louis XVI expiated the crimes ofhis ancestors upon the scaffold. One still October day the sweet thoughproud Marie Antoinette came here, also, to die. The agony that shesuffered during her trial, and the day that she perished upon thescaffold, no human thought can reckon. The French revolution taught afearful lesson to kings and queens; that if they would rule safely, itmust be through the hearts of their subjects, otherwise the vengeance ofan insulted and oppressed people will be sure to overtake them. 

One April day, amid sunshine and rain, that man of dark eyes, loftybrow, and proud stature, the magnificent Danton, walked up the fatalsteps and knelt down to death. How strange! The man before whose nodall Paris had trembled as if he had been a god--the man whose eloquencecould thrill the heart of France, was now a weak creature beneath theiron arm of Robespierre. He had sentenced hundreds to death upon thisspot, and was now condemned himself, by his old associate, to taste thesame bitter cup which he had so often held to the lips of others. Thisact alone will fix the stain of ferocious cruelty upon the character ofRobespierre, however conscientious he may have been. 

And here, too, on that same day, Camille Desmoulins, the mad author andrevolutionist-editor, ended his young life. Many a time with hiscomic--yet sometimes awfully tragic--pen, had he pointed with laughterto the Place de la Concorde, and its streams of human blood. And now thestrange creature who one day laughed wildly in his glee and another wasall tears and rage, followed Danton, the man he had worshiped, to theblock. Robespierre was his old friend, he had written his praises uponmany a page, yet now he stood aloof, and raised not a hand to save thepoor editor, though he besought his aid with passionate eloquence. 

Three months later, and the Place de la Concorde witnessed the closingscene of the revolution. On the 28th of the following July, Robespierreand St. Just perished together on the scaffold. He whose very name, articulated in whispers, had made households tremble as with adeath-ague, had lost his power, and was a feeble, helpless being. Cruel, stern, without a feeling of mercy in his heart, awful to contemplate inhis steel severity, he was, after all, almost the only man of therevolution who was strictly, sternly, rigidly honest. No one can doubthis integrity. He might have been dictator if he would, and saved hislife, but the principles which were a part of his very nature, would notallow him to accept such power, even from the people. His friends pleadwith streaming eyes; it was a case of life or death; but he said, "Death, rather than belie my principles!" and he perished. 

As I looked down upon the very spot where stood the scaffold, and sawthat all around was so peaceful, I could hardly realize that within halfa century such a terrible drama had been enacted there--a drama whoseclosing acts illustrate the truth of that scripture which saith, "Whosotaketh the sword shall perish by the sword. "

Louis XVI. First ascends the scaffold, looking mournfully at Danton, butsaying never a word; and then Vergniaud, the pure of heart, executed byhis friend Danton; then Danton, thinking remorsefully of Vergniaud andcursing Robepierre; and last, Robespierre!

The Place de la Concorde was originally an open spot, where werecollected heaps of rubbish, but in 1763 the authorities of the city ofParis determined to clear it up and erect upon it a statue in honor ofLouis XV. The statue was destroyed by the populace in 1792, and theplace named _Place de la Revolution_. In 1800 it took the name it atpresent retains. In 1816 Louis XVIII. Caused the statue of Louis XV. Tobe replaced, though still later that of Louis XVI. Was erected here, andthe former placed in the Champs Elysees. 

The obelisk of Luxor is perhaps the most prominent feature of the place. It is a magnificent relic of Egypt, and is one of two obelisks whichstood in front of the temple of Thebes. It was erected fifteen hundredand fifty years before Christ, by Sesostris, in the eighteenth Egyptiandynasty. Mehemet Ali made a present of the obelisk to the Frenchgovernment. On account of its enormous size, great difficulty wasexperienced in removing it to Paris. A road was constructed from theobelisk to the Nile, and eight hundred men were occupied three months inremoving it to the banks of the river, where was a flat-bottomed vesselbuilt expressly for it. A part of the vessel had to be sawed off toreceive it, so great was its size. It descended the Nile, passed theRosetta bar, and with great care was towed to Cherbourg. It must beremembered that the obelisk is a single stone, seventy-two feet high, and weighs five hundred thousand pounds. On the 16th of August, 1836, itwas drawn up an inclined plane to the top of the pedestal where it nowstands. In the following October, the public ceremony of placing itoccurred, in the presence of the royal family, and more than a hundredand fifty thousand other persons. 

[Illustration: Place de la Concorde. ]

The cost of removal from Thebes to Paris was two millions francs, butnot a life was lost from the beginning to the end of the transaction. Itstands upon a single block of gray granite, the total height of obeliskand pedestal being about a hundred feet. 

There are two fountains upon the Place, dedicated, one to Maritime, theother to Fluvial navigation. The basin of each is fifty feet indiameter, out of which rise two smaller ones, the latter inverted. Sixtall figures are seated around the larger basins, their feet resting onthe prows of vessels, separated from each other by large dolphins whichspout water into the higher basins. But the beauty of the Place de laConcorde is not so much the result of any one feature as the combinationof the whole, and as such it is unequaled in Europe. 

From the Place de la Concorde one has a fine view of the Arch ofTriumph, which was erected by Napoleon in honor of his great victories. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE LOUVRE--PUBLIC GARDENS--LUXEMBOURG PALACE AND GARDENS--THE GOBELINS. 

THE LOUVRE. 

The subject is hackneyed and old--what can _I_ say about the Louvrewhich will be new to the reader? However, to write a book on Paris, andmake no mention of the Louvre, would be like acting the play of Hamlet, with Hamlet omitted. I make no pretensions to critical skill inreference to paintings or architecture, I only give the impressions of aman who loves both when they seem beautiful to him. I am no such artenthusiast that I love to wander through galleries of naked and sensualpictures, though they do show great genius. Nor can the glitter andgrandeur of a thousand public buildings hide from my eyes the squalorand wretchedness of the common people. 

I will not give a precise description of the Louvre, but record thethings which struck me most forcibly. 

The foreigner by showing his passport is admitted any day into theLouvre, though certain days are specified for the public to enter, andupon others the artists of Paris are busy in studying and copying theworks of the masters. 

[Illustration: THE LOUVRE. ]

It was one of those days, when the Louvre was occupied by the artists, that I presented my American passport at one of the entrances, and waspolitely invited to pass in. My companion was a French artist, whohad kindly offered to guide me over the renowned collection ofpaintings. The visit was much pleasanter to me from the fact that nocrowd of visitors was present, and it was a novel sight to behold theyoung artists of Paris engaged in their work. I have mentioned inanother part of this book that no pictures of living artists are alloweda place in the Louvre. The Luxembourg Gallery is the place for all such, and the Louvre collection is therefore made up of paintings from thehands of all the old masters. It is for this reason that the Parisianartists fill the rooms of the Louvre so constantly--either to copy somegem in the vast collection, or by practice, to catch some of the geniusof the master-hand. 

The first picture-room we entered is represented to be the finest forthe exhibition of pictures in the world. Its splendor was really verygreat. The pictures in it are of immense size, and they require a strongand clear light. It is called the Grand Saloon, and is divided byprojecting arcades which are supported by fine marble columns. Thelength is one thousand three hundred and twenty-two feet, and thebreadth forty-two feet. The ceilings and the walls are completelycovered by pictures, the number of them being one thousand four hundred. Those by French masters number three hundred and eighty, by the Flemishand German five hundred and forty, and by the Italian four hundred andeighty. The greater part of the collection was made by Napoleon, andthough many of the finest pictures were taken away by the allies in1815, yet it is still one of the largest collections in the world. Tostand in this room and gaze at leisure upon some of the finest paintingsin the world, was a delight I had never before felt. It isindescribable, yet it was none the less real. I could not, as my friendthe artist did, point out the peculiar excellences of each, and thefaults, nor compare one with another critically, but I could feel thesame thrill of pleasure which he did, and I found that the picture whichhe declared to be the finest, was that before which I delayed longest. It certainly is no more necessary for a man to be an art-critic to lovepictures, than it is to be a botanist to love flowers. I admit that onemust be a critic, to a degree, to _thoroughly_ appreciate the art ofpainting, but that is another thing. The common people in France areuniversally fond of pictures, much more so than the English. TheAmericans are next to the French in ideality, notwithstanding theirgreat practicality. The common people of England are far behind those ofAmerica in their fondness for the beautiful--at least I judge so from apretty fair experience. America as yet, to be sure, can show few worksof art, but the vast number of enlightened Americans who continuallyvisit Europe, and many for the purpose of seeing the grand and beautifulin art, tells the story. The English upper-classes are undoubtedlywell-educated in art, but not the other classes. But I must not digress. 

The second room we visited was the _Salle des Bijoux_, and was entirelyoccupied by vases, jewels, and rare and costly cups. I was much pleasedwith an Arabian basin of splendid workmanship. There were also articlesof toilette given by the ancient republic of Venice to Marie de Medicis, one casket alone being worth many thousands of dollars. 

The next apartment we entered contains copies of Raphael's frescoes inthe Vatican at Rome; but the next room interested me more, for itcontains Grecian statuary and antiquities. The southern part of Italyand Etruria, Herculaneum and Pompeii, are all represented in thecollection. One striking feature of this hall is, that the ceilings arecovered with paintings of the best artists. One represents Vesuviusreceiving fire from Jupiter to consume Herculaneum and Pompeii; another, Cybele protecting the two cities from the fires of Vesuvius. 

The _Hall du Trone_, which we next visited, contained a great variety ofbeautiful pictures. One is a representation of the Genius of Glorysupported by Virtue, with a scroll on which are written the names of theheroes of France--the warriors, statesmen, and great writers. There arein this apartment many exquisite vases, and among them four of Sevresporcelain, and one of Berlin porcelain, a present from the king ofPrussia. There are, also, two very fine Chinese side-boards andspecimens of Chinese sculpture. 

We next looked into the _Musee Egyptian_, which contains Egyptiancuriosities, and the ceilings are painted, but, of course, by modernauthors, as they are executed not upon canvas, but upon the hardceiling. One of the paintings represents Egypt as being saved byJoseph--another, and one of the finest of the ceiling decorations in theLouvre, is by Horace Vernet. It represents Julian II. Giving orders toMichael Angelo, Raphael, and Bramante to construct St. Peters. 

The _Galerie Francaise_ is filled with paintings of the French school, but none of them are by living painters. Many of them are unquestionablyfine specimens of art, but as they were principally portraits of menmore distinguished by their position than by any genius, I was notinterested in the collection. 

Very near the French gallery, there is an alcove in which Henry IV. Usedoften to sleep, and where he at last died. His portrait is nowexhibited in it. In another little recess the suit of armor which HenryII. Wore on the day of his death, is shown to the stranger. It was inthe year 1559. The day was very hot and the king let down his helmet forfresh air. The royal party were engaged in a tournament, when thetilting-spear of the count de Montgomerie pierced the king's eye, andthrough it his brain, and he died. 

The Spanish gallery contains many fine specimens of the works of theSpanish masters, Velasquez, Murillo, and others. 

The Standish Collection is so called, because it was given to LouisPhillippe in 1838, by an Englishman by the name of Standish. It includesmany first-class paintings, and a bible once owned by Cardinal Ximenes, now valued at twenty-five thousand francs. Before Louis Phillippe died, he claimed this collection as his private property. He had no intentionof taking it away, but wished to test his claim to it. It wasacknowledged, and he then bequeathed it to the Louvre. 

It is impossible for me in a brief sketch to even mention _all_ theapartments in the Louvre, and I must pass by many. The upper floor isdevoted to a Marine museum. It contains fourteen rooms, all well-filledwith curiosities. Among them I noticed some excellent models of brigs, ships, men-of-war, Chinese junks, etc. There is in this suite of rooms afine display of American curiosities. It first struck me that Colton'scollection must be before me, but I soon discovered my mistake. 

The Louvre contains a spacious museum of antiquities beneath thepainting-galleries. There is also a museum of modern sculpture on theground-floor. It contains the finest specimens of French sculpture, aswell as the master-pieces of foreign sculptors. In the first room thereis one of Michael Angelo's best pieces--the Master and his Slave. It is, indeed, a master-piece. One of Canova's pieces--a Cupid and aPsyche--thrilled me with its exceeding beauty. 

But I must say a few words respecting the building of the Louvre. Theeastern facade is one of the finest specimens of architecture that anyage can boast. The colonnade is composed of twenty-eight Corinthiancolumns. There is a gallery behind them in which you may promenade, looking out upon the streets below. The southern front of the Louvre, seen from one of the bridges of the river, with its forty Corinthianpilasters and sculptures, is a magnificent sight. 

The building of the Louvre forms a perfect square, and after visitingthe different galleries, the stranger will find that he has completedthe circuit. The gateways are fine and richly ornamented withsculptures, and the court is a pleasant one. Each side of the buildingmeasures four hundred and eight feet. 

In the year 1200, Phillip Augustus used a castle which existed on thepresent site of the Louvre, for a state prison. Charles V. Madeadditions to the building and placed the Royal Library in it. Thepresent building was begun by Francis I. , in 1528, and the southern sideof the Louvre as it now exists was his work. Henry II. , Henry IV. , andLouis XIII. , successively added to it, and in still later time, LouisXIV. , Louis XV. , Charles X. , Louis Phillippe, and Napoleon III. , havedone the same. 

Charles X. Stood in one of the windows of the Louvre overlooking theSeine, and fired upon the poor victims of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. In July, 1830, the people made a terrible attack upon it, and it was courageously defended by the Swiss Guards, until everyoneof them perished. 

The Louvre is one of the noblest piles in Europe, and as apainting-gallery, it reflects great credit upon France. I used tofrequent it, yet I must, to be honest, confess that many of its picturesare too sensual and licentious to suit my taste. Are such pictures ascan be found in the French gallery, pictures which express sensualityand debauchery, productive of good?

Is it well to look at so much nakedness, even if it be executed with thehighest art? In portions of the Louvre there is altogether too muchnakedness, and I humbly hope that American ladies will never get soaccustomed to such sights that they can stare at them in the presence ofgentlemen without a blush. I now allude to the most licentious picturesin the collection. I saw French women stop and criticise pictures whichI could not look at, in their presence, at least--pictures whichexhibited the human form in a state of nudity, and at the same timeexpressed the most shameful sensuality and portrayed the most licentiousattitudes. I cannot believe a woman of perfectly pure mind can delightto look at such pictures in a public gallery. But this nakedness is allof a piece with many other things which characterize French society, andbut shows the corrupt state of the morals of the French people. 

[Illustration: JARDIN DES TUILLERIES. ]

PUBLIC GARDENS. 

The gardens of Paris are almost numberless. Some of them are free, andothers are open only to those who pay an entrance fee. The latter classis great in numbers, from the aristocratic _Jardin d' Hiver_ down to LaChaumiere. In the first you meet the fashionable and rich, and in thelast, the students with their grisettes, and the still poorer classes. But I will not describe this class of gardens in this article. 

The Tuileries gardens are perhaps as aristocratic as any in Paris, ifthat term can be appropriately applied to a _free_ garden, and they arecertainly among the finest in the world. They are filled with statuesand fountains, trees and flowers. The western part is entirely devotedto trees, almost as thickly planted as our American forests. The carewhich is taken of this grove of trees surprised me, and I think wouldany new-world visitor. The trees grow closely to the southern wall ofthe gardens, yet do not protrude their branches over the line of thewall. The sight is a singular one from the banks of the Seine, outsidethe walls of the garden, for the whole grove looks exactly as if it hadbeen _sheared_ like a hedge. The branches have been so cared for andtrimmed, that the side presented is perfectly even and a mass of green. Still this, though curious, is not beautiful. Trees need to grownaturally for that. Art cannot surpass nature in this way. The grove isfull of beauty. Walks run every way over it, and the trees are sotrimmed and cultivated that beautiful arches are formed over nearly allthe paths. This constitutes the forest, one of the most singular inParis, and it is a novel sight to the stranger. On the north side of thegroves there is a collection of orange trees, and in among them are seta large quantity of chairs, which are rented by a person in attendancefor two sous an hour. So for two cents, a man can sit and rest himselfin one of the most delicious spots in Paris. This is a peculiar featureof all the gardens of Paris. No free seats are furnished, but an oldwoman is sure to select some shady and enchanting spot whereon toarrange her chairs, which are for rent. Indeed, there are many places onthe Boulevard where this practice obtains, to the great joy ofnumberless tired pedestrians. 

In front of the _Tuileries palace_ there is a choice garden of flowersand plants enclosed by an iron railing. The flowers were in bloom whenlast I saw it, and were exceedingly beautiful. Directly in front of thisgarden a fine fountain is always playing, and scattered in everydirection is a profusion of statuary. There are some magnificent groups, but again others are disgusting in their sensuality. There are severalpieces of statuary scattered among the trees of the grove. One of them, a statue of Venus, is an exquisite conception, and so very pure that Iwondered it should have found a place in a French garden. But not farfrom it there were two nude figures which were so shockingly sensual, and so clearly were intended by the sculptor to be so, that I turnedaway half indignant. Yet while I walked in the grove more than oneFrench lady stopped leisurely to look at them through her glass. 

When the weather is warm, the fashionable pedestrians flock to the treesof the Tuileries gardens, and among its cool recesses sit and talk thehours away. When the weather is colder and sunshine is desirable, thegrounds immediately in front of the palace are more pleasant, as therethe cold winds come not. 

The Luxembourg gardens I have spoken of with some particularity inanother place. 

The _Jardin d' Hiver_ is a winter garden, and contains many roofedhot-houses. The public are admitted by the payment of one franc. Thereare occasional displays of flowers and plants. 

The _Champs Elysees_ form one of the most delightful promenades inParis. They contain no plants or flowers, but are so thickly plantedwith trees, that they may be called gardens. It was originally apromenade for Marie de Medici. It runs along the banks of the Seine, from the Place de la Concorde to the Triumphal Arch. The length is amile and a quarter, the breadth three hundred and seventy-three yards. All the public fetes take place on these fields. On the right is thepromenade, and on the left under the trees and in open spaces are fairs, instrumental performances, shows, etc. Etc. It is one of the mostdazzling scenes in the night that ever eye beheld. I well remember thaton my first visit to Paris, I wandered out of my hotel and saw theChamps Elysees in the evening. The sight was almost overpowering. Thewhole place was a scene of splendor. The trees and grounds were oneblaze of lamps. Scattered over it were little theaters, concerts in theopen air, every kind of show, coffee-houses, restaurants, and every kindof amusement. The concerts charge nothing. But if you enter within thering you pay for a seat a trifle, and also for your refreshments. Almosteveryone who entered, (it was all in the open air, ) bought a glass ofsomething to drink, and sat down to enjoy it with the music. Fiddlersand mountebanks abounded in every direction, and beggars were morenumerous if possible than the spectators. But not one _solicited_ alms. It would jar too coarsely upon the Parisian refinement. A beggar sings, looks piteously, plays his flageolet or harp, but never _asks_ formoney! The whole scene presented to me was one of the most brilliant Iever witnessed, and it probably impressed me more from the fact that Iwas unprepared for it. I have often since frequented it in the evening, but never wearied of it. 

The _Jardin des Plantes_ is the most beautiful free garden in the world. It was founded in 1635 by Louis XIII. Buffon was its most celebratedsuperintendent. He devoted himself enthusiastically to its cultivationand development. It was at periods, during the revolutionary times, muchneglected, but it continued to prosper through everything, unlike manyof the other gardens. It consists of a botanical garden with severallarge hot-houses and green-houses attached; several galleries withscientific natural collections; a gallery of anatomy; a menagerie ofliving animals; a library of natural history; and lastly, a theater forpublic lectures. Everything is open to the people--lectures andall--and take it altogether, it is the finest and noblest garden in theworld. 

The _Jardin des Plantes_ in the summer is one of the favorite resorts ofParisians, and although I frequented the spot, I never left it without awonder that so much is thrown open free to the public. This is aremarkable feature of Paris and French institutions and publicbuildings. If possible, that which the people wish to see they can seefor nothing. Painting-galleries, gardens, churches, and lectures areopen to the crowd. This is in striking contrast with London. Therenothing is free. The stranger pays to go over Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's. He cannot see anything without paying half a crown for thesight. To _look_ at a virgin or butler is worth at least a shilling. 

[Illustration: JARDIN DES PLANTES. ]

The stranger usually enters the _Jardin des Plantes_ by the easterngate. The gallery of zoology is seen at the other end of the garden, while on either hand are beautiful avenues of lime trees. Beyond, on theright, is the menagerie, and on the left is a large collection of foresttrees. Scattered all around in the open space, are beds containing allmanner of medicinal and other plants from all parts of the earth. Thispart of the garden is to the botanist a very interesting spot. Theflowering-shrubs are surrounded by a rail fence, and the level of theground is sunk beneath that of other parts of the garden. There is aspecial "botanical garden, " which is much frequented by students. Onanother avenue there are plantations of forest shrubs, and near them acafe to accommodate visitors. Then stretching still further on, are newgeological, mineralogical, and botanical galleries, all warmed in winterand summer, if necessary, by hot water, and capable of receiving thetallest tropical plants. Between the conservatories there are twobeautiful mounds--one a labyrinth, and the other a collection offir-trees. The labyrinth is one of the best and most beautiful I eversaw, far surpassing the celebrated one at Hampton court. The mound is ofa conical shape, and is completely covered by winding and intricatepaths. The whole is surmounted by a splendid cedar of Lebanon. On thesummit there are also seats covered with a bronze pavilion, and takingone of them the visitor can look over all the garden portions of Paris, and several of the villages near Paris. It is an exquisite view, and Iknow of no greater pleasure in the hot months than after walking overthe garden to ascend the labyrinth and sit down in the cool shade of thepavilion, and watch the people wandering over the gardens, Paris, andthe country. The western mound is a nursery of fir-trees, every knownkind being collected there. There is another inclosure entered by a doorat the foot of this mound, which in warm weather contains some of themost beautiful trees of New Holland, the Cape of Good Hope, Asia Minor, and the coast of Barbary. The amphitheater is here, also, where all thelectures are delivered. It will hold twelve hundred students but morethan that number contrive to hear the lectures. In the enclosure thereare twelve thousand different kinds of plants, and at the door stand twovery beautiful Sicilian palms more than twenty-five feet in height. 

The menagerie of the garden is one of the finest in the world, and is insome respects like the menagerie in London, though arranged with moretaste. The cages are scattered over a large inclosure, and it seems likewandering over a forest and meeting the animals in their native wilds. After passing beneath the boughs of dark trees, it is startling to lookup and see a Bengal tiger within a few feet of you, though he is caged, or to walk on further still, and confront a leopard. This part of thegarden is a continual source of amusement to the younger portions of thecommunity of Paris, to say nothing of the children of larger growth. 

The cabinet of comparative anatomy is one of the finest parts of thegarden, and we owe its excellence mainly to the great exertions ofCuvier. Every department is scientifically arranged, and the whole form, perhaps, the best collection of anatomical specimens in the world. Inthe first room are skeletons of the whale tribe, and many marineanimals; in the next, are skeletons of the human species from every partof the globe. A suite of eleven rooms is taken up for the anatomy ofbirds, fishes, and reptiles. Several rooms are taken up with theexhibition of the muscles of all animals, including man. Others exhibitarms and legs; others still, brains and eyes, and the different organsof the body all arranged together, distinct from the remaining parts ofthe frame. In one room there is a singular collection of skulls of menfrom all countries, of all ages, and conditions. Celebrated murderershere are side by side with men of ancient renown. 

The gallery of zoology is three hundred and ninety feet in length, andfronts the east end of the garden. The other galleries are all equallyspacious and well arranged. 

The library is composed of works on natural history, and it is anunrivaled collection. It contains six thousand drawings, thirty thousandvolumes, and fifteen thousand plants. This fine library is free oncertain days to the world. 

The good which results from such _free_ exhibitions as that of the_Jardin des Plantes_ is incalculable. The _people_ become educated, enlightened to a degree they can never attain, upon the subjectsillustrated, without them. This is one reason why Parisians areuniversally intelligent, even to the artisans. The poorer classes canscarcely help understanding botany, anatomy, zoology, and geology, withsuch a garden free of access. This is but a specimen of many like placesin Paris. Lectures upon the sciences and arts are free to all who willhear, and whoever will may learn. 

THE LUXEMBOURG PALACE AND GARDENS. 

When France was governed by Louis Phillippe, the Palace Luxembourg wasoccupied by the Chamber of Peers, and it is now occupied by the Senate. It is a fine old building, and the impression it makes upon the strangeris an agreeable one. There is nothing in its history of particularinterest, though its architecture is ancient. 

I was better pleased with the Luxembourg gardens than with the palace. They are more beautiful than the Tuileries gardens and are much moredemocratic. Trees, plants, and flowers seemed to me to abound in them toa greater extent than in any other garden in Paris. On beautiful daysthey are full of women and children. Troops of the latter, beautiful asthe sky which covers them, come to this place and play the long hours ofa summer afternoon away, with their mothers and nurses following themabout or sitting quietly under the shade of the trees, engaged in thedouble employment of knitting and watching the frolicsome humors oftheir children. I was very fond of going to these gardens in theafternoon, just to look at the array of mothers and children, and it wasas pretty a sight as can be seen in all Paris. It is a sight which NewYork--be it spoken to her shame--does not furnish. 

[Illustration: JARDIN ET PALAIS DU LUXEMBOURG. ]

In the summer evenings a band of music plays for an hour to a vastmultitude. Four of the finest bands in Paris take turns in playing atseven o'clock, four evenings in the week, and their music is of thehighest order. Perhaps fifty thousand people are gathered at once, men, women, and children, to listen to the delicious music and thegathering in itself is a sight worth seeing. The great majoritypromenade slowly around the band, some stand still, and a very few rentchairs and sit. Nearly all the men smoke, and occasionally a woman doesthe same. But the flavor of the tobacco is execrable. What substitutethe French use I know not, but the villainous smells which come from thecigars smoked by the majority of Frenchmen indicate something very bad. Cabbage leaves--so extensively used to make cigars with in England--donot give forth so vile a stench. 

I always noticed in the Luxembourg gardens many fine looking men, andsome elegantly dressed and lady-like women, but the majority of thelatter were grisettes, or mistresses. Many students were promenadingwith their little temporary wives, not in the least ashamed to make sucha public display of their vices. The women present might be divided intofour classes; the gay but not vicious, students' mistresses, ordinarystrumpets, and the poor but virtuous, by far the majority belonging tothose classes which have a poor reputation. Yet the conduct of thosewomen was in every respect proper. There were no indecent gestures, andnot a loud word spoken which would have been out of place in adrawing-room. Not a woman addressed one of the opposite sex. 

Directly in front of the Luxembourg palace there is a bower of orangetrees and statues railed off from other portions of the garden. Itpresents an extremely beautiful appearance. In front of it there is afine basin of water and a fountain. Four nude marble boys support acentral basin, from which the water pours. The ground directly in frontof the palace is lower than it is on either side, and a row of fineorange trees extends out on either hand from the palace, and flowers ofevery description mingle their fragrance with that of the orangeblossoms. Groves of trees extend far to the right and left, and to thesouth, there are fine gardens devoted to the cultivation of rare plantsand every variety of fruit trees. 

The best thing I know about the Luxembourg palace is, that it has agallery of paintings. It formerly was used to exhibit paintings by theold masters, but now nothing is allowed a place in the Luxembourggallery but pictures of living artists. As soon as the artist dies, hispictures which hang in the Luxembourg, and which have been purchased bythe government, are at once removed to the Louvre, where only paintingsof men now dead are on exhibition. 

The collection in the Luxembourg is in many respects a very fine one, but it has the fault of all the modern French and continentalpictures--there is too much sensuality exhibited upon the canvas. Theschool is too voluptuous--too licentious. I can put up with anything notpositively indecent for the sake of art, but I cannot put up with Frenchpictures. Their nakedness is too disgusting, for it is not relieved bysentiment, unless of the basest kind. This remark of course does notapply to all the pictures I saw. Some of them are very fine, especiallythose of Delaroche and the war pictures of Horace Vernet. Near theentrance there is a beautiful group by Delaistre, representing Cupid andPsyche. 

One of the pictures in this gallery haunts me still. It is anillustration of one of Dante's immortal verses--his visit to the lake ofBrimstone. The poet with a wreath of laurel round his brow stands in thecenter of a little boat, while his conductor in the stream propels thecraft with one oar over the boiling and surging sea of hell. Hiscountenance is filled with mingled astonishment and horror, yet hepreserves his wits and observes very critically all that is about him. One poor wretch lifts his head from the liquid fire, and fastens hisjaws upon the rim of the boat in his terrible agony, while one of theattendants of the boat with an oar endeavors to beat him back. On theother side a ghostly wretch has fastened his long teeth into afellow-sufferer. The shades of light and darkness are so mingled thatthe effect is very striking. It is the most horrible picture I everlooked at, and I would much rather sleep in Madame Tassaud's chamber ofhorrors, than look at it again. In the next apartment there is a pictureof Christ, which struck me as the best I ever looked at. The divinesweetness of the human and the grandeur of the God were united withwonderful skill. The face was half-sorrowful, as if the heart werefilled with thoughts of a sinful, suffering world, and still upon thebrow the very sunshine of heaven rested. The impression which that facemade upon me will never be entirely obliterated, and its effect was fardifferent from the illustration of Dante. The two pictures, it seemed tome, teach a useful lesson. It is that men are to be saved through love, and not through fear. Let men see God's beauty and loveliness, and youwill more surely win them from error than by showing them the horrors ofhell. 

The origin of the Luxembourg palace was as follows: about the middle ofthe sixteenth century, one Robert de Harley erected a large house in themiddle of the gardens. In 1583 the house was bought and enlarged by theduke of Luxembourg, and in 1612 Marie de Medicis bought it for ninetythousand francs, and then commenced the present palace. During the firstyear of the revolution it was used for a prison; then for anassembly-room for the consuls; still later as the chamber for the peers, and now the French senate meet in it. It contains a large library, butthe people cannot have access to its well-stored shelves. Students can, however, by making proper application, consult the library. 

One evening while walking in the Luxembourg gardens, the band playingexquisite music, and the crowd promenading to it, I met a friend, anAmerican, who has resided in Paris for seventeen years. Taking his armwe fell into the current of people, and soon met a couple of quitepretty looking ladies arm-in-arm. They were dressed exactly alike andtheir looks were very much of the same pattern, and as to their figures, I certainly could not tell one from the other with their faces turnedaway. 

"They are sisters, " said my friend, "and you will scarcely believe mewhen I tell you that I saw them in this very garden ten years ago. " Ireplied that I could hardly credit his story, for the couple stilllooked young, and I could hardly think that so many years ago they wouldhave been allowed by their anxious mamma to promenade in such a place. Itold my friend so, and a smile overspread his countenance. He then toldme their history. Ten years ago and they were both shop-girls, verypretty and very fond of the attentions of young men. As shop-girls, theyoccasionally found time to come and hear the music in the gardens of anevening, and cast glances at the young students. Soon they werestudent's mistresses. Their paramours were generous and wealthy youngmen, and they fared well. For four years they were as faithful, affectionate, and devoted to the young men as any wives in all France. They indulged in no gallantries or light conduct with other men, andamong the students were reckoned as fine specimens of the class. Fourhappy years passed away, when one morning the poor girls awoke to a sadchange. The collegiate course was through, and the young collegians weregoing back to their fathers' mansions in the provinces. Of course thegrisettes could not be taken with them, and the ties of years weresuddenly and rudely to be snapped asunder. At first they were frantic intheir grief. When they entered upon their peculiar relations with thestudents, they well knew that this must be the final consummation, butthen it looked a great way off. That they really loved the young men, noone can doubt. It would not be strange for a little shop-girl to evenadore a talented university student, however insignificant he might beto other people. To her he is everything that is great and noble. Thesegirls knew well that they were not wives, but mistresses, yet when theday of separation came, it was like parting husband and wife. But therewas no use in struggling with fate, and they consoled themselves bytransferring their affections to two more students. Again after a termof years they were forsaken, until the flower of their youth was gone, and no one desired to support them as mistresses. Then a downward stepwas taken. Nothing but promiscuous prostitution was before them--exceptstarvation. And still they could not forget their old life, and camenightly to this public promenade to see the old sights, and possiblywith the hope of drawing some unsophisticated youth into their net. While my friend repeated their story, the couple frequently passed us, and I could hardly believe that persons whose deportment was so modestand correct, could be what he had designated them; but as the twilightdeepened, and we were walking away, I noticed that they were no longertogether, and one had the arm of a man, and was walking, like us, awayfrom the gardens. 

I do not know as I could give the reader a better idea of a great classof women in Paris, than by relating the brief history of these girls, and certainly I could not sketch a sadder picture. To the stranger thesocial system of France may seem very pleasant and gay, but it is inreality a sorrowful one. While the mistress is young, she has a kind ofhappiness, but when she loses her beauty, then her wretchedness begins. But I will dwell upon this whole subject more fully in another place. 

THE GOBELINS. 

One of the interesting places which I visited in Paris, is the famousTapestry and Carpet Manufactory in the Rue Mouffetard. The walk is quitea long one from the Garden of Plants, but the wonders of art andindustry which are shown to the visitor, amply repay for the trouble andtoil in getting to the manufactory. 

I first passed through several rooms, upon the walls of which were hungsome of the finest of the tapestries which are finished. I wasastonished to see the perfection to which the art is carried. Some ofthe tapestries, were quite as beautiful as some of the paintings in theLouvre. Each piece was a picture of some spot, scene, or character, andthe workmanship is of such an exquisite kind, that it is extremelydifficult to believe that real paintings of the highest order are notbefore you. Yet all the shades and expressions are wrought into the web, by the hands of the skillful workmen. I visited six of the work-rooms, where the men were manufacturing the tapestries. It was a wonderfulsight. The workman stands immediately behind the web, and a basketcontaining woolen yarn, or a thread of every variety or color, is at hisfeet. The design, usually an exquisite picture, stands behind him in agood light. A drawing of the part of the landscape or figure first to bemade is sketched by pencil upon the web, and with the picture to becopied constantly in sight, the workman or artist, as he should becalled, works slowly upon his task, glad if in a day he can work intothe tapestry a branch, a hand, or an eye. In some of the work-rooms, thefinest tapestries were being manufactured, and in others only very finerugs and carpets. 

In 1450 a man by the name of Jean Gobelin acquired considerable propertyin the region of Rue Mouffetard by dyeing and making carpets. His sonscarried on the business in his name, and the manufactory was celebrated;hence the name, Gobelins. Louis XIV. Erected it into a royalmanufactory, and it has continued such ever since. Between one and twohundred men are constantly in the employ of the government, in themanufactory, and as men of great skill and refined tastes are required, a good rate of wages is paid. The workmen seemed to be very intelligent, and were dressed, many of them, at least, like gentlemen. Thetapestries, carpets, &c. &c. , which are manufactured at this place, areintended for the emperor, the palaces, and for other monarchs to whomthey may be presented in the name of the French emperors. They are thefinest specimens of their kind in the world. There is anothermanufactory connected with the Gobelins, for dyeing wools, and they aredyed better than in any other place, or at least none can be purchasedelsewhere so fitted for the wants of the tapestry workers. There is alsoa school of design connected with it, and a course of lectures isdelivered by able and accomplished men. 

The carpet manufactory is one of the best, and perhaps _the_ best, inthe world. The Parisian carpets are not equal to those manufacturedhere. It often takes five and ten years to make a carpet, and the costis as high sometimes as thirty thousand dollars. None are ever sold. Onewas one made for the Louvre gallery, consisting of seventy-two pieces, and being over thirteen hundred feet in length. 

I have never been more astonished with any exhibition of the fruits ofindustry and art, than with the carpets and tapestries in the RueMouffetard. Some of the latter excel in beauty the best pictures inEurope, and when one reflects that each tint is of wool, worked into theweb by the careful fingers of the workman, that every line, everymuscle, is wrought as distinctly and beautifully as upon canvas, itexcites admiration and wonder. The rooms are open for four Hours twodays in the week, and they were crowded when I was there, andprincipally by foreigners. 

On my way back, I stopped in the Garden of Plants, and seated myselfupon the benches beneath the shade of the trees. After resting awhile, Ientered a restaurant and ordered dinner, as I could scarcely wait toreturn to the hotel, and in Paris, where a bargain is made at so muchper day for hotel charges, including meals, if one is absent at dinnerthe proper sum is deducted from the daily charges. 

I did not succeed in getting a good dinner for a fair price, which Ialways could do at the hotel. It was so poor that a little while after, I tried a cup of coffee and a roll upon the _Champs Elysees_, which weredelicious enough to make up for the poor dinner. 

In front of me there was an orchestra, and some singers, who discoursedvery good music for the benefit of all persons who patronized therestaurant. A multitude of ladies and gentlemen were ranged under thetrees before them, sipping coffee, wine, or brandy. The sight was a verygay one, but not uncommon in Paris. 

I went one day outside the walls of Paris, and took dinner in abeautiful spot where the sun was almost entirely excluded by the treesand shrubs, in gardens attached to a restaurant. I had a capital dinner, too, for a small price, better than I could have had for double themoney at a London hotel. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PEOPLE--CLIMATE--PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS--HOTEL DES INVALIDES. 

THE PEOPLE. 

The French people, so far as one may judge from Paris, are verydifficult to study and understand. They are easy of access, but it isdifficult to account for the many and strange anomalies in theircharacter. 

The intense love of gayety and the amount of elegant trifling whichshows itself everywhere as a national characteristic, does not prepareone to believe that some of the greatest of mathematicians, philosophers, and scientific men are Frenchmen and Parisians; but suchis the fact. The French are fickle, love pleasure, and one would thinkthat these qualities would unfit men for coolness, perseverance, andprolonged research; and I am sometimes inclined to think that theproficiency of the French in philosophy, the arts, and sciences, is notso much the result of patient investigation and laborious and continuedstudy, as a kind of intuition which amounts to genius. The French mindis quick, and does not plod slowly toward eminence; it leaps to it. Certainly, in brilliancy of talents the French surpass every othernation. I will not do them the injustice to speak of them as they are atthis moment--crushed under the despotism of Louis Napoleon--but as theyhave been in the last few years, and indeed for centuries. Paris is acity of brilliant men and women. A French orator is one of the mosteloquent speakers, one of the most impressive men, any country canfurnish. The intelligence of the Paris artisans would surprise manypeople in America. We have only to examine the journals which before theadvent of the empire were almost exclusively taken by theworking-classes of Paris, to see the proof of this. Their leaders werewritten in the best essay-style, and were the result of careful thoughtand application. Such journals could never have gained a fair supportfrom the artisans of New York. They were not mere news journals, norfilled up with love-stories. They contained articles of great worth, which required on the part of the reader a love of abstract truth andthe consideration of it. Such journals sold by thousands in Paris beforeNapoleon III. Throttled the newspapers. These very men were fond ofpleasure and pursued it, and I have been told by residents, that oftenpersons of a foppish exterior and fashionable conduct, are alsocelebrated for the extent of their learning. At home we rarely look fortalent or learning among the devotees of fashion, or at least, amongthose who exalt fashion above all moral attributes. 

It seems to me that the French are more gifted by nature than theEnglish. The English mind is more sluggish, but in all that ispractical, it gains the goal of success, while the French mind oftenfails of it. In theory, the French have always had the most delightfulof republics--in fact, a wretched despotism. So, too, they have had anidea of liberty, such as is seldom understood even in America, but realliberty has existed rarely in France. 

The laboring men of Paris perhaps never saw the inside of a school-room, but they are educated. They know how to read, and through thenewspapers, the library, the popular lecture and exhibition, they havegained what many who spend most of their earlier years in school nevergain. From an experience which justifies it, I believe the soberest partof Paris is its class of artisans. They may possess many wrong andfoolish opinions, but they are a noble class of men. They are a majorityof them republicans, and though they consent to the inevitablenecessity--obedience to the monarch and endurance of a monarchy--yetthey indulge in hopes of a brilliant future for France. They know verywell how their rights are trampled upon, and feel keenly what adisgraceful condition Paris and all France occupies at the present time, but are by no means satisfied with it. They well know that there is noreal liberty in Paris to-day; that no journal dares to speak the wholetruth for fear of losing its existence; and that the noblest men of therepublic are in exile. The trouble is, that the lower classes of theprovinces are grossly ignorant, and do not desire a republic, nor carefor liberty. Thus, those who are intelligent and have aspirations afterfreedom, are borne down by the ignorant. 

One of the characteristics of the people of Paris, for which they areknown the world over, is their politeness. I noticed this in all circlesand in all places. In England John Bull stares at your dress if itdiffers from his own, and hunts you to the wall. Or if anything in yourspeech or manners pleases him, he laughs in your face. But in Paris, theFrenchman never is guilty of so ill-bred an action as to laugh atanybody in his presence, however provoking the occasion. If you are lostand inquire the way, he will run half a mile to show you, and will noteven hear of thanks, I remember once in Liverpool asking in abarber's-shop the way to the Waterloo hotel. A person present, who wasso well-dressed that I supposed him a gentleman, said that he was goingthat way and would show me. I replied that I could find the spot, thestreet having been pointed out by the barber. The "gentleman" persistedin accompanying me. When we reached the hotel I thanked him, but he wasnot to be shaken off. He raised his hat and said, "I hope I may have thehappiness of drinking wine with you!" I was angry at such meanness, andI gave him a decided negative. "But, " he persisted, "you will drink alewith me?" I replied, "I never drink ale. " "But, " said he, "you will give_me_ a glass?" This persistence was so disgusting that I told the man Iwould give him in charge of the police as an impostor if he did notleave, which he did at this hint, instantly. 

The only time that I ever experienced anything but politeness in Paris, was when in a great hurry I chanced to hit a workman with a basket uponhis head. The concussion was so great that the basket was dashed to thepavement. He turned round very slowly, and with a grin upon hiscountenance said, "Thank you, sir!" This was politeness with a littletoo much sarcasm. It was spoken so finely that I burst into a laugh, andthe Frenchman joined me in it. 

The shop-keepers of Paris are a very polite class, and are as avariciousas they are polite. The habit which they have of asking a higher pricethan they expect to get is a bad one. It is a notorious fact thatforeigners in Paris can rarely buy an article so cheaply as a native. There are always quantities of verdant Englishmen visiting Paris, andthe temptation to cheat them is too great to be resisted by thewide-awake shop-keepers. Besides, it satisfies a grudge they all haveagainst Englishmen. I always found it an excellent way not to buy untilthe shop keeper had lowered his price considerably. Sometimes I state mycountry, and the saleswoman would roguishly pretend that for that reasonshe reduced the price. I remember stopping once in the Palais Royal togaze at some pretty chains in the window. A black-eyed little woman cameto the door, and I asked the price of a ring which struck my fancy. Shegave it, and I shook my head, telling her that in the country which Icame from I could get such a ring for less money. She wanted to know thename of my country, and when I told her it was America, she said in acharming manner, "Oh! you come from the grand republic! you shall havethe ring for so many francs, " naming a sum far less than she had atfirst asked. Of course, I did not suppose she sacrificed a _sou_ for thesake of my country, but it showed how apt are the Paris shop-keepers atmaking excuses. An Englishman or American would have solemnly declaredhe would not take a penny less--and then very coolly give the lie to hisassertion; at any rate, I have seen English and American tradesman doso. 

A majority of the shop-keepers of Paris are women, and many of themyoung and pretty. I certainly have seen more beauty of face in the shopsthan on the Boulevards of Paris. Young girls from the ages of fifteen totwenty-five, are usually the clerks in all the shops, which are oftenpresided over by a grown-up woman who is mistress of the establishment, her husband being by no means the first man in the establishment, butrather a silent partner. 

The grisettes are often girls of industry and great good-nature, but themorals of the class are lamentably low. They are easily seduced from thepath of right, and are led to form temporary alliances with men, veryoften the students of the Latin Quarter. They rarely degrade themselvesfor money or for such considerations, but it is for love or pleasurethat they fall. They are given to adventures and intrigues, until theybecome the steady paramours of men, and then they are true and constant. Often they are kept and regarded more like wives than mistresses. Ishould not do entire justice to this class if I were to convey the ideathat all of them are thus debauched. Many marry poor young men, but suchis not usually the case; a poor young man seeks a wife with a smalldowry. They have little hope of wedded life--it will never offer itselfto them. Their shop-life is dreary, monotonous, and sometimes exacting. If they will desert it, pleasure presents an enticing picture; a life ofidleness, dancing, and a round of amusements. 

I was very much struck by a remark made to me by one of the purest menin France--that a Frenchman is more apt to be jealous of his mistressthan his wife, and that as a general rule, a mistress is more true toher lover than a wife is to her husband. This is horrible, yet to acertain extent I am convinced it is true. And it may be so, and women beno more to blame in the matter than the other sex. To-day, in thefashionable society of our great cities, how much does it injure awealthy young man's prospects for matrimony, if it is a well-known factthat he is a libertine? And how long can such a state of things continuewithout dragging down the women who marry such men? If a lady cares notif her lover is a libertine, she cannot possess much of genuine virtue. The fashionable men of Paris keep mistresses--so do those of allclasses, the students, perhaps, according to their numbers, being worsein this respect than all others. It is not strange, such being thecase, that the women are frail. 

One thing is specially noticeable among the ladies of Paris--the carewith which they are guarded before marriage, and the freedom of theirconduct after. In countries where there is almost universal virtue amongwomen, the faith in them is strong, and a freedom of intercourse betweenthe sexes is allowed previous to marriage, which is never tolerated insuch a place as Paris. In New England it is not thought improper for ayoung gentleman and lady to enjoy a walk together in the country, andalone, but in France it would ruin the reputation of a woman. A friendof mine in London warmly invited a young friend of his in Paris to comeover and make his family a visit on some special occasion. The Parisianwrote back that he should like nothing better than such a trip, but thatbusiness would not allow of it. "Then, " wrote back my friend, "let yoursister come. " The reply was decided: "Oh, no! it would never do for theyoung lady to make such a trip alone, for the sake of her reputation. "It would have struck this Frenchman as a very singular fact, if he hadknown that in America a young lady will travel thousands of miles alone, without the slightest harm to her reputation. 

But when the French woman _marries_, the tables are turned. Then shepossesses a freedom such as no American lady, thank heaven, wishes toenjoy. She may have half a dozen open lovers, and society holds itstongue. Her husband probably has as many mistresses. It is notconsidered improper in Paris either for a husband and father to love hismistress, or a wife and mother to love her acknowledged lover, and thatman not her husband. The intrigues which are carried on by marriedpeople in Paris, would shock sober people in America, or at least, outside our largest and wickedest cities. 

The social state of France is exceedingly bad, and when Americanreligious writers profess to be shocked at the theories of the FrenchSocialists, I am inclined to ask them what they think of the _actualcondition_ of the French people. Some of the Socialists have been drivento extremes, because Paris has no conception of the home and the family. The enemies of Socialism in France are, in practice, worse than theirenemies in theory. Who is the man now ruling France? Does the world notknow him to have long been an open and thoroughly debauched libertine?The same is true of other distinguished friends of "law and order. "

The outward condition of the streets of Paris often deceives thestranger as to the morality of the city. Said one gentleman to me, whohad spent several weeks at a fashionable Paris hotel, "Paris is one ofthe quietest, pleasantest towns in the world, and as for its morals, Ican see nothing which justifies its bad reputation abroad. " After aweek's stay in it, such was my own opinion. Things which are toleratedin London and New York streets, are not permitted in the streets ofParis. A street-walker ventured to accost an Englishman in Paris atnight, and was taken in charge by the police. But this outward fairnessonly indicates that in Paris, even the vices are regulated by the state. Bad women cannot make a display and accost men in the street, but theyabound, and what is far worse, in all the circles and gradations ofsociety. It is society which is corrupt there. One need but to look atthe morals of its great men, to see this at once. What is the moralcharacter of the first men in the empire? Bad, as no Frenchman willdeny. Some of the very men who have won in America golden opinions fortheir noble and eloquent advocacy of liberty, have been in their privatelives devoid of all virtue. It only shows the social condition of thecountry. Some writers deny these allegations against Paris, but no manwill who has lived in it, and is honest and candid. Paris abounds withillegitimate children. The statistics tell the story. Ten thousandillegitimate children are born every year in that city! What can be themorality of any town, while such facts exist in reference to itscondition?

I hate all cant, but am satisfied that the chief reason why France doesnot succeed better in her revolutions is, because she lacks thesteadiness which a sincere devotion to religion gives to a nation. Thecountry needs less man-worship and more God-worship. It needs lessadulation of beautiful women, and more real appreciation of truewomanhood. 

There is a great deal of art-worship in Paris, but it does not seem toreally elevate the condition of the people. The pictures and the statuesare generally of the most sensuous kind. Do these things improve themorals of a city or nation? If so, why is it that wherever nakedpictures and sensual statuary abound, the people are licentious anddepraved? In America such things are not tolerated by the mass of thepeople, and there prevails a higher style of virtue than in any otherland. But in France and in Italy, the beauty of the human form uponcanvas or in marble, in however offensive a manner, is adored--and inthose countries the people have little morality. 

The French _home_ is not the home of England or America. The genuineParisian lives on the street, or in the theater or ball-room. He neverlives at home. Hence, the mothers and daughters of England and Americaare not there to be found. "Comparisons are odious" but I cannot expressmy meaning so plainly without making them, and I state but the simpletruth. Young men and women are not taught to seek their pleasure at thefamily fireside, but beyond it, and a man marries not to make a home, but to make money or a position in society. Women, too, often marrysimply to attain liberty of action. 

Another characteristic of the French, and especially of Parisians, isthat they educate their sons to no such independence as is everywherecommon in America. The young Parisian is dependent upon his father--hecannot support himself; and men of thirty and forty, who are helpless, are to be seen in all classes throughout the great cities of France. 

Whether there is just ground for expecting that France will very soonthrow off the despotism which now weighs her down, I am incompetent, perhaps, to judge; but I fear not. There is a very noble class of men inParis--I know this by experience--who hate all despotism and lovefreedom, but I fear they will for centuries be overcome by ignorance andthe love of pleasure, on the part of the people, and knavery and bruteforce on the part of rulers. 

CLIMATE--POPULATION--POLICE, ETC. 

The weather of Paris during the summer months is warm and usuallydelightful, but in winter it is very cold--much colder than it is inLondon. But Paris escapes the horrible fogs which envelop London inNovember and December. The weather, too, though cold, is wholesome andoften conducive to health. The two months of fog in London are oftentermed the suicidal months, because of the number of persons who destroytheir own lives in those months. The people of Paris with theirmercurial temperaments would never endure it for a long time, at least. 

Fuel is exceedingly dear in Paris, and the buildings are not made forin-door comfort. If they were as warmly made as the houses of New York, they would be comfortable in winter, but such not being the case, andfuel being costly, comfort in private apartments is rarely to be had byany but the rich. Coal is not used to any great extent, though charcoalis burned in small quantities, but wood is the fuel principally used. Itis sold in small packages, and is principally brought up from thedistant provinces by the canals. The amount of wood required to makewhat a Frenchman would call a glowing fire, would astonish an American. A half a dozen sticks, not much larger or longer than his fingers, laidcrosswise in a little hearth, is sufficient for a man's chamber. A logwhich one of our western farmers would think nothing of consuming in awinter's evening, would bring quite a handsome sum in Paris on anywinter day. The truth is, the economical traveler had better not spendhis winter in Paris, for comfort at that time costs money. The housesadmit such volumes of cold air, the windows are so loose and the doorssuch wretched contrivances, and that, too, in the best of French cities, that the stranger sighs for the comforts of home. Nowhere in the worldis so much taste displayed as in Paris, in the furnishing of apartments. This is known as far as Paris is, but it is always the _outsideappearance_ which is attended to, and nothing more. It is like theParisian dandy who wears a fine coat, hat, and false bosom, but has noshirt. The homes of Paris are got up, many of them at least, upon thisprinciple. The rooms are elegantly furnished, and in pleasant weatherare indeed very pleasant to abide in, but let a cold day come, and theyare as uncomfortable as can be, and the ten thousand conveniences whicha New York or London household would think it impossible to be without, are wanting. 

The longest day in Paris is sixteen hours, the shortest eight. Thecities of Europe are distant from it as follows: Brussels, one hundredand eighty-nine miles; Berlin, five hundred and ninety-three; Frankfort, three hundred and thirty-nine; Lisbon, one thousand one hundred andfour; Rome, nine hundred and twenty-five; Madrid, seven hundred andseventy-five; Constantinople, one thousand five hundred andseventy-four; St. Petersburgh, one thousand four hundred and five. Theseplaces are all easily reached from Paris in these modern days ofrailways and steamers. 

The situation of Paris is much more favorable to health than that ofLondon. London is a low plain--Paris is upon higher ground; yet Londonis the healthiest city. The reason is, that the latter is so thoroughlydrained, and the tide of the Thames sweeping through it twice a day, carries away all the impurities of the sewers. Paris might surpassLondon in its sewerage easily, but as it is, some of its narrow streetsin warm weather are fairly insupportable, from the intolerable stencharising in them. 

The population of Paris is considerably more than a million. The numberof births in a year is a little more than thirty thousand, and of these, ten thousand are illegitimate. This fact speaks volumes in reference tothe morals of Paris. The deaths usually fall short of the births byabout four thousand. The increase of population in France is great, though it is now a very populous country. 

The increase in forty years is more than nine millions. The births inFrance in one year are about eight hundred and ninety-seven thousand, and the deaths eight hundred and sixty-five thousand. Of the births, more than seventy thousand are illegitimate. This fact shows that themorals of Paris, in one respect, are worse than those of the provinces. 

It is calculated that one-half of the inhabitants of Paris are _working_men; the rest are men who live by some trade or profession, or haveproperty and live upon it. Paris has more than eighty thousand servants, and at least seventy thousand paupers. The latter class, as a matter ofcourse, varies with the character of the times; sometimes, a bad seasonenlarging the number by many thousands. There is an average populationof fifteen thousand in the hospitals; five thousand in the jails; and atleast, twenty thousand foundlings are constantly supported in the city. The annual number of suicides in France is nearly six thousand. Yet theFrench are a very gay people!

The police regulations of Paris are very good, but not so good as thoseof London, though New York might learn from her many useful lessons. Rogues thrive better in Paris than in London. The Paris policeman wearsno distinctive dress, and there are streets in which if you are attackedby night, your cries will call no officer to the rescue. The police havebeen proved often to be in league with bad men and bad women, and thesecases are occurring from day to day. I should not like to walk alone ona winter's night, after midnight, anywhere for half a mile on thesouthern side of the Seine. Some of the streets are exceedingly narrow, and are tenanted by strange people. Still, one might have many curiousadventures in them, and escape safely--but _La Morgue_ tells amysterious tale every day of some dark deed--a suicide or a murder, perhaps. 

Getting lost after midnight in one of the narrow streets of Paris, isnot particularly pleasant, especially if every person you meet lookslike a thief. The police system of Paris is in one respect far morestrict than that of London--in political matters. Every stranger, ornative, suspected in the least of tendencies to republicanism, iscontinually watched and dogged wherever he moves. While in Paris, mywhereabouts was constantly known to the police, and though I madeseveral changes in my abode, I was followed each time, and my addresstaken; yet I was but an in offensive republican from America. A man mustbe careful to whom he talks of French despots, or despotism. Forspeaking against Louis Napoleon in an omnibus, a Frenchman was sentencedto two years imprisonment, and men have been exiled for a less offense. The police are everywhere to detect conspiracy or radicalism, but aremore slack in reference to the safety of people in the streets. 

One pleasant feature of Paris is its great number of baths, public andprivate. The artisan who has little money to spare can go to the Seineany day, and for six cents take a bath under a large net roofing. Agentleman, to be sure, would hardly like to try such a place, but theworking people are not particular. It is cheap, and in the hot weatherit is a great luxury to bathe, to say nothing of the necessity of thething. To take a bath in a first-rate French hotel is quite anothermatter. Every luxury will be afforded, and the price will be quite ashigh as the bath is luxurious. 

Pleasure trips are getting to be quite common in France, in imitation ofthe English, on a majority of the railways. The fares for these pleasuretrips are very much reduced. I noticed the walls one day covered withadvertisements of a pleasure trip to Havre and back for only sevenfrancs. The second and third class carriages on the French railroads arequite comfortable, but the first are very luxurious. Trains run fromParis to all parts of the country, at almost all hours of the day andnight. 

PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS. 

There is no city in the world so blessed with educational institutionsof the first class as Paris, and no government fosters the arts andsciences to such an extent as the French government, whether under theadministration of king, president, or emperor. The government constantlyrewards discoveries, holds out prizes to students and men of genius. Theeducational colleges are without number, and the lectures are free. There is one compliment which the stranger is forced to pay the Frenchgovernment--it encourages a republicanism among men of genius inlearning, the arts and sciences, if it does put its heel upon theslightest tendency toward political republicanism. 

And not Paris, or France alone, reaps the advantage of thisliberality--the whole civilized world does the same. Go into theuniversity region, and you will always see great numbers of foreignerswho have come to take advantage of the public institutions of Paris. TheEnglish go there to study certain branches of medicine, which are moreskillfully treated in the French medical schools than anywhere else inthe world. Many young Americans are in Paris, at the present time, studying physic or law. 

The difference between the cost of education in England and France isgreat. Three hundred dollars a year would carry a French student in goodstyle through the best French universities. To go through an Englishcollege five times that sum would be necessary. 

[Illustration: Palais de l'Institut. ]

The _Institut de France_ lies upon the southern branch of the Seine, just opposite the Louvre, which is north of the river. The _Institute_is divided into five academies, and the funds which support theinstitution are managed by a committee of ten members, two from anacademy, and the minister of public instruction, who presides over thecommittee. The academies are--first the _Academie Francaise_; second, the _Academie Royale des Inscriptions et Belle-Lettres_; third, the_Academie Royale des Sciences_; fourth, the _Academie Royale des BeauxArts_; and fifth, the _Academie Royale des Sciences Morales etPolitiques_. Members of one academy are eligible to the other four, andeach receives a salary of three hundred dollars. The Institute has alibrary common to the five academies, the whole number of membersamounting to two hundred and seventeen. If a member does not attend theproceedings and discussions, and cannot give a good reason for hisabsence, he is liable to expulsion. 

The _Academie Francaise_ consists of forty members, who are devoted tothe composition of the dictionary and the purification of the Frenchlanguage. An annual prize is awarded of two thousand francs for poetry, a prize of ten thousand francs for the best work of French history andfifteen hundred francs is given every other year to some deserving butpoor student, for his attainments. 

The Belle-Lettres Academy is composed of forty members, and ten freeacademicians--the latter receive no salary. It has many foreignassociates or honorary members. Its members pursue the study of thelearned languages, antiquities, etc. Etc. A yearly prize of ten thousandfrancs is awarded by it for memoirs, and another for medals. 

The Academy of Sciences has sixty-five members, beside ten freeacademicians. It is divided into eleven sections, as follows: sixmembers are devoted to geometry, six to mechanics, six to astronomy, sixto geography and navigation, three to general philosophy, six tochemistry, six to minerology, six to botany, six to rural economy andthe veterinary art, six to anatomy and geology, six to medicine andsurgery. Prizes are awarded by this academy, yearly, for physicalsciences, statistics, physiology, mechanics, improvements in surgery andmedicine; for improvements in the art of treating patients, forrendering any art or trade less insalubrious, for discoveries, formathematical studies, and also a prize to the best scholar in thePolytechnic school. 

The Academy of Fine Arts has forty members, who are divided into fivesections--painting, sculpture, architecture, engraving, and musicalcomposition. It awards prizes to the best students in the arts, andsends to the French Academy at Rome, free of all expense, the successfulstudents, who are educated at the expense of the state. 

The Academy of _Sciences Morales et Politiques_ has thirty members, divided into the following sections: philosophy, moral philosophy, legislation, jurisprudence, political economy, history, and thephilosophy of history. 

The building of the Institute is surmounted by a splendid dome, and itpresents a striking appearance to the stranger. It immediately frontsthe foot-bridge which crosses the Seine to the Louvre. 

The university of France it is supposed was founded by Charlemagne. Itis a magnificent and truly liberal institution, and is under theauthority of the minister of public instruction. It has fivedepartments, an immense library and funds for aged or infirm teachers. 

The Academy of Paris consists of five faculties--science letters, theology, law, and medicine. In the department of sciences, whichincludes that of mathematical astronomy, Leverrier occupies aprofessor's chair--the man who demonstrated the existence of anotherplanet by mathematical Calculations, and pointed out the place where itmust be found. 

The Faculty of Law has seventeen professors. Four years of study arenecessary to gain the highest honors, or the title of _Docteur endroit_. 

The Faculty of Medicine has twenty-six professorships, with salariesvarying from two thousand to ten thousand francs a year. Every studentbefore taking his degree must serve the government one year, at least, in a hospital. This is an admirable regulation. The lectures are allgratuitous, and what is better still, they are open to the people andthe world. Any foreigner can attend the course of lectures of the mostcelebrated men in France, and indeed in the world, for nothing. The lawstudents number about three thousand; those studying medicine aboutthree thousand; and those studying the sciences about fifteen hundred. Foreign students are admitted upon the same terms as French, and adiploma given by an American college, if it be of high repute, will putthe student upon the same footing as a French _bachelier et lettres_when the object is to study law or medicine. 

The College Royal has twenty-eight professors, who give gratuitouslectures on astronomy, mathematics, philosophy, medicine, chemistry, natural history, law, ethics, etc. Etc. There is a college of NaturalHistory, connected with the _Jardin des Plantes_, with fifteenprofessors. The _Ecole Normale_ is an institution for the education ofstudents who intend to become candidates for professorships. There arein Paris besides these, five royal colleges where a student is boardedas well as educated. The charge for board is two hundred dollars ayear; the additional charges, educational and otherwise, are only twentydollars, which the published terms state, "_does not include music ordancing!_"

Among the literary and scientific societies is the _InstitutHistorique_, where public and gratuitous lectures are given. A journalis published, and all that members pay for it, and the advantages of theinstitution, is about four dollars a year. There is a flourishingagricultural society, a society for the encouragement of nationalindustry, one for the improvement of national horticulture, one for thecivilization and colonization of Africa, one for the promotion ofcommercial knowledge, etc. Etc. 

Besides the many colleges to which I have barely alluded, and thesocieties, there are twenty or thirty literary and scientific societiesof note in Paris. 

It will not be necessary to be more particular to convince the readerthat no other city in the world has the educational advantages of Paris. What a privilege it must be to a poor Parisian to live near such schoolsand colleges, we can at once perceive. If a young man has talents orgenius, his poverty need be no bar to his advancement. He is taken up atonce. He is not the charity student of America, for the very fact thatwithout money and friends he has by sheer force of native genius madehis way into the places given only to students poor and talented, addsto his fame, and he is quite as well if not better liked for it. What anadvantage the many kinds of lectures, which are given to all who pleaseto attend gratuitously, must be to all inquiring minds in Paris, we canfeel at once. The artisan if he can spare an hour can listen to one ofthe most brilliant lectures upon history, either of the sciences, ormedicine, side by side with the young aristocrat. Nothing higher incharacter is to be had in Paris or out of it than that which he listensto without cost. The effect of this vast system of public instruction isvery great, and the influence of the colleges and learned societies uponsociety is wonderful. There is no spirit of exclusiveness, such ascharacterizes the English and some of the American colleges, and thepeople are not prejudiced against them. This system of instruction isalmost perfect, _of its kind_ but France lacks one thing which Americahas--a system of common schools, which shall educate _the children_. Farbetter have this system and lack the one she has now, but if she onlyhad our common school system together with her colleges and academies, she would surpass, by far, any other nation. America very much needssuch a system. It is free, broad, and liberal, and with ordinary carewill make any country glorious in the sciences and arts. Certainly untilAmerica cares less for mere cash and more for the arts and sciences, until she is generous enough to foster them and appropriate money tohelp young men of genius, and offer prizes to men of talent, the finearts will not prosper with us. Only the arts which in a pecuniary sense_pay_, will thrive, and the rest will live a starveling life. Can werest content with such a prospect? No country is better able to begenerous in such matters than America. 

While in Paris I made the acquaintance of several students of law andmedicine from America, and from them I learned that the professors inall the different institutions are exceedingly polite and kind toforeign students, and especially to Americans. Foreign diplomas aregranted by the different colleges, and no difference is made between anative and a foreign scholar. 

The students of Paris are an intellectual class, and as a body areinclined at all times to be democratic. In England and in Americalearning seems always to incline to conservatism. The great schools andcolleges are opposed to radicalism. This is generally true in America, in the old institutions of learning, and it is emphatically true ofEngland. Cambridge and Oxford are the strong-holds of the blindesttoryism. They are two hundred years behind the age. But in Paris this isnot the case. The colleges are reformatory and radical. The Academieshave the same disposition, only it is modified. Many of the members ofthe French academy are sincere republicans. I cannot account for thissingular fact, unless it be that the French mind is so active and sobrilliant that it easily arrives at the truth. A Frenchman, if heconsiders the matter of government and politics, very soon arrives athis conclusion--that man has rights, and that a form of government whichcomes least in collision with them is the best. It is entirely a matterof theory with him. Everything tends to theory. The practical isignored. Hence, while Paris abounds with theoretical democrats andrepublicans, there are few men in it capable of administering theaffairs of a democratic republic. 

[Illustration: HOTEL DES INVALIDES]

The Hotel des Invalides is visited by a vast crowd of people, Parisians, provincials, and foreigners, for it is the final resting place ofNapoleon the Great. It is an imposing structure, and aside from theinterest felt in it as the receptacle of the remains of Napoleon, it iswell worth a visit. It is situated on the south side of the Seine, notfar from the chamber of deputies, its front facing the south. Itpresents a magnificent appearance from the street, perhaps the finest ofany like building in Europe. It has long been a celebrated militaryhospital for the reception of disabled and superannuated soldiers. UnderLouis XIV. The present hospital was instituted, and building afterbuilding was added, together with a fine church, until the vast pilecovers sixteen acres of ground, and encloses fifteen courts. At the timeof the revolution, the hospital was called the Temple of Humanity, underNapoleon the Temple of Mars, and now the Hotel des Invalides. It isunder the control of the minister of war, has a governor and amultiplicity of inferior officers. It is divided into fourteensections, over each of which an officer is appointed. All soldiers whoare disabled, or who have served thirty years in the army, are entitledto the privileges of the institution, and are boarded, clothed, andlodged. For breakfast they have soup, beef, and vegetables, for dinner, meat, vegetables, and cheese. They have but two meals a day. They alsoreceive pay at the rate of two francs a day, and the officers higher inproportion to their rank. Before the northern face of the building thereis a large open space, in which many trophies of war are placed, andthere are beds of flowers interspersed among them. On the southern frontthere is a fine statue of Napoleon. The library of the hospital containsfourteen thousand volumes, and is of course open to all the inmates. Thechurch is a very important part of the great pile of buildings, and isfilled with statues of great military men, trophies of differentcampaigns, etc. Etc. The dome of this church is one of the finest inParis, and is decorated in the interior in a gorgeous style. 

Beneath the dome lies the tomb of Napoleon, the great attraction of theplace. It is, for a wonder, simple and massive in its style, and upon itare laid Napoleon's hat, sword, imperial crown, etc. Etc. To this tombthousands of admirers have come and will come to the latest generations, for whatever were the faults of the great military hero, he had thefaculty of making passionate admirers. The old soldiers in theinstitution seem to regard the tomb as an object of adoration, and guardit as carefully as they would the living body of the hero. 

Across the Seine from the Hotel des Invalides, on the avenue des ChampsElysees, is the fashionable Jardin d'Hiver, a roofed garden ofhot-houses, and which is open in winter as a flower-garden. Theadmittance is not free, but costs a franc. It often contains very finecollections of the costliest and rarest of plants and flowers. TheFrench exquisites in the cold and chilly weather are fond of frequentingits exhibitions, and to the stranger who would like to see the higherclasses of Paris, in a public garden, it is an interesting place. 

[Illustration: Jardin d'Hiver. ]

CHAPTER IX. 

GUIZOT--DUMAS--SUE--THIERS--SAND. 

[Illustration: M. GUIZOT. ]

M. GUIZOT

Pierre Francois Guillaume Guizot, was born at Nismes in 1787. At the ageof seven years he saw his own father guillotined during the reign ofterror, and without doubt this fact made a deep impression upon hisheart, and led him ever after instinctively to dislike the people and apopular government. His mother took refuge in Switzerland. She was astrong Calvinist, and from her the son imbibed his rigid Calvinisticsentiments. He had no youth, properly speaking, for he was apparentlydevoid of youthful feeling and passions. He was educated in the strictand formal school of Geneva, and his education, together with hisnature, made him a stoic, a man with no sympathies for the people, lacking heart, possessing a great intellect, and rigidly honest. 

At the age of nineteen he left Geneva for Paris, to study law, and hispoverty was such that he was obliged to seek employment. M. Stopper, anold minister of the Helvetic confederation, took him as a tutor for hischildren. His pride rebelled against his situation, for the children ofthe minister were spoiled, and whenever he went into the street theymade him stop before every confectioner's shop to satisfy their depravedappetites. This he refused to do, and the children made loud complaints, the result of which was, that Guizot left his place, declaring that itwas not his mission to buy candies for the minister's children! Inendeavoring to teach these children the grammar of their language, M. Guizot made a _Dictionary of Synonymes_, which he sold to a booksellerfor a reasonable price. This was his first attempt at authorship. Hemade the acquaintance of M. Luard, who was the chief censor of newbooks, before whom his little dictionary came. M. Luard discovering inthe young Guizot great talents and capacity, prevailed upon him to giveup writing of synonymes, and devote himself to more honorable andlucrative labors. 

Recommended by his friend, he wrote for nearly all the public journalsin turn, giving them specimens of his cold, unimpassioned style, whichwas never after changed. He wrote _himself_ upon his paper, and likehimself was his style--cold and dignified. But his style had admirers, though not many readers. He was accorded genius and an exaltedintellect, but he was not loved. His first books were the _Annals ofEducation_, _Lives of the French Poets of the Age of Louis XIV. _, and atranslation of _Gibbon's Fall of the Roman Empire_. These volumes werenoticed in a flattering manner by all scholars and critics, and theyoung author very soon occupied a high position in Paris. After this hedid not seem to succeed, and he wrote a couple of pamphlets upon thecondition of French literature and fine arts. He failed as a critic, andwas appointed to the chair of modern history in the university. Hispolitical fortunes now commenced. His manners, his dress, which wassevere in style, and his pale face, all combined to make him for thetime a lion, and he drew crowds to his lectures. This was in 1812. M. Guizot was one of the first to foresee and prepare for the restoration. 

M. Guizot met in society a Mademoiselle Meulan, a literary woman ofnote, and fancied her. She was utterly poor, and during a severe fit ofillness he wrote articles which she signed, and thus earned enough forher support. When she had recovered, she gave him her heart and hand inmarriage, though she had not a _sou_ of dowry. She was older than he, but was a woman of many virtues. Madame Guizot was an intimate friend ofthe Abbe Montesquieu, who was the principal secret agent of Louis XVIII. As soon as Guizot was married, he was let into these secrets, and becameprivate secretary to the abbe. He was in the habit of meeting thefriends of the restoration every evening at a club, and he did nothesitate to take a bold part in its proceedings. Royer-Collard said tohim after one of these meetings, "Guizot, you will rise high. " Guizotdemanded an explanation He replied, "You have ambition; you have muchhead but no heart; you will rise high. When the restoration comes theabbe will be minister, and he will make you secretary-general. " Such wasthe fact eighteen months after. The Calvinistic religion of Guizot wasno bar to his promotion, so long as his conscience permitted him toserve with unquestioned zeal his master, and he was never troubled onthat score. The return of Napoleon from Elba was a sudden blow to thefortunes of Guizot, and he became the friend of the new minister, whokept him provisionally in office. He was suddenly dismissed, however, because, he declares, he would not sign an additional act to theconstitution, but the minister denied this. He returned to Ghent, wherein the _Moniteur_ he published bitter articles against Napoleon and hisgovernment. The columns were filled with criticisms of this nature. Heendeavored afterward to disown some of these articles, but theauthorship clung to him. 

Napoleon was vanquished, but Guizot continued to write books. Some ofthem were as follows: _"Some Ideas upon the Liberty of the Press;" "Ofthe Representative Government;" "Essay upon the state of PublicInstruction. "_ He was a _busy_ man--he was never idle. This is in hisfavor, and undoubtedly he honestly sought the good of the nation, thoughmixed with this desire there was a strong love of fame, and greatambition. He wrote a book upon the elections, and the king created a newdepartment for him--that of director-general of the communes anddepartments. He made use of his position to extend his influence. Hebecame chief of the doctrinaire school, which included many eminent menof that time, and acquired great political power. It occupied a kind ofmiddle ground between the _ancien regime_ and pure liberalism. Therecame a reaction, and Guizot again took to his pen, leaving office andemolument. The king did not like his writings, and even his office ofprofessor of history in the university was taken from him. He was a manwho was not dejected through misfortune, and grew stronger as he waspersecuted. His wife was taken very ill, and finally died. The Catholicpriests endeavored to gain access to her bed-side, but were notpermitted. She died a convert to Protestantism. Guizot was to her a goodhusband, but she always felt keenly the fact that she was older than herhusband. He married a young and beautiful English woman, of whom he waspassionately fond, if so cold a man ever possessed passions. His firstwife, it is said, knew who was to succeed her. He now wrote a _Historyof Representative Government_, in which he gave the administrationrepeated blows. 

He issued new books often enough to keep his name constantly before thepublic, and these volumes were loudly praised by the oppositionjournals. The administration modified its conduct toward him, and heagain participated in public affairs. But he foresaw the great changewhich was coming, and this time made sure to make no blunders. Perhaps, indeed, it is probable that he was honest in desiring a government likethat of Louis Phillippe--at any rate, he saw with great shrewdness therevolution, and profited by his foresight. 

Guizot became the minister of Louis Phillippe. He commenced a system ofcorruption which long after ruined his fortunes and those of his master. It is, perhaps, difficult to say who was the soul of this system--theking or the minister; but both were heartily in it and approved it, andM. Guizot, of course, is responsible for it. He did not forget hisfriends during his good fortune, but imitating Louis Phillippe, he gaveplace to all his old companions. His _valet de chambre_, even, was made_sous-prefet_, but this appointment raised such a storm that the kingmade a change in the ministry. But during his short retirement fromoffice he never for a moment lost the ear of his royal master, who wellknew the capabilities of the man--and too well to spare his services forany great length of time. The two men were suited to each other, andunited their fortunes. The queen was conscious of Guizot's ambition, andit is said spoke of it to the king. But Louis Phillippe could not haveexpected pure devotion without hope of reward. He ruled through bribery, and could not blame a minister for being animated in his service bypersonal considerations. The plan of Guizot seemed to be to buy up allmalcontents who could not be awed into subjection, or in fact, all whowere _worth_ buying. This corrupt system he carried as far as it waspossible, and avoid too much scandal. He bought up constituencies forthe king, and with his fellows he successfully silenced the opposition. One of his enemies was M. Thiers, who constantly persecuted him througha long course of years. The bearing of Guizot while minister, wasdignified, calm, and indeed grand. He could never, by passionate attacksor bitter persecutions, be tempted into any undignified displays oftemper. He was a stoic everywhere--in politics as well as in hisreligion, and at home. It is a singular fact that M. Guizot, who was agreat minister of corruption, who bought votes by the wholesale, neverallowed himself to profit pecuniarily, in the slightest degree, by hisposition. He did not amass a franc save by his honest earnings, and sowell was his character known in this respect, that he was above allsuspicion. He did not love money--but power. He was economical in hishabits, caring nothing for idle pomp or extravagant show. Whileambassador in London he walked the streets with a plain umbrella, instead of riding in his carriage, and such were his general habits ofeconomy that he amassed a fine property. 

His second wife now died, and it is said that after the event, hecarried on intrigues with women; it is certain that he was verysusceptible to female beauty and accomplishments. He was thoughtfine-looking by the ladies, and did not lack admirers among them. It issaid by his enemies that he greatly admires himself, and that his homeabounds with portraits of himself from chamber to kitchen. It is alsotold of him, to illustrate his hatred of M. Thiers, that when he wasambassador in London, he would not receive his instructions from hisenemy, who was the minister in power, but received secret notes fromLouis Phillippe, and in the king's own hand. 

But the system adopted by the king and M. Guizot, ended in ruin. Thelatter saved himself by ignominious flight. He clothed himself as apeasant, and in this manner crossed the frontier. He afterward gave aneloquent description of his escape. So hurried was his departure fromParis, that he could not even bid his mother good-bye. He loved herfondly; indeed his affection for her was the strongest sentiment of hisheart. It was the link which connected him with humanity. His mother setout to rejoin him in London, and died on the way. It was unquestionablythe hardest trial, the most dreadful shock of his life, but he was trueto his stoical nature, and manifested not the sign of an emotion whenthe news came to him. 

The king and the minister were together in England, in exile, but theydid not visit each other. They had had both learned a lesson--that asystem of corruption will in the end defeat itself. Since his flight toLondon, M. Guizot has written two or three works, but they have not hada marked success, and only prove that he clings tenaciously to his oldconservative opinions. 

ALEXANDER DUMAS. 

[Illustration: Alexander Dumas. ]

Alexander Dumas, one of the most celebrated authors of France, was bornon the 24th of July, 1802, in the village of Villars-Coterets. Hisgrandfather, the marquis de la Pailletrie, was governor of the island ofSt. Domingo, and married a negress called Tiennette Dumas. Some declarethat this woman was his mistress, and not his wife, but we will notpronounce upon this point. The marquis returned to France, bringing withhim a young mulatto--the father of the subject of this sketch. The youthtook the name of his mother, and entered the army as a private soldier. He soon achieved renown and rose step by step to the rank of general ofa division. Under the empire, he died without fortune, leaving hisson--Alexander Dumas--to the care of his widow, who was quite poor. Alexander commenced his studies under the Abbe Gregoire, who found itimpossible to teach him arithmetic, and with great difficulty beat alittle Latin into him. This arose, not from the boy's stupidity, butbecause he did not apply himself. He was exceedingly fond of out-doorsports and exercise, and to such an extent did he follow hisinclinations in this particular, that he laid the foundation for avigorous health, that years of labor have never impaired. He was veryhandsome when a boy, with long, curling hair, blue eyes, and a skin alittle tinged with the tropical hue, to denote his African descent. Atthe age of eighteen, he entered a notary's office in his native village, with the purpose of studying law. 

Leuven, exiled from Paris until the return of the Bourbons, resided inthe village, and forming the acquaintance of young Dumas and noticingthat he was ambitious, he counseled him to write dramas, and he wouldmake money. Dumas followed his advice--wrote three, which were offeredto the directors of the Paris theaters, and were each rejected by all. But Dumas was made of stuff of the better sort, and was not thus to bediscouraged. Leuven soon returned to Paris, and Dumas longed to followhim there. But he was too poor. He formed a plan, however, of gaininghis point, for he was anxious to see and know the actors of Paris, andwith a fellow-clerk he set out on foot for the great city. The twoyoung men were without money, but each carried a gun. They shot haresand partridges as they journeyed toward Paris, and sold them to dealersin game, and thus paid their expenses from day to day. 

Leuven received him with open arms, and gave the delighted youth aticket to hear Talma. He was privileged to go behind the scenes betweenthe acts, and converse with the actors. He was filled with delight. Talma saw him, and at once pronounced him a genius. In his memoirs, hedeclares that he said, "Alexander Dumas, I baptize you a poet, in thename of Shakspeare, Corneille, and Schiller. Return to your nativevillage, enter your study, and the angel of Poesy will find you there, and will raise you by the hair, like the Prophet Habakkuk, and transportyou to the spot where duty lies before you. "

Alexander soon came to Paris again, not this time supporting himself byhis gun, but with money which his mother gave him. He had letters ofrecommendation to some of the old generals of the empire, and installedhimself comfortably in the _Place des Italiens_. Some of the men to whomhe had letters received him coldly, but in General Foy he found a warmfriend and protector. He introduced him to the notice of the duke ofOrleans, who finding that the young man possessed a good hand-writing, which, by the way, he preserves to this day, he made him one of hissecretaries, and gave him a salary of twelve hundred francs. Alexandernow considered himself on the high road to fortune. He was in Paris--andwith a salary! It was small, to be sure, but he was where he couldfrequent the theaters, and his patron was a man of eminence. He hadlittle to do, and read Shakspeare, Scott, Goethe, and Schiller. He saidto General Foy, "I live now by my hand-writing, but I assure you thatone day I will live by my pen. " This shows that he looked forward to aliterary life--that he foresaw, in a measure, his after success inliterature. He soon began to write, and some of his plays were so wellliked by the managers of different theaters, that they bought them andbrought them out. He had already, while a secretary, begun to receivemoney for his writings. He wrote for his mother who came up to Paris, and the couple took up their residence in a humble apartment in thefaubourg St. Denis. For a time after this, his efforts were attendedwith poor success, but he had the good fortune to please thedirector-general of the theaters by a tragedy, and he promised him thatit should be brought out. Before this was done the director left for theeast, and in his absence the man who took his place refused to bring outthe play. Dumas made loud complaint. The censor asked him if he hadmoney, and he replied that he had not a _sou_. He demanded of him whathe depended upon for his support, Dumas referred to his salary of twelvehundred francs, as secretary to the duke of Orleans. The censor advisedhim to stick to his writing-desk. This was not only cruel, but veryunjust treatment of an author of great promise. In this play, it is butright to state, Dumas exhibited the weakness which has almost uniformlycharacterized his career--that of plagiarism. His situations, andsometimes his language, were stolen from Goethe, Scott, etc. , etc. Hisnext play was entitled _Henry III. _, and was brought out under theprotection of the duke of Orleans. It was very successful, and hereceived for it the sum of fifty thousand francs. It was, like the playwhich preceded it, filled with stolen passages and scenes, but this didnot detract from its success. He now left his humble lodgings and tookup his residence in the Rue de l'University, where he lived in splendidstyle. He was not a man to hoard his money, but to enjoy it as it wasearned. 

His life at this time was almost a ludicrous one. He lived in the mostluxurious manner, dressed fantastically, and loved a great number of women. After the great success of _Henry III. _, the play--_Christine_--which hadpreviously been rejected, was brought forward with success. 

In the revolution of July Dumas acted bravely, and has himself told thestory of his conduct with not a little boasting. He brought out thedrama of _Napoleon Bonaparte_, and that of _Charles VII. _, after LouisPhillippe was upon the throne. These dramas he had the fame of writing, but other persons wrote largely in them. He adopted the plan ofemploying good writers upon the different parts of a drama, and whilehimself superintending the whole and writing prominent parts, yetentrusting to his assistants a great portion of the composition. It washis genius which arranged the plot and guided the selection ofcharacters, but the glory should have often been divided with hishumbler co-laborers. Victor Hugo wrote a play which the censors wouldnot allow to be brought out. He read it to Dumas. The latter soon issueda play which was so very like that of Hugo, that when sometime after theinterdict was taken off from the play of Hugo, he was accused ofstealing from Dumas. But the truth was easily to be proved--that Hugo'splay was _first_ written--and Dumas declared in the public newspapersthat if there was any plagiarism in anybody, himself was the guiltyparty! A new play now appeared which was principally written byassistants, and which was also defaced by plagiarisms. Like some ofthose which preceded it, it made light, indeed glorified, vices of thedarkest dye. 

A person by the name of Gillardet wrote a play, and presented it to themanager of a theater, who not liking it, asked Jules Janin, the critic, to revise it. Not liking it any better after the work of Janin upon it, he handed it over to Dumas for a similar revision. He rearranged it andbrought it out as his own play! M. Gillardet went to law upon the matterand recovered his rights. A duel was the result of the quarrel. Manyplays after this were written, until at last Janin, the critic, wrote asevere article upon one of Dumas' plays. The author was wroth, andreplied. Janin made a second attack, and Paris laughed at the author. Dumas swore that he would have blood, and author and critic went on tothe field for combat. Dumas demanded to fight with the sword--Janin withthe pistol--and finally not coming to agreement upon this point, theparties made up their quarrel and became friends. 

The reader will have seen by this time where Dumas' genius lies--it isin the arrangements for a drama--in working a subject up for the stage. It is not so much in the matter, as the manner. Give him incidents, andhe will group them so as to produce a great effect. This is his power. 

Dumas' income grew large, and he took a new and more princely residence. He associated himself with the great, and even went so far as to take anactress to a ball given by his patron, the duke of Orleans. The womanacted in his plays, and his relations with her were too intimate, but hesoon afterward married her. They lived so extravagantly that aseparation soon followed, and though Dumas' income was two hundredthousand francs a year, yet he was constantly in debt from hisastonishing extravagance. He built at St. Germain his villa of MonteChristo, which required enormous sums of money. He imported twoarchitects from Algiers, to decorate at a great expense one room afterthe fashion of the east, and pledged them not to execute any similarwork in Europe. He has twelve reception-rooms in his house, and it ismagnificently furnished throughout. He keeps birds, parrots, andmonkeys, and a collection of fine horses. 

From 1845 to 1846 he issued sixty volumes, the majority, of course, written _for_, not by him. As a matter of course, if these volumes soldsuccessfully, his income was enormous, and his name upon the cover of abook seemed to insure its success. A theater was erected for the expresspurpose of representing his plays alone, called the Theater of History. He now visited Spain, and was present at the marriage of the duke ofMontpensier. Coming home, he made a short tour in Africa, where heengaged in rare sports. He was accompanied by his son Alexander, who isa distinguished author. 

After the revolution of 1848 Dumas appeared among the people, whowelcomed him as a pure democrat. He started a journal which soon died. Agood story is told of him about this time. A great admirer said to himthat there was a gross historical error in one of his romances. "Ah!"said Dumas, "in what book?" The volume and error were pointed out, whenhe exclaimed, "Ah! I have not read the book. Let me see--the littleAugustus wrote it. I will cut his head off!"

He got so rapidly in debt soon after' this, that he left France forBrussels. Monte Christo was seized to pay his debts. 

He broke off with one of the most eminent of his assistants, and sincethen, his romances and plays have lacked much of the interest andability which they formerly possessed, and he is not regarded to-day ashe once was in Paris. This may be owing in part to the sickly conditionof literature under the despotism of Louis Napoleon. In his personalappearance he is burly; he has large, red cheeks, his hair is crispedand piled high upon his forehead. His eyes are dark, his mouth asensuous one; his throat is generally laid bare, and in short, he is agood looking man. It is said that he has thought of visiting the UnitedStates, and would do so, were it not for the prejudice against color inAmerica. 

EUGENE SUE. 

[Illustration: EUGENE SUE. ]

Marie-Joseph Sue, was born on the first day of January, 1801, in Paris. His family was from Provence. His great-grandfather, Pierre Sue, was aprofessor of medicine in the faculty of Paris, and was the author ofseveral excellent works, but died poor. His grandfather was not alearned man, but was exceedingly wealthy. He was physician to the familyof Louis XVI. His father was professor of anatomy, and was appointed byNapoleon surgeon of the Imperial Guard, and was, later, physician to thefamily of Louis XVIII. He was married three times, and his wives eachbore him children. The second wife was the mother of the great novelist, and she died soon after giving birth to her child. The Prince Eugene andthe Empress Josephine stood sponsors at the baptism of the child, and inafter life he relinquished his two given names for that of Eugene--afterthe prince--by which he is now universally known. 

While at school, Eugene and an intimate companion were noted for themischief they wrought. One of their mischievous acts was, to raiseGuinea pigs and then turn them loose in the botanical garden of theelder Sue, where, of course, they destroyed many of the plants. 

A tutor was engaged to school the refractory boys--one that was verypoor, and who dreaded above all things else, to lose his situation. Whenever the tutor required that the boys should study their Latin, theythreatened him with a dismissal from his place, and so intimidated himby this and other means, that he was content to let them alone. Theelder Sue asked him how the boys progressed in their Latin. He wascompelled to reply that they were excellent scholars, whereupon the oldgentleman demanded a specimen of the Latin they had acquired. They atonce manufactured a torrent of atrocious sentences, and palmed them offupon him as genuine Latin, he not knowing enough to detect theimposition, but the remorseful tutor had to listen to it in silence! Thefather was delighted. 

The elder Sue was a very easy, good-natured man, but had no learning, though he was reckoned a _savan_ of the first water. Eugene knew this, andwickedly took advantage of it. His father--the doctor--was in the habit ofdelivering a course of botanical lectures to a circle of very selectladies, and Eugene suspected that his father, notwithing his volublediscourse, had little knowledge of botany. He, therefore, with one or twoof his companions, took occasion (as it was their task to prepare plantsand flowers in vases, with their names written upon the vases forexamination) to insert new and unheard of names to puzzle the old man. Heentered the hall one day, smiling to the ladies on either hand, and stoodbefore them. He took up a vase, and for an instant was staggered by thename, but it would not do to let his ignorance be known, so he very coollysaid, "This, ladies, is the _concrysionisoides_. " He hemmed a little, andthen for more than an hour descanted upon the character and nature of thefabulous plant, it is needless to add, fabricating all the way through. Eugene was unkind enough not only to enjoy the scene, but to go and tellthe ladies of the joke. 

About this time, the since celebrated Dr. Veron became a fellow-pupil ofSue's, and made the fourth of this band of youthful jokers. They werenow assistant surgeons in one of the Paris hospitals. Eugene one daymade the discovery that in his father's cabinet there was an apartmentin which he kept a very choice collection of wines, which were presentsfrom the allied sovereigns, when they were in Paris. There were amongothers, sixty bottles of delicate Johannisberg, a present from PrinceMetternich. The students soon found the way, led by Eugene, to thiswine, and drank time after time. The question came up as to what shouldbe done with the bottles. Eugene proposed that the empty ones beconcealed, but Dr. Veron remarked that their absence would bringdetection. So a plan was hit upon which was far better--the bottles werehalf-filled with wine and then water was added. The doctor was fond ongreat occasions of bringing out this old wine and telling the storyconnected with it, and drinking a few bottles. He thus ordered it on thetable one day, and prepared his guests to expect a remarkable wine. Theydrank in silence, while the doctor exclaimed, "Delicious!--but _it istime it was drunk_. " Eugene was present and drank his wine and waterwithout any emotion. But not long after, while the students weredrinking the pure wine, the old doctor entered the cabinet and caughtthem at their wicked work. It was an act never to be forgotten by him, and he was astounded beyond measure. About this time he also discoveredthat Eugene had been borrowing money at usurious interest to pay debtshe had contracted, and he was so indignant that he ordered him to leavehis house. Eugene joined the army and went to Spain. His father becameanxious for his safety, and had him attached to the staff of the duke ofAugouleme. But young Sue took good care not to expose himself to muchdanger. He passed through the siege of Cadiz, the taking of Trocadero, and returned to Paris in safety. His father was delighted to see him, and received him kindly. But the doctor did not open his purse. 

Young Sue found his old companion faring sumptuously, being attached toa liberal man named De Forges, who also supplied Sue occasionally withmoney. Dr. Veron drove a fine horse and tilbury, and Sue was not contentuntil he could do the same. He applied to the Jewish money-lenders, whoreplied that if he would sell a lot of wines for them, they would allowhim a handsome commission. As a last resort he sold the wine, andprocured a fine horse and phaeton. Driving out one day very rapidly inthe streets, he ran down a pedestrian, and looking at the unfortunateman he discovered that it was his own father! The old man wasexceedingly angry and caned him on the spot. He demanded an explanationof his son for this apparent wealth, and commanded him at once to go toToulon and enter the military hospital there, in the practice of hisprofession. In Toulon his personal appearance was so fascinating thatthe women fell in love with him, and he carried on many shamefulintrigues. 

In 1825 he returned to Paris, and found an old friend of his thedirector of a little journal. He commenced writing articles for thislittle journal, some of them light and others of a _spirituel_character, which were highly admired. In Paris he was also given tointrigues with women. In 1826 he made many aristocratic conquests, andfrequented the home of a celebrated female novelist. In his firstromances, his high-born mistresses figure as his principal characters. The elder Sue now formally declared that he would pay no more debts ofhis son, and he was again reduced to poverty. He had recourse to theJews, who lent him money upon his expectations from his grandfather. Heplunged again into extravagance, and this time his father placed him assurgeon in the navy, and in this capacity he made voyages round theworld. Soon after his return, his maternal grandfather died, and hisfather a little later left him a large fortune, and he commenced a lifeof gorgeous extravagance and sensuality, which has often been described. From 1831 to 1833, he published a series of sea-romances, which had agreat success, and the French critics called him the French Cooper. Hewas very proud, frequented the most gay and fashionable circles, andassumed airs above his station. He was, however, one day excessivelymortified by the sarcastic allusion of one of his noble friends to thebusiness or profession of his father. He once more tried the pen toachieve a name for himself, and this time in history. For the NavalHistory of France which he wrote, he received eighty thousand francs, anenormous price for a poor book. The more renown he acquired, the lesspains he took with his books, but he always made good any lossesincurred by publishers in publishing his works. 

Finding himself in years, he bethought himself of marriage, and turnedhis attention to a relative of Madam de Maintenon, who refused himupon the pretext of the disparity in their ages. He had his revenge inwriting against marriage, and against all aristocracies in his romances. His _Mysteries of Paris_ appeared in the _Debats_, and the _WanderingJew_ in the _Constitutionel_. He endeavored through his fiction to teachSocialistic doctrines, and so far carried them into practice that heappeared in the streets in a blouse. There can be no question that hislater novels were written with a far higher aim than the early ones, which were reeking with a refined, yet none the less loathsomesensuality. An enormous price was paid for the _Wandering Jew_ by theeditor of the _Constitutionel_, who was none other than his oldcompanion of the wine-closet--Dr. Veron. The latter made a bargain withthe author to write ten small volumes a year for fourteen consecutiveyears, for which he agreed to pay one hundred thousand francs a year, ornearly a million and a half for the whole engagement. He presented Dr. Veron with the manuscript of the _Seven Capital Sins_, when the worthyeditor found himself drawn to the life, under the title of the Gourmand. He protested against it, but Sue pleading the bargain, would not abateone sentence. Dr. Veron would not, of course, publish it, and finallythe contract was annulled. The Gourmand--Dr. Veron--was published in the_Seicle_, and the others of the _Capital Sins_, were published in the_Presse_. 

Sue had at this time a splendid chateau in the environs of Orleans--thechateau des Bordes. Here he lived in great luxury and splendor. In thedays of the republic he was elected a member of the legislativeassembly, which office at first he was backward in assuming. In 1852Sue sold his Orleans property, and removed to a beautiful place inSavoy, where his life was described as follows: "He rises in the morningand receives from a servant a long bamboo cane, and walks in the regionof his house until breakfast. A pretty house-keeper waits upon him whilehe partakes of a sumptuous meal, and when it is finished, he enters hisstudy to write. The servant presents him with a spotless pair of kidgloves in which he always writes. At each chapter a new and perfumedpair is presented him. He writes five or six hours steadily, withoutcorrecting or reading. His income is from sixty to eighty thousandfrancs a year from these writings. After laborious writing, Sue makeshis toilet in the best style, and prepares for dinner, which iseverything that an epicure might desire. After dinner he mounts a finehorse and rides among the hills which surround his home, until hisdigestion is completed. He returns, smokes tobacco from an amber pipe, and enjoys himself at his leisure. "

Of Eugene Sue's character it is, perhaps, needless for me to make anycriticisms. He has many admirers in all parts of the world--and alsomany enemies. That he is a romancer of astonishing powers nobody willdeny, but we well may question the use he has made of those powers. Nearly all of his earlier romances are unfit for the eyes of pure menand women, and now that he is dead, let us hope that they too willperish. In later years, M. Sue has endeavored to advocate the cause ofthe poor, and with great eloquence, in his fictions. But he has probablycaused as much harm by the licentiousness of his style, as he hasaccomplished good by his pleas for the poor. It is stated that he hasgiven very liberally to the poor, and in practice exemplified hisdoctrine. His books give an indication of the present fashionablemorality of Paris and France, and though they have sold largely inAmerica, their influence cannot be good. 

M. THIERS

[Illustration: M. THIERS. ]

M. Thiers has figured prominently in French politics, was a minister ofLouis Phillippe, and is a historian. He is a man of a singular nature, witty and eccentric, rather than profound and dignified, and it will notdo to pas him by without a notice. He was born in Marseilles, in theyear 1797. His father was a common workman, but his mother was of acommercial family which had been plunged into poverty by a reverse offortune. The young Thiers was educated through the bounty of the state, at the school of Marseilles, and was, when a boy, known principally forhis rogueries. He sold his books to get apples and barley-sugar. Punishments seemed never to have any terror for him. At one time heconcealed a tom-cat in his desk in the school, with its claws confinedin walnut shells, and suddenly in school hours let him loose, to thegreat astonishment and anger of his teachers. He was condemned to adungeon for eight days, and received a terrible reprimand. The effect ofeither the lecture or the imprisonment was decided. He became docile andobedient, and paid attention to his studies. For seven years he studiedwith unremitting attention, and during all that time took the firstprizes of his class. He now went to Aix to study law, where his oldhabits returned to him, and he became wild and mischievous in his ways. At eighteen Adolphe Thiers was a favorite with the liberals and a terrorto the royalists, and was the leader of a party at Aix. He alreadyshowed fine powers of oratory and composition, which later conducted himto power. He spoke and wrote in the interest of the enemies of therestoration. He wrote for the newspapers whose columns were open to him, and increased the vigor and eloquence of his style by this constantpractice. 

There was at Aix an academy which awarded prizes to the best writersupon given subjects. Thiers wrote for the prize, but was foolish enoughto reserve a copy of his treatise and read it to his companions, wholoudly proclaimed that he must win. The persons who were to award theprizes were royalists, and hated Thiers for his liberalism, and whenthey heard the vauntings of Thiers' friends, they were prepared todecide against him, which they did when the day of examination came. Theprize was reserved, and another trial was instituted. Thiers put in hisold treatise, and this time the judges awarded to it the second prize, and gave _the first_ for a treatise which came to them from Paris. Judgeof their chagrin when they found that this treatise was written byThiers! The little student had fairly taken them in his net. Great werethe rejoicings of the liberals in Aix. 

Among the friends of Thiers was Mignet, since a historian, and the youngmen full of hope came together to Paris, where, poor as they werehopeful, they took lodgings in a miserable street. Mignet determined tofollow literature and by it gain a living and fame, but Thiers resolvedupon intrigue. He made himself known to the liberal leaders, and withgreat tact exhibited his abilities. He was instantly offered employmentof various kinds, and chose that of editor. He took charge of the_Constitutionel_, and plunged into the heat and strife of partypolitics. His witty, hornet-like nature fitted him well for theposition. He attained great influence and power, and the great men ofthe time, even Talleyrand, came to him, while he exclaimed bombasticallyand blasphemously, "Suffer little children to come unto me. "

He went into society, made the acquaintance of the old men of therevolution, and gathered the materials for the _History of theRevolution_, which afterward carried him to the height of hispopularity. He fought two duels about this time--one with the father ofa young lady whom he had seduced. He started a new journal called the_National_, which should be more fully under his control than the_Constitutionel_ had been, and which should entirely meet his views ofwhat a journal should be. But the new journal seriously offended thegovernment, the officers of which attempted to put it down, for on themorning of the 26th of July, they nearly destroyed the presses of theestablishment. The opposition journalists had a meeting to express theiropinions upon this outrage upon the rights of the press. During thethree troublous days of fighting, Thiers left Paris for the suburbs, andcame back in time to make his fortune, for he was soon namedsecretary-general to the government. He had the principal management ofthe finances, which at that time were in a state of great disorder. Thiers delivered a public speech upon the law of mortgages, andRoyer-Collard approached him with open arms, exclaiming, "Your fortuneis made!"

In the meantime, M. Thiers, as the holidays were approaching, thought itwise to run down to Aix, which he represented in the chamber ofdeputies. Since he was last there he had changed his course upon many ofthe important questions of the day. Formerly he was extremely liberal, but for the sake of power he had deserted the cause of Poland and Italy. 

He let the inhabitants of Aix know that he was coming, that no excusemight be wanting for a grand reception. Surely the people of Aix wouldfeel proud of their fellow-citizen who had been so highly honored by thegovernment!

He arrived before the gates of the town and was surprised at the silenceeverywhere. No crowd came out to greet him--the people were about theirbusiness. A few officials alone met and welcomed him back to the sceneof his early triumphs. He went to his hotel, and when night came, it wastold him that crowds of people were gathered in the street below. Hewent to the window--ah! now the people were come to do him honor! Whatwas his chagrin to hear the multitudes commence a serenade of the vilestdescription. Tin horns were blown, tin pans were pounded, and everyspecies of execrable noise was made, and M. Thiers came to theconclusion that the people of Aix did not admire his late politicalconduct. To satisfy him, the leaders cried aloud, "Traitor to Poland, to Italy, and France!" He was satisfied, and hurried back to Paris, where Louis Phillippe met him, and as if to console him for hisreception in Aix, gave him a portfolio--and he was the king's minister. 

One of his first acts was to destroy the character of the duchess ofBerri, who pretended that the French throne belonged to her son. LouisPhillippe gave him almost unlimited power to accomplish this object, andhe set to work coolly and with deliberate calculation. It is said hebribed an intimate friend of the duchess, who knew where she was, with amillion of francs to betray her, and she was thrown into prison. Oncethere, he found means to ruin her fame and destroy her influence, thoughthe measures he took excited the indignation of France. He extorted fromher a secret confession, under the promise that it should always remainstrictly secret, and then coolly published it in the government organ. 

Under M. Thiers the finances of the country improved, and many of thepublic works were completed. The splendid Quai d'Orsay and the PlaceVendome were finished, and the Madeleine begun. At the ceremonies whichattended the inauguration of the column upon the Place Vendome, a goodthing was said in the ears of the minister by a Parisian wit. Thiers wasat the foot of the column--the statue of Napoleon at the top. The heightof the column is one hundred and thirty-two feet. Said the wit aloud, "There are just one hundred and thirty-two feet from the ridiculous tothe sublime!"

But M. Thiers was not in reality a ridiculous man. Under his managementFrance saw prosperity. He developed its resources and exhibited greatabilities. He was constantly subjected to attacks from his old radicalassociates and he deserved them. The great quarrel of his life, however, was with Guizot. These two men were constantly by the ears witheach other, and the king gave one a certain office and the otheranother. He changed these officers from time to time, until at last bothsaw that one alone must triumph. Guizot was the triumphant man, andThiers fell. He became more radical as he lost office, and published (in1845) two volumes of his _History of the Consulate_. They had a splendidsuccess; he sold the whole work for five hundred thousand francs--anenormous price. But the concluding volumes were not forthcoming, and thepublisher demanded them--but in vain. For the last thirty years M. Thiers has lived in a beautiful house in the place Saint Georges. He iswealthy, and has always lived in good style. 

It is currently reported that M. Thiers has been guilty of treatingcertain members of his family with great meanness, and in society manyscandalous stories have been repeated illustrating his miserly economy. 

When the revolution of 1848 broke out, M. Thiers ran away from Paris, but afterward returned, and has since lived a very quiet life. 

GEORGE SAND

[Illustration: GEORGE SAND. ]

One of the most distinguished of the living writers of France is MadamDudevant, or GEORGE SAND, which is her _nom de plume_. She is by nomeans a woman either after my ideal or the American ideal, but is awoman of great genius. Her masculinity, and, indeed, her licentiousstyle, are great faults: but in sketching some of the most brilliant ofFrench writers, it would not do to omit her name. 

The maiden name of George Sand was Amantine Aurore Dupin, and she isdescended from Augustus the Second, king of Poland. Her ancestors wereof king's blood, and the more immediate of them were distinguished fortheir valor and high birth. She was born in the year 1804. She wasbrought up by her grandmother, at the chateau Nahant, situated in one ofthe most beautiful valleys of France. The old countess of Horn, hergrandmother, was a woman of brilliant qualities, but not a very safeguide for a young child. Her ideas were anti-religious, and she was afollower of Rousseau rather than of Christ. When Aurore was fifteenyears old, she knew well how to handle a gun, to dance, to ride onhorseback, and to use a sword. She was a young Amazon, charming, witty, and yet coarse. She was fond of field sports, yet knew not how to makethe sign of the cross. When she was twenty years old she was sent to aconvent in Paris, to receive a religious education. She loved hergrandmother to adoration, and the separation cost her a great deal ofsuffering. She often alludes in her volumes to this grandparent, interms of warm love and veneration. In her "_Letters of a Traveller_" shegives us some details of her life with her grandmother at the chateau deNahant. She says:

 "Oh, who of us does not recall with delight the first, books he devoured! The cover of a ponderous old volume that you found upon the shelf of a forgotten closet--does it not bring back to you gracious pictures of your young years? Have you not thought to see the wide meadow rise before you, bathed in the rosy light of the evening when you saw it for the first time? Oh! that the night should fall so quickly upon those divine pages, that the cruel twilight should make the words float upon the dim page!

 "It is all over; the lambs bleat, the sheep are shut up in their fold, the cricket chirps in the cottage and field It is time to go home. 

 "The path is stony, the bridge narrow and slippery, and the way is difficult. 

 "You are covered with sweat, but you have a long walk, you will arrive too late, supper will have commenced. 

 "It is in vain that the old domestic whom you love will retard the ringing of the bell as long as possible; you will have the humiliation of entering the last one, and the grandmother, inexorable upon etiquette, will reprove you in a voice sweet but sad--a reproach very light, very tender, which you will feel more deeply than a severe chastisement. But when, at night, she demands that you account for your absence, and you acknowledge, blushing, that in reading in the meadow you forgot yourself, and when you are asked to give the book, you draw with a trembling hand from your pocket--what? _Estelle et Nemorin_. 

 "Oh then the grandmother smiles!

 "You regain your courage, your book will be restored to you, but another time you must not forget the hour of supper. 

 "Oh happy days! O my valley Noire! O Corinne! O Bernardin de Saint Pierre! O the Iliad! O Milleroye! O Atala! O the willows by the river! O my departed youth! O my old dog who could not forget the hour of supper, and who replied to the distant ringing of the bell by a dismal howl of regret and hunger!"

In other portions of her books George Sand refers to her early life, andalways in this enthusiastic manner. 

Her grandmother exercised no surveillance upon her reading--she perusedthe pages of Corinne, Atala, and Lavater, and the two former would raisestrange dreams in the head of a girl only fourteen years old. She readeverything which fell in her way. 

In reading Lavater's essays upon Physiogomy, she noticed the array ofridiculous, hideous, and grotesque pictures, and wished to know what theywere for. She saw underneath them the words--drunkard--idler--glutton, etc. Etc. She very soon remarked that the drunkard resembled the coachman, thecross and meddling person the cook, the pedant her own teacher, and thusshe proved the infallibility of Lavater!

Once, when in the convent at Paris, she was misled by the poetry ofCatholicism, and abandoned herself to the highest transports ofreligious fervor. She passed whole hours in ecstasy at the foot of thealtar. This shows the susceptibility of her imagination. About this timeher grandmother died, and she left the convent to close the eyes of hermuch-loved grandparent. She returned, with the full determination ofbecoming religious. All the authority of her family was required tobreak this resolution, and, six months after, to prevail upon her tomarry M. Le baron Dudevant, the man they had sought out to be herhusband. He was a retired soldier and a gentleman farmer. The union wasa very unhappy one. She was sensitive, proud, and passionate, while hewas cold, and entirely swallowed up in his agricultural pursuits. Thedowry of Aurore amounted to one hundred thousand dollars, and this moneyM. Dudevant spent with a lavish hand upon his farm, but bestowed littleattention upon his wife. At first she endured this life, for twochildren were given to her to alleviate her sorrows. But finding her lotgrow more sad, and her health failing, she was ordered to taste thewaters of the Pyrenees, whither she went, but without her husband. Sherested at Bordeaux, and there made her entrance into society, throughsome kind friends residing in that city. She was received with praises. A wealthy shipping merchant fell deeply in love with her; she did notgive way to it, however, but returned to her family, where she found noaffection to welcome her. 

Jules Sandeau, a student of law, spent one of his vacations at thechateau Nahant, and was the first person who turned Madame Dudevant'sattention to literary pursuits. He returned to Paris profoundly in lovewith the lady, though he had not dared to mention it. M. Nerard, abotanist, came also to the chateau, to give lessons to M. Dudevant, andhis wife was charmed with him, and they spent happy hours together. Butin time love grew out of the intimacy--a love which of course waswicked, but which according to French ideas, was innocent. The husbandwas justly suspicious, and a voluntary separation took place, heretaining all her property in exchange for her liberty, which he gaveher, and she set out for Bordeaux. She recounts a part of her subsequenthistory in "_Indiana_. " She found her lover in Bordeaux, but he hadchanged, and was on the eve of marriage, and she went to Paris. Shereturned to the same convent where she had spent a part of her youth, toweep over her lot. She soon left the convent for an attic in the QuaiSt. Michel, where Jules Sandeau, the law-student, soon discovered her. She was in very destitute circumstances, and Sandeau was also very poor. She knew a little of painting, and obtained orders of a toyman to paintthe upper part of stands for candlesticks, and the covers ofsnuff-boxes. This was fatiguing but not remunerative, and they wrote tothe editor of the _Figaro_ newspaper. He replied, and invited them tovisit him at his home, where he received them with kindness. When Aurorespoke of her snuff-boxes, he laughed heartily; "but, " said he toSandeau, "why do not you become a journalist? It is less difficult thanYou think. "

Sandeau replied, "I am too slow for a journalist. "

"Good!" replied Aurore; "but I will help you!"

"Very good!" replied the editor; "but work, and bring me your articlesas soon as you can. "

Madame Dudevant laid aside her pencil and took up the pen--not to lay itdown again. She commenced a series of articles which puzzled theParisian press. The editor liked them, but desired that she should tryher hand at romance. In about six weeks Madame Dudevant and JulesSandeau had completed a volume entitled "_Rose and Blanche, or theComedian and the Nun_;" but they could find no publisher. The editorcame to their aid, and persuaded an old bookseller to give them fourhundred francs for the manuscript. When the book was to be published, they deliberated upon the name of the author. _She_ disliked the scandalof authorship--_he_ feared his father's curse; and the editor advisedthat the name of the law-student should be divided, and no friend wouldrecognize the name. So the story came out as written by Jules Sand. 

The young people thought their fortunes made--that the four hundredfrancs were inexhaustible. Madame Dudevant now adopted a man's costumefor the first time, that she might go to the theater with advantage--atleast this was her excuse. The young couple visited the theater atnight, and Sandeau slept the days away. The money soon was gone, andMadame Dudevant in her new extremity was advised to return to thechateau Nahant, and endeavor to get a legal separation from her husband, and an annual allowance. When she set out, she left with Sandeau theplan of "_Indiana_. " They were to divide the chapters of the new story;but when she came back he had not written a line of his task. To hisgreat surprise Aurore put into his hands the whole of the manuscript ofthe book. 

"Read, " said she, "and correct!" He read the first chapter, and was fullof praise. "It needs no revision, " he said; "it is a master-piece!" Hethen declared that as he had not written any of the book, he would notallow the common name to be used. She was greatly troubled, and hadrecourse to the editor. He proposed that she still keep the name ofSand, but select another first name. "Look in the calendar, " said he;"to-morrow is the day of St. George; take the name of George--callyourself George Sand!" And this is the origin of that distinguishedname. 

"_Indiana_" was purchased for six hundred francs, but it sold so wellthat the publisher afterwards gave her a thousand francs more. Theeditor of _Figaro_ put two of his critics upon the book to review it. They both condemned it as mediocre and without much interest. But thebook had a wonderful success, and Paris was thrown into a state ofexcitement about the author. The journals added fuel to the fire bytheir remarks and criticisms, and at once Madame Dudevant was a greatauthoress. She took elegant apartments, where she received the artistsand authors of the gay city, herself arrayed in a man's costume, and sheastonished her male friends by smoking and joking with them like a man. She was known only by the name of George Sand, and preferred to becalled simply George. She walked the Boulevards in a close fittingriding coat, over the collar of which fell her dark, luxuriant curls. She carried in one hand her riding whip and in the other her cigar, which from time to time she would raise to her mouth. Jules Sandeau wasforgotten, and fled to Italy. In after years George Sand bitterlyrepented her neglect of this friend, and she has written very touchinglyin one of her books her repentance. She now wrote two or three otherstories which were caught up eagerly by the publishers. She wroteagainst the institution of marriage and the critics at once attackedher, and with justice. Story followed story from 1835 to 1837--eachfilled with passionate, magnificent writing, and selling with greatrapidity. Her style was brilliant and elegant, and appealed to theFrench taste with great success. 

In 1836 George Sand assumed her old name, that she might demand from herhusband her fortune and children. It was proved upon trial that he hadtreated her with brutality in the presence of her children, and in herabsence had lived shamefully, and the judge gave back to Madame Dudevanther children and her fortune. The children accompanied their mother toParis, where she superintended their education. She now became intimatewith M. Lamnenais and went so far as to repudiate the bad sentiments ofmany of her books. An end however soon came to her friendship forLamnenais, and they separated in anger, and hating each other heartily. She now wrote and published several Socialistic novels, which met with apoor sale in comparison with that of some of her previous works. Infact, for the last ten years, her works have been decreasing in sale. Inthe revolution of 1848, George Sand took side with the republicans. Atpresent she resides almost entirely at the chateau Nahant, where she haserected a little theater in which her pieces (for she wrote for thestage) are acted previous to their being brought out in Paris. Herincome is from ten to twelve thousand francs a year, and her life ispleasant and patriarchal. She gathers the villagers round her, invitesthem to her table, and instructs them. She once took into her house awoman covered with leprosy, who was cast off by all others, and with herown hand ministered to her wants, dressed her sores, and nursed heruntil she was cured. George Sand lives in a plain style, clinging toeverything which recalls her early life and her love of early friends. She sleeps but five or six hours. At eleven the breakfast bell rings. Her son Maurice presides at the table in her absence. She eats little, taking coffee morning and evening. The most of her time she devotes toliterary labors. After breakfast she walks in the park; a little woodbordering upon a meadow is her favorite promenade. After half an hour'swalk she returns to her room, leaving everyone to act as he pleases. Dinner takes place at six, which is a scene of more careful etiquettethan the breakfast table. She walks again after dinner, and returns tothe piano, for she is fond of music. The evening is spent in pleasantintercourse with her guests. Sunday is given up to a public theatricalrepresentation for the people. Such is a specimen of the life of thiswoman. 

CHAPTER X. 

PURE LA CHAISE--PRISONS--FOUNDLINGS--CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS--LAMORGUE--NAPOLEON AND EUGENIA--THE BAPTISM. 

PERE LA CHAISE. 

Pere la Chaise is not a cemetery which suits my taste, but it isunquestionably the grandest in all France, and I ought not to pass it bywithout a few remarks upon it. I visited it but once, and then came awaydispleased with its magnificence. It seems to me that a cemetery shouldnot be so much a repository of art, as a place of great natural beautyand quiet, where one would long to rest after "life's fitful fever. "

The cemetery is beyond the eastern limits of the city, upon the side ofa hill which commands a very fine view of the country, and is surroundedby beautiful hills and valleys. It was much celebrated in the fourteenthcentury, and during the reign of Louis XIV. Pere la Chaise resided uponthe spot, and for a century and a half it was the country-seat of theJesuits. Hence its name. It was purchased by the prefect of the Seinefor one hundred and sixty thousand francs, for a cemetery, it thencontaining forty-two acres of ground. It was put into competent hands, and was very much improved by the planting of trees, laying out ofroads, etc. Etc. In 1804 it was consecrated, and in May of that year thefirst grave was made in it. It is now filled with the graves of some ofthe most distinguished men of Paris and France, and is by far the mostfashionable cemetery in France. It is distinguished for the size, costliness, and grandeur of its monuments. There are temples, sepulchralchapels, mausoleums, pyramids, altars, and urns. Within the railingswhich surround many of the graves, are the choicest of flowers, whichare kept flourishing in dry seasons by artificial supplies of water. Acanal conducts water from a distance to the cemetery. 

The day was fine, the sky cloudless when I visited the spot, and thoughI could not but contrast it with Mount Auburn near Boston, or Greenwoodnear New York, yet I was much impressed with the natural beauty of thesituation. Art is, however, too profusely displayed upon the spot, andthe original beauty is covered up to a certain extent. The gatewaystruck me as being rather pretentious. Passing through it and by theguardian's lodge, which is at its side, one of the first spots I soughtwas the grave of Abelard and Heloise. The stranger always asks first forit, and visits it last when returning from the cemetery. It is the mostbeautiful monument in the cemetery. It consists of a chapel formed outof the ruins of the Abbey of Paraclete, which was founded by Abelard, and of which Heloise was the first abbess. It is fourteen feet inlength, by eleven in breadth, and is twenty-four feet in height. Apinnacle rises out of the roof in a cruciform shape, and four smallerones exquisitely sculptured stand between the gables. Fourteen columns, six feet high, support beautiful arches, and the cornices are wrought inflowers. The gables of the four fronts have trifoliate windows, and areexquisitely decorated with figures, roses, and medalions of Abelard andHeloise. In the chapel is the tomb built for Abelard by Peter theVenerable, at the priory of St. Marcel. He is represented as in areclining posture, the head a little inclined and the hands joined. Heloise is by his side. On one side of the tomb, at the foot, areinscriptions, and in other unoccupied places. I lingered long at thistomb, and thought of the singular lives of that couple whose historywill descend to the latest generations. It seemed strange that twolovers who lived in the middle of the twelfth century, should, simply bythe astonishing force of their passions, have made themselves famous"for all time. " It seemed wonderful that the story of their love andshame should have so burned itself into the forehead of Time, that hecarries it still in plain letters upon his brow, that the world mayread. It shows how much the heart still controls the world. Love is themaster-passion, and so omnipotent is it, that yet in all hearts thestory of a man or woman who simply _loved each other_ hundreds of yearsago, calls forth our tears to-day, as if it occurred but yesterday. Badas Abelard's character must seem to be to the careful reader--cruel aswas his treatment of Heloise--he must have had depths of love andgoodness of which the world knew not. Such a woman as Heloise could nothave so adored any common man, nor a wonderful man who had a hard heart. She saw and knew the recesses of his heart, and pardoned his occasionalacts of cruelty. Having known what there was of good and nobleness inhis nature, she was willing to die, nay, to live in torture for hissake. 

The tomb is constantly visited, and flowers and immortalities are heapedalways over it. Had it no history to render the spot sacred, the beautyof the monument alone would attract visitors, and I should have beenrepaid for my visit. The French, who magnify the passion of love, orpretend to do so, at all times above all others keep the history ofAbelard and Heloise fresh in their hearts. 

One of the best monuments in Pere la Chaise, is that erected in memoryof Casimir Perier, prime minister in 1832. It consists of an excellentstatue of the statesman, placed upon a high and noble pedestal. There isa path which winds round the foot of the slope, which is by far the mostbeautiful in the cemetery. It is full of exquisite views, and is linedwith fine monuments. Ascending the hill west of the avenue, I soon wasamong the tombs of the great. One of the first which struck my eye wasthe column erected to the memory of viscount de Martignac, who iscelebrated for the defense of his old enemy, the Prince Polignac, at thebar of the chamber of peers, after the 1830 revolution. Next to it, orbut a short distance from it, I saw the tomb of Volney, the duke Decres, and the abbe Sicard, the celebrated director of the deaf and dumb schoolof Paris, and whose fame is wide as the world. Many others follow, eachcommemorating some great personage, but the majority of the names wereunfamiliar to me. Among those which were known, were those of theRussian countess Demidoff. It is a beautiful temple of white marble, theentablature supported by ten columns, under which is a sarcophagus withthe arms of the princes engraved upon it. Manuel, a distinguished oratorin the chamber of deputies, and General Foy, have splendid monuments. Benjamin Constant has a plain, small tomb, as well as Marshal Ney. 

West of these tombs lie the remains of marchioness de Beauharnais, sister-in-law of the Empress Josephine. Moliere has also near to it afine monument; La Fontaine a cenotaph with two bas-reliefs in bronze, illustrating two of his fables. Madame de Genlis has a tomb in thisquarter. Her remains were transported here by Louis Phillippe. Laplace, the great astronomer, has a beautiful tomb of white marble. An obeliskis surmounted by an urn, which is ornamented with a star encircled bypalm-branches. The marquis de Clermont has a fine monument--he whogallantly threw himself between Louis XVI. And the mob, to save hissovereign. 

In one part of the cemetery I noticed many English tombs, of persons, Isuppose, who were residents of Paris, or who visiting it were strickenby death. 

One of the most superb monuments in the cemetery is that of M. Aguado, agreat financier, but it smacks too strongly of money to suit my taste. He was a man of enormous wealth, therefore he has a magnificentmonument. According to this method, the rich men of the world shall havemonuments which pierce the skies, while the men of genius and of greatand noble character, shall go without a slab to indicate their finalresting-place. 

This plan of turning a cemetery into a field for the display of splendidmarbles, is certainly not consonant with good taste. It is calculatedthat in forty years not less than one hundred millions of francs havebeen spent in the erection of monuments in Pere la Chaise, the number oftombs already amounting to over fifteen thousand. 

In 1814, when the allied forces were approaching Paris, heavy batterieswere planted in Pere la Chaise, commanding the plain which extends toVincennes. The walls had loop-holes, and the scholars of Alfort occupiedit and defended it against three Russian attacks. The last wassuccessful, and the Russians were masters of the field. The city ofParis capitulated that very evening, and the Russian troops encampedamong the tombs. 

[Illustration: PARIS FROM MONTMARTRE. ]

[Illustration: COLUMN OF JULY 8--PLACE JUILLET. ]

In coming back from Pere la Chaise, I saw the Column of July, erected inmemory of the victims of the July of the great revolution. Upon thisspot the old Bastille stood, and the column indicates it. 

THE PRISONS. 

The public prisons of Paris are nine in number: for persons upon whom averdict has not been pronounced, and against whom an indictment lies;for debt; for political offenses; for persons sentenced to death or thehulks; for criminals of a young age; for females; and for offenders inthe army. 

In the penal prisons, the inmates are allowed books and the privilege ofwriting, but are all obliged to labor, each, if he wishes, choosing thetrade in which he is fitted best to succeed. The men receive a pound anda half of bread per day, and the women a fraction less. 

The prison La Force is in the Rue du Roi de Sicile. The buildings ofwhich it is composed were once the hotel of the duke de La Force--hencethe name. It was converted into a prison in 1780. A new prison forprostitutes was erected about the same time, and was called La PetiteForce. In 1830 the two prisons were united, and put under onemanagement, and the whole prison is given up to males committed fortrial. The prisoners are divided into separate classes; the oldoffenders into one ward, the young and comparatively innocent intoanother; the old men into one apartment, and the boys into another. Theprisoners sleep in large and well ventilated chambers, and the boys haveeach a small apartment which contains a single bed. The prisoners havethe privilege of working if they wish, but they are not obliged to doso, inasmuch as they are not yet _convicted_ of crime. There is adepartment for the sick, a bathing-room, a parlor, and an advocate'sroom, where the prisoners can hold conversations with their legaldefenders. The number of prisoners is very great--ten thousand beingunder the annual average confined in the prisons. 

St. Lazare is a prison for women under indictment and those who havebeen sentenced to a term less than one year. One department of theprison, which is entirely separated from the rest, is devoted toprostitutes, and another distinct department is devoted to girls undersixteen years of age. Each department has its own infirmary, and a newplan has been adopted to stimulate the inmates to industry. They areallowed two-thirds pay for all the work they will perform in the prison. Every kind of manufacture is carried on in the prison--the preparationof cashmere yarn, hooks and eyes, etc. Etc. The number confined in thisprison in a year, is over ten thousand. The service of the prison iscarried on by the sisters of charity. 

La Nouvelle Force is a new prison in a healthier quarter than La Force, and is used for the same purposes. It contains twelve hundred and sixtyseparate cells. 

Depot de Condemnes is in the Rue de la Roquette, and is a prison for theconfinement of persons condemned to forced labor and to death. It is avery healthy prison and one of the strongest in the world. A doublecourt surrounds the prison, in which sentinels are constantly kept onguard; the walls are very thick and solid, and each prisoner has aseparate cell. A fountain in the center dispenses water to all parts ofthe prison. The number of the inmates is at least four hundred on theaverage. 

The Prison of Correction, situated also in Rue de la Roquette, is forthe confinement and correction of offenders under the age of sixteen, who have been pronounced by the judge incapable of judgment. They aresubjected to a strict, but not cruel discipline, in this prison. It isvery healthy, and all its appointments are such as to facilitate theeducation of the morals and intellect of the inmates. It is wellsupplied with water and wholesome diet, and books and religiousteachers. It is divided into separate departments, and one grade of boysis never allowed intercourse with another. This is a very wiseregulation, as under it a fresh, ignorant, and wicked inmate cannot haveinfluence over those who have long been under the discipline of theplace. 

The Conciergerie is used to confine persons before trial, and it is oneof the most famous (or infamous) prisons in the world. Its historicalassociations are full of interest. Its entrance is on the Quai del'Horloge. In visiting this prison, the stranger from the new world isstruck with the terrible outlines of some of the apartments. The Salledes Gardes of St. Louis, has a roof which strikes terror into the heart, it is so old and grim. In one part of the building there is a lowprison-room, where those persons condemned to death spend their lasthours, fastened down to a straight waistcot. The little room in whichMarie Antoinette was confined, is still shown to the visitor. There arenow three paintings in it which represent scenes in the last days of herlife. The prison-room which confined Lourel, who stabbed the duke deBarry, and the dungeons in which Elizabeth, the sister of Louis XVI. , was imprisoned, are shut up and cannot be seen. There are manyhistories connected with this old prison, which to repeat, would fillthis volume. 

The Prison de l'Abbaye is a military prison, and is situated close toSt. Germain des Pres. It was formerly one of the most famous in Paris, and the horrors which it witnessed during the bloody revolution werenever surpassed in any city of the world. Many of the atrocities whichwere committed in it are now widely known through the histories of thosetimes of blood. Many of its dungeons are still under ground, and wear anaspect of gloom sufficient to terrify a man who spends but a few momentsin them. The discipline of this prison is very rigid, as it containsonly military offenders. 

The prison for debtors is in Rue de Clichy, and is in an airy situation, is well constructed, and holds three or four hundred persons. Theofficers of this prison still remember the modest-faced American editor, who spent a few memorable days in it--I mean Horace Greeley of the_Tribune_. France is not sufficiently enlightened yet to abolishimprisonment for debt, but the time will soon come. Such a barbaritycannot for any great length of time disgrace the history of anycivilized nation. 

The prison of St. Pelagie, in Rue de la Chef, was formerly a prison fordebtors, but is now used for the imprisonment of persons committed fortrial, or those persons sentenced for short terms. Nearly six hundredpersons are confined in it. 

Connected with the prisons of Paris are two benevolent institutions, theobject of which is to watch over and educate the young prisoners of bothsexes during their terms of imprisonment, and after they have leftprison. As soon as they have left prison they are cared for, and if theyconduct themselves well, they are generally furnished with good places. Prisoners are also taken from the Correctional House before their termshave expired, in cases of excellent conduct, and the government pays thesociety a sum toward the expenses of such persons until the time oftheir sentence shall have expired. Lamartine, the poet, was at one timepresident of one of these truly benevolent societies. 

The prisons of Paris, take them as a whole, compare favorably with thoseof any city in the world. Their administration is characterized by anenlightened liberality and philanthropy, and though it may seem strange, yet it is true, that Paris abounds with the most self-sacrificingphilanthropists. The prisoner, the deaf and dumb, the blind and theidiotic, are cared for with a generosity and skill not surpassed in anyother land. 

 * * * * *

FOUNDLING HOSPITALS. 

There are at least one hundred and fifty foundling hospitals in France, and Paris has a celebrated one in the Rue d'Enfer. It was established bySt. Vincent de Paul, in 1638, but has been very much improved since. The buildings are not remarkable for their architectural beauty, forthey are very plain. The chapel contains a statue of the founder. It isnow necessary for a mother who desires to abandon her child, to make acertificate to that effect before the magistrate. The latter is obligedto grant the desire of the woman, though it is a part of his duty toremonstrate with her upon her unnatural conduct, and if she consents tokeep the child, he is empowered to help her to support it from a publicfund. The infants received at the hospital are, if healthy, put out atonce to nurse in the country, and the parentage of the child isrecorded. Unhealthy children are kept under hospital treatment. Nursesfrom the country constantly present themselves for employment, and donot usually receive more than one or two dollars a month for theirtrouble. After two years of nursing, the child is returned andtransferred to the department for orphans. There are a little short ofthree hundred children in the hospital, and as many as thirteen thousandconstantly out at nurse in the country. The internal arrangements of thehospital are very ingenious and good. Every convenience which can add tothe comfort of the infants is at hand, and the deserted little beingsare rendered much more comfortable than one would naturally suppose tobe within the range of possibility. 

The hospital for orphans is in the same building, and is well arranged. The orphan department and the foundling hospital, are under the specialcare of the sisters of charity. 

There is, perhaps, no more strange sight in all Paris, than theassemblage of babies in the apartments of the Foundling Hospital. To seethem ranged around the walls of the rooms in cradles, attended by thenurses, will excite a smile, and yet, when we reflect how sad is the lotof these innocents, the smile will vanish. They are deprived of that towhich, by virtue of existence, every human being is entitled--a home, and the affectionate care of father and mother. To be entirely shut outfrom all these blessings, really makes existence a curse, and it werebetter if these thousands had never been born. 

On visiting the hospital, I rang a bell and was admitted by a politeporter, and a female attendant conducted us through the variousapartments. I was at once struck with the exceeding tidiness ofeverything. The floors were of polished oak, and the walls of plasterpolished like glass. One of the first rooms we were shown into containedforty or fifty babies, ranged in rows along the wall. The cradles werecovered with white drapery, and their appearance was very neat. Fourlong rows stretched across the apartment, and in the center there was afire, round which the nurses were gathered, attending to the wants ofthe hungry and complaining babies. But if the sight of the cradles waspleasant, the noise which greeted my ear was far otherwise. At leasttwenty-five of the children were crying all at once, and _one_ is asmuch as I can usually endure, and not that for any length of time. Amongthe children round the fire, there was one which was very beautiful. Ithad black hair and eyes, and when we stopped before it, it laughed andcrowed at a great rate. I could not help wondering that any human mothercould have abandoned so beautiful a babe--one that would have been "awell-spring of pleasure" in many a home. 

I was next shown into the apartment for children afflicted with diseasesof the eye. The room was carefully shaded, and the cradles were coveredwith blue or green cloth. There was quite a number of children in thisdepartment, and all of them seemed to be well cared for. I was showninto another apartment devoted entirely to the sick children, and itsappointments were excellent. It was wholesome and clean, the air waspure as that of the country, and the rooms were high and commodious. Other apartments are shown to the visitor which contain the linen usedin the hospital, and where all kinds of work are performed, andfinally, the pretty little chapel which I have alluded to before. 

In former times the government made it easy for any mother to resign herinfant to the care of the state. This was done properly and with a goodobject in view, which was to prevent infanticide. It was intended thatmothers should not only find it easy to cast off their children in thismanner, but that it might be done with secrecy. A box was placed outsideof the hospital and a bell-handle was near it, and all that the motherhad to do was, to place her babe in the box and pull the bell. No onesaw her, no questions could be asked, and the box sliding upon grooveswas drawn inside the wall. The mother could leave some mark upon thedress of the child, or if this was not done, an exact inventory of theeffects of the little stranger was always recorded in the hospital, thatin after years the child might be identified by its parents if theywished. The numbers that were deposited in the Paris hospital were verygreat under those pleasant regulations. It is not strange, and onecannot escape the conviction, that such a system afforded a temptationto the women, and indeed men of the good classes to sin. A woman mightescape to a great extent the penalty of a wicked deed. It held out apremium to immorality. But on the other hand it prevented infanticide toa great extent. The reasons why the government revoked the regulationswere, first, that they encouraged the increase of illegitimate children, and second, the great expense to the state, and the last considerationwas the one which had most weight. 

It was found upon trying the new system, that infanticide increased withconsiderable rapidity, as the morning exhibitions at La Morgue greatlyindicated. When we consider, too, that the majority of the infanticidesare unquestionably not detected, the body of the child being hid fromthe sight, and the vast amount of injury which results to the mothersfrom the attempt to destroy unborn children, we cannot wonder thatFrench philanthropists have been inclined to return to the old system. Infanticide is one of the most horrible of crimes, and its growth amonga people is accompanied by as rapid a growth of vice of every otherkind. In England where a foundling hospital could not be endured for amoment, the crime of infanticide is increasing every year, and thenumber of murdered children is already an army of martyrs. 

The safest way is, perhaps, for the government to leave the whole matterwith the people, and not either encourage illegitimacy or attempt toprevent infanticide, except by punishment. Upon the heads of the guiltyones be their own blood. But there certainly should be asylums for thosechildren who cannot be supported by their poverty-stricken parents. 

 * * * * *

CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS. 

Paris abounds with charitable societies and institutions. Until thelatter part of the last century, the city was full of objects ofcompassion, the blind, the deaf and dumb, the sick and suffering. Theprisons too, and the madhouses, were scenes of cruelty and violence. Buta controversy arose upon the whole matter, and under Louis XVI. Four newhospitals were ordered to be erected, but in the excitement whichpreceded the great revolution, they were not completed. After therevolution the subject came up from time to time to the consideration ofthe governing powers, and new hospitals were erected, and greatimprovements made in the old ones. At the beginning of this century, they were placed under the direction of a general administration. Allthe civil hospitals and the different institutions connected with them, are under the control of an administrative committee. The regulations ofthe hospitals are nearly the same as they are in London and New York. Incases of severe wounds, persons are admitted into the hospitals withoutany order, by simply presenting themselves at the doors. Medical adviceis given at some of the hospitals on certain days to poor persons. Thehospitals of Paris are of three kinds; the general, open to allcomplaints for which a special hospital is not provided; the specialhospitals, for the treatment of special diseases; and the alms-houses. The hospitals support more than twelve thousand aged men and women, receive more than eighty thousand patients, and have constantly undertreatment six thousand persons. 

Among the hospitals I may mention Bricetre, situated on the road toFontainbleau. It is upon very high ground, and is the healthiest of allthe hospitals from its position and arrangements. It is used as anasylum for poor old men, and for male lunatics. The old men have everyencouragement to work, for they receive pay for their labor, slight, ofcourse, and the money is devoted to giving them better food and clothesthan the usual hospital allowance, which is some soup, one pound and aquarter of bread, four ounces of meat, vegetables, cheese, and a pint ofwine each day. When seventy years old, the quantity of wine is doubled, and when a person has been thirty years an inmate of the house, thequantity of everything is doubled. Three thousand beds are made up forthe indigent, and eight hundred for lunatics. The latter, of course, occupies a distinct part of the building. 

There are two hospitals appropriated entirely to the use of men who haveno hope of immediate cure, and are troubled with chronic ailments. Thebuildings are large and airy, and will accommodate four or five hundred. 

The hospital of St. Louis, in Rue des Recollets, is very large, containing eight hundred beds. It is used for the special treatment ofscrofula and cutaneous diseases. Persons able to pay, do so, but thepoor are received without. It has very spacious bath accommodations, andit is estimated that as many as one hundred and forty thousand bathshave been served in the establishment in the course of a year. The bathsare in two large rooms, each containing fifty baths. The water isconducted to them in pipes, and every variety of mineral and sulphurousbath is given, as well as vapor and all kinds of water baths. Theinstitution is very well managed, its work being all done within itswalls, and so far is this principle carried, that the leeches needed forthe diseased are cultivated in an artificial pond upon the premises. 

In the Rue de Sevres is a hospital for incurable women It willaccommodate six hundred women and seventy children. There are a fewpictures in this establishment which are worth noticing. TheAnnunciation, the Flight into Egypt, and a Guardian Angel, possess greatbeauty. 

The Louecine Hospital is for the reception of all females suffering withsyphilitic diseases. It makes up three hundred beds, fifty of which arefor children. The number of persons treated in Paris is more than twothousand every year, and the mortality is very slight. 

Medical men dislike this hospital, for the diseases are such as torender their duties very unpleasant, but to insure proper attendance, aregulation exists that every physician before making an application fora place in any of the hospitals, shall serve in the Louecine. 

The Rouchefoucald Hospital is principally for the reception of old andworn-out servants, and is of course not kept up by state funds, thoughit is overseen by the government. Persons who enter the institution paya sum of money, and are entitled to a room, fire, and food, so long asthey live, and some enter even as young as the age of twenty. There isanother establishment in Paris where only the middling classes arereceived, and who pay for the attention they receive. Single men whohave no homes of their own, when attacked by violent diseases, can bypaying a moderate sum enter this institution and be well cared for. 

I cannot even mention a tenth part of the hospitals or charitableinstitutions of Paris, and will only allude to one or two more which area little peculiar. There are, for example, _nurseries_, where poor womenwho must leave home for work in factories or similar places, can in themorning leave their babies, return occasionally to nurse them, and takethem away at night. If a child is weaned, it has a little basket of hisown. A very small sum of money is paid for this care, and as thenurseries have the best of medical attention, some mothers bring themfor that purpose alone. There are public soup establishments to whichany person with a soup-ticket can go and demand food. The tickets aredispensed with some care to persons in needy circumstances. In each ofthe twelve arrondissements of Paris there is a bureau for the relief ofpoor women having large families. When proper representations are madeby such females struggling to keep from the alms-house, an allowance ismade of bread, firing, meat, and clothing, and sometimes money is given. There are sometimes as many as thirty thousand dependent in this mannerfor a part of their income upon the state. Hence, bureaus are excellentinstitutions, inasmuch as prevention is always easier than cure. To savestruggling families from the humiliation of a complete downfall to thepoor-house, small weekly allowances are made, and in such a way thattheir pride need not be touched, for it is often done with such secrecythat even the intimate friends of the recipients are unaware of therelation existing between them and the state. Such an arrangement asthis is needed in all the great cities of the world. London suffers fromthe want of it. In some places the parish authorities are at liberty tomake grants to poor families, but it is nowhere done with such a systemand with such a delicacy as in Paris. 

Another of the charitable institutions of Paris lends money upon movableeffects, the interest charged being very low. This is an excellentprovision for emergencies in the lives of poor persons. There are atleast a million and a half of articles pledged at this institutionyearly, and its receipts are from twenty-six to twenty-eight millions ayear. In winters of famine the public are sometimes allowed to pledgeproperty without paying any interest upon it when redeemed. The Mont dePietie, is the name of this institution, and it has branches all overParis, and has in its employ, as clerks and otherwise, three hundredpersons. 

There are savings' banks in Paris specially adapted to the wants of thepoor, and to encourage in them the habit of accumulating property, though in very small sums. A deposit of one franc is received, and oneperson cannot hold but two thousand francs at one time in one bank ofthe kind. This institution, however, is not superior to those of itskind in many other countries. 

 * * * * *

LA MORGUE. 

On the southern side of Isle la Cite, there is a small stone buildingwhich is certainly one of the "sights" of Paris. I saw it one day when Ihad been to look at Notre Dame, and was on my way home. I was filledwith admiration of the magnificence of the great city, for with NotreDame and the Louvre in sight, I could not easily entertain othersentiments. A little building arrested my attention, and I saw quite acrowd of persons standing in front of it. It was _La Morgue_. I enteredit, not that I have a penchant for horrors, but to see a sight strangelycontrasting with all I had heretofore seen in Paris. It was a long, lowinterior, and one end of the room was fenced off from the rest, and init a row of dead bodies was arranged against the wall. Jets of waterwere playing constantly upon them, and upon hooks the garments of thedeceased were hung. The use of _La Morgue_ is to exhibit, fortwenty-four hours, the dead bodies which are found in the streets andthe river. If no friend in this time recognizes and claims the body, itis buried. There were five bodies when I was there--four men and onewoman. The men were evidently suicides and the woman was probablymurdered, as there were marks of violence upon her body, which couldnot have been self-inflicted. There are several hundred personsexhibited in La Morgue in the course of a year, and they tell strangestories of the misery and crime which abound in the finest city in theworld. The majority of the bodies which are found, are suicides, butmany are those of persons who have been murdered. The French commitsuicide for reasons which appear frivolous to the American orEnglishman. The loss of a favorite mistress, an unsuccessfullove-intrigue, the bursting of a bubble of speculation, and sometimes amere trifle is enough to induce self-destruction. Sometimes a man andhis mistress, or a whole family shut themselves up in a room withburning charcoal, which is a favorite method of committing suicide. Agreat many bodies are fished out of the Seine, for it is very easy for apoor and wretched man or woman to leap into it in the darkness of night. The next day the body lies for recognition in La Morgue, and if no goodfriend claims it it is borne by careless hands to a pauper burial. 

[Illustration: LE PONT-NEUF]

I crossed the Seine by the Pont Neuf--a fine bridge, completed in 1604by Henry IV. Near the center of it, standing upon a platform andpedestal of white marble, is a splendid bronze statue of Henry IV. Uponhorseback. The height of the statue is fourteen feet, and its cost, somewhat above sixty thousand dollars, was defrayed by publicsubscription in 1818. 

The Place Vendome, too, lay in my path, so called from having been thesite of a hotel belonging to the Duke de Vendome, illegitimate son ofHenry IV. And Gabrielle d'Estrees. The Place is now ornamented by amagnificent pillar, erected by Napoleon in honor of his German campaign. 

I passed also the beautiful Fountain des Innocents, whose sculptor, thecelebrated Jean Goujon was shot during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, while working at one of the figures. 

[Illustration: Fontaine des Innocents. ]

 * * * * *

NAPOLEON AND EUGENIA. 

On my second visit to Paris, I found that many changes had taken place, and some of them striking ones. It was especially true of thearchitectural condition of Paris. In the years which elapsed between myvisits, the Louvre had assumed a new appearance, and was now connectedwith the Tuilleries Palace. Other changes of a similar character hadoccurred. 

[Illustration: COLUMN DE PLACE VENDOME. ]

When I was first in Paris, Louis Napoleon was president, but he waspreparing for the empire, and there was in reality no more liberty inFrance than now, and in many respects a residence in Paris was then moreuncomfortable than at present. Everybody was expecting a change, andLouis Napoleon, as president, was actually more despotic in littlethings than he is as emperor. He was then ready to hunt down any managainst whom a suspicion could lie, while now his rule is, after amanner, established. He has as fair prospects to remain emperor ofFrance till he dies, for aught that I can see, as any European monarchhas of retaining his throne. 

When I entered Paris, under the presidency, I was more closely watchedthan under the empire. As an American, from a republic, I was, perhaps, naturally an object of suspicion to the spies of a man who was planninga _coup d'etat_; at any rate I was tracked everywhere I stirred, by thepolice, while on my last visit I experienced nothing of the sort. 

The people of Paris are divided into many classes in politics--some arethe friends of Louis Napoleon, while others are his enemies. But he hasfew distinguished friends in Paris. The shop-keepers are pleased withthe pomp and magnificence of his court, for it gives them custom andmoney. Many of the wealthy business men desire him to live and rulebecause they want a stable government, and they deprecate above allthings else, change. They are more for money, as we may expect, than forfreedom. Then there are the partisans of the Orleans and Bourbonfamilies, who fear the republicans and accept Napoleon as a temporaryruler, and who much prefer him to anarchy. So that there is a strongbody of men in Paris and in France--a majority of the people--who uponthe whole prefer that the rule of a man they all dislike should beperpetuated for years to come. 

And there is something in the character of Louis Napoleon which excitesadmiration. He is intensely selfish, but he is a very capable man. Heunderstands the French people thoroughly, and rules them shrewdly. He isone of the ablest statesmen in Europe, and the world knows that he leadEngland in the late war with Russia. Yet he possesses some ridiculousqualities, as his conduct previous to his last entrance into Franceshows. He relies upon his destiny in the blindest manner, and is notpossessed of genuine courage of the highest character. He is so recklessthat he will never flinch from the prosecution of any of his schemes, either from personal danger or the dread of shedding human blood. Heseems to have no heart, and his countenance is like adamant, for itgives no clue to the thoughts which fill his brain. He is certainly avery remarkable character and one worth studying. His early history islaughable. His various descents upon France were too ridiculous forlaughter, and they only excited the pity of the world. His privateconduct, too, was such as to disgust moral people. There seems to havecome over the man a great change about the time of the Louis Phillipperevolution. I well remember that in the spring of 1848 I saw himparading one of the streets of London, arm-in-arm with a son of SirRobert Peel, both sworn in as special constables to put down thechartists should they attempt a riot. It was, on that memorable first ofApril, quite fashionable for members of the best families to be sworn inas special constables to preserve order, and Louis Napoleon who wasliving with his mistress and children in London, had so far put away thedemocratic opinions which he once held, that he was ready and eager toshow where his sympathies were in the Chartist agitation. 

That Louis Napoleon was very shrewd in entering France, and seatinghimself in the presidential chair, no one will deny, but it is equallytrue that in violating his oath and shooting down the people of Paris ashe did, that he might gain a throne, he also proved himself to be agreat villain. The mere fact that he was successful will not atone forperjury and murder with people of common morality. But aside from theseatrocities, his shameful censorship of the press, and conduct towardsome of the noblest men of France, he has acted for the best interestsof the country. He has understood the wants of the people, and hisdecrees and provisions have met the wishes of the nation. France has nothad the material prosperity for many years that she has at this time. But the press is dumb. Literature is in a sickly condition. Many of thefirst men of France are either in exile or are silent at home. It isastonishing to see how few of the really eminent men of France are thefriends of Louis Napoleon. Lamartine does not like him; Eugene Sue washis enemy; the same is true in a modified sense of Alexander Dumas;George Sand dislikes him; Arago while living did the same; and JulesJanin the brilliant critic is no friend of the administration. VictorHugo, Ledru Rollin, Louis Blanc, and a score of other brilliant men arein exile, and of course hate the man who exiled them. It is certainlyone of the most singular facts of modern history that Louis Napoleon hasfew friends, yet is firmly seated upon his throne. His enemies are sodivided, and so hate anarchy, that they all unite in keeping him wherehe is. But Paris laughs in its sleeve at all the baptismal splendorsover the prince and the sober provisions for the regency made by theemperor. No one that I could find has the faintest expectation that thebaby-boy will rule France, or sit upon a throne. When the emperor isshot or dies a violent death, then chaos will come, or something better, but not Napoleon IV. I am confident that this is the universalsentiment, at least throughout Paris, if not over France. I have askedmany a Frenchman his opinion, and the same reply has been given byrepublican and monarchist. This is one secret of Napoleon's strength. Itis thought that with his death great changes must come, and very likelyconfusion and bloodshed. No one believes in a Napoleon succession, andtherefore all bear his despotism with equanimity. Those who hate him sayhis rule will not last forever, while those who wish to advance theirown political interests through other royal families, bide their time. 

It is possible that Louis Napoleon will live many years yet, or at leastdie a natural death, but there are those who have a reputation forshrewdness who do not believe it. They think that as he has taken thesword so he will perish by the sword, or in other words that a bulletwill one day end his life. It would not be strange, for he has manybitter enemies, and there would be poetic justice in such a fate, to saythe least. 

The empress is quite popular in France, but not so much so as thejournalists and letter-writers would make out. She is exceedinglyhandsome, and this fact goes a great way with the Parisians. Her conductsince her marriage has been irreproachable, which should always bementioned to her credit. But that she is naturally a very lovely woman, gentle, and filled with all the virtues, few who know her early historywill believe. She is, like the emperor, shrewd, and acts her part well. She is certainly equal to her position, and in goodness is satisfactoryto the French people. It has been thought by many that if Louis Napoleonhad married a French woman it would have better satisfied the people, but this is by no means certain. 

The emperor and empress seem to live together happily, or at least rumorhath nothing to the contrary; and he would be a brute not to besatisfied with the woman who has presented him with what he desiredabove everything else--a male heir. 

Portraits of the empress abound in all the shops and in private houses. Her great beauty is the passport to the French heart. It is not of thedashing, bold style, but is delicate and refined. Louis Napoleon has inhis provisions for the prince calculated largely upon the popularity ofthe empress, in case of his own death. 

He confides the boy-prince to the Empress Eugenia, and thinks herpopularity is such, and the gallantry of the people so great, that theywill gather round her in the day of trouble. But though the French are agallant people they estimate some things higher than politeness orgallantry. There is no loyalty in France. The only feeling whichapproaches to it is the veneration which is felt in some of theprovinces for the elder Napoleon. But that sentiment of loyalty which isfelt in all ranks and circles in England is unknown to France. Whocarries in his bosom that sentiment towards the man who procured histhrone by perjury? Not a single Frenchman. Many admire his intellect, his daring, and many others accept his rule with pleasure, but nobodyhas the feeling of loyalty toward him. It has died out in France, and Imust confess that this is a good sign. While it is true, France cannotreally _like_ a monarchical despotism, though she may for a long timeendure it. 

THE BAPTISM OF THE PRINCE. 

The 14th of June was a great day in Paris, for it witnessed the baptismof the prince and heir to the French throne. It was not because Pariswas or is devoted to the present Napoleonic dynasty, not because thebirth of an heir to Louis Napoleon was or is regarded with anyremarkable enthusiasm, but simply for this reason: Paris loves gayety, and above all things is fond of a public _fete_. 

Louis Napoleon well knew how to make the day memorable. All that waswanting was money--a prodigious pile of Napoleons. With this he couldeasily make a pageant. 

The young baby-prince was baptized in the ancient church of Notre Dame, which was fitted up in a magnificent style expressly for the occasion. On each side of the grand nave, between the main columns hung with goldand crimson drapery, a series of seats were erected, also covered withcrimson velvet and gold decorations. Around the altar seats were erectedfor the legislative body, the senate, the diplomatic corps, and officersof state. Above these, galleries were formed, hung with drapery, for theoccupation of ladies. The appearance of the interior was grand in theextreme, but it needed the splendid concourse soon to be present, to adda wonderful beauty to it. 

A few minutes past six o'clock a burst of drums announced the arrival ofthe grand cortege in the ancient city, and the archbishop of Paris, withhis assistants, went to the door or grand entrance of Notre Dame, toreceive Napoleon and Eugenia. The princes and princesses had alreadyalighted, and were ready with the clergy to receive the emperor andempress. 

The procession was in something like the following order: First came thecross, followed by the archbishop and his vicar-generals. Next came themilitary officers of the imperial household. Then what are called thehonors of the imperial infant, as follows--the wax taper of the CountessMontebello; the crimson cloth of Baroness Malaret; and the salt-cellarof the Marquess Tourmanbourg. Then came the sponsorial honors. Theseladies all walked in couples, and were dressed in blue, veiled in whitetransparent drapery. The grand duchess of Baden and Prince Oscar ofSweden immediately preceded the prince. 

The royal babe wore a long ermine mantile, and was carried by agouvernante with two assistants, one on each side of her. The nursefollowed, clad in her native costume--that of Burgundy. MarshalsCanrobert and Bosquet followed the infant, and their majesties nextappeared under a moving canopy. 

The cardinal-legate had appeared and been welcomed before, and took hisseat upon a throne erected expressly for him. Immediately in front ofthe altar there was erected a crimson platform, on which two crimsonchairs were placed for the accommodation of Napoleon and Eugenia. Farabove there was a crimson canopy lined with white, and spotted withgolden bees. 

Napoleon advanced up the aisle on the right of Eugenia, and a pace inadvance. He did not offer her his arm, as that is considered improper ina church, according to Parisian notions of propriety. Eugenia wasdressed in a light blue, covered with an exquisite lace, and she wascovered with dazzling diamonds. The jewels she wore were worth nearlyfive millions of dollars. The blue color worn by nearly all the ladiespresent, was considered the appropriate color for the ruder sex of thebaby. Napoleon wore the uniform of a general officer, but with whiteknee pants and silk stockings. He wore several orders. 

Everything being ready, the cardinal-legate left his throne, went to thefoot of the altar, and commenced the _Veni Creator_, which was taken upand executed by the fine orchestra. The music was inexpressibly grand. When it was concluded the masters of ceremonies saluted the altar andtheir majesties, and then waited upon the legate, who at once catechisedthe sponsors. He then conducted the royal babe to the font, holding thebaptismal robe. Napoleon and Eugenia ascended the throne. The duchess ofBaden, representing the god-mother, advanced to the font. The god-fatherwas the pope, represented by the legate. The baptism was then proceededwith. 

When the rite was performed, the gouvernante presented the babe to itsmother, who at once handed it over to its royal papa, who held it up tothe crowd of gazers, and then the cries of "_Vive le Prince Imperial!_"came near destroying the solid masonry of Notre Dame. After this theroyal pair soon took their departure, though there were many ceremoniesafter they had left. 

A magnificent banquet was at once given to their majesties by the cityof Paris, in the _Hotel de Ville_, and it was probably one of the mostluxurious the world ever witnessed. All the male guests were in officialcostume, and the ladies were dressed with great richness. 

The next day--Sunday--was the great day for out-door _fetes_, thoughthis was widely celebrated. The day was given up to all kinds ofenjoyment, and the emperor gave immense sums to make the peoplegood-humored and enthusiastic. There was a display of fire-works in theevening rarely equaled, and probably never surpassed. The theaters wereall open, free to all who came, and could gain entrance. In the courseof the day more than three hundred balloons were sent up, laden withconfectionary and things to tickle the palate, and showered down uponthe multitude. The whole of Paris was gay, and the stranger had a finesample of a grand Parisian _fete_, and Sabbath--both in one!

CHAPTER XI. 

THE FATHER OF FRENCH TRAGEDY--THE JESTER--THE DRAMATIST. 

MEN OF THE PAST. 

During my residence in Paris I became very much interested in thehistory of the great men of France, not only in the present day, but inpast years. I was not so well acquainted with the great French mastersin literature, especially of the past, as with the great men of Englishhistory. I believe this to be the fact with most Americans. I soon foundthat to know France, to know Paris to-day, I needed to have by heart thehistory of her heroes of to-day and yesterday, and especially of thosegreat men who made Paris their home and final resting-place. Theinfluence of these men over the minds, manners, and even the morals ofthe people of Paris, is still very great. Nowhere is genius morepraised, or adored with a greater devotion, than in Paris. Rank mustthere doff its hat to genius, which is the case in no other country butthe American republic. It will then not be out of place for me to sketcha very few of the most brilliant men who in the years which have fledaway lighted with their smiles the saloons of Paris. I will commencewith

THE FATHER OF FRENCH TRAGEDY. 

In the Rue d'Argenteuil, number 18, there is a small quiet house, inwhich Corneille, the father of French tragedy, breathed his last. Ithas a black marble slab in front, and a bust in the yard with thefollowing inscription:

 "_Je ne dois qu'a moi seul toute ma renommee_. "

The great man lies buried in the beautiful church of St. Roch, where atablet is erected to his memory. 

Corneille was the son of Pierre Corneille, master of forests and watersin the viscounty of Rouen. His mother was of noble descent, but thecouple were somewhat poor. The dramatist was born in 1606, and earlybecame a pupil of the Jesuits of Rouen. He was educated for the law, buthad no taste for that profession, and although he attempted to practiceit he was unsuccessful. It was well for France that such was the fact, for had it been otherwise, she would have lost one of her most brilliantnames. 

When Corneille entered upon life, there was no theater in France, thoughthere were exhibitions of various kinds. At last a few wretched playswere written by inferior men, and they were acted upon the stage byinferior actors. Corneille, while vainly endeavoring to win success atthe bar, was incited to write a comedy, and produced one under the titleof "_Melite_. " The plot was suggested by an incident in his own life. Afriend of his was very much in love with a lady, and introduced him toher, that he might, after beholding her charms, indite a sonnet to herin the name of his friend. The poet found great favor in the eyes of thelady, and the original lover was cast into the shade. This incident wasthe reason Why Corneille wrote "_Melite_. " The success of the piece wasvery great, a new company of players was established in Paris, and atthat time it was fully equal to any comedy which had been written in theFrench language, though it reads dull enough at the present day. Thepoet traveled up to Paris to witness his play upon the stage, and was sowell pleased with its reception, that he went on writing plays. Theywere without merit, however. He had not yet struck the key-note of hisafter greatness. 

With four other authors, Corneille was appointed to correct the plays ofRichelieu. Parties quickly sprung into existence in the _salons_ ofParis. Some of them espoused the cause of Corneille--others openlytraduced his plays and were his enemies. He had the independence tocorrect one of Richelieu's plays without the consent of his comrades, and Richelieu reprimanded him for it. He became disgusted and left Parisfor Rouen. He was quite willing, too, to return to the lady who hadinspired his sonnet. She was very beautiful, and he continued to loveher until his death, and this may be said to be the only lasting passionof his life. 

The poet was not much of a scholar, though well informed. He next wrotea tragedy entitled "_Media_, " and then another comedy called "_TheIllusion_. " But he had not yet hit upon the note of success. Soon after, when about thirty years of age, he commenced the study of the Spanishlanguage. 

An Italian secretary of the queen counseled him to this course, andadvised him to read the "_Cid_" of de Castro, with an idea of making ita subject for a drama. Corneille followed his advice, and produced atragedy which roused all France to enthusiasm. Paris was one prolongedstorm of applause, and when one praised an object, he said "It is fineas the _Cid!_" The play was translated into the different languages ofall the civilized nations. Fontenelle says: "I knew two men, a soldierand a mathematician, who had never heard of any other play that hadever been written, but the name of Cid had penetrated even the barbarousstate in which they lived. "

The dramatist had enemies--no man can quickly achieve renown withoutmaking them--and some of them were exceedingly bitter in their attacksupon him. Richelieu, the cardinal, was excessively annoyed that the manhe had reprimanded should have achieved success, and the French Academyof Criticism, which was deeply under his influence, after discussionsdecided somewhat against "The Cid. " This suited the cardinal, but thepoet kept a wise silence, making no reply. 

The next effort of Corneille was that resulting in the tragedy of"_Horace_, " which was a master-piece, and was received with unboundedapplause. He surpassed this effort, however, in his next piece, called"_Cinna_. " After this--which many consider his best drama--came"_Polyeceute"_, a beautiful piece. In it the Christian virtues areillustrated, and when read before a conclave of learned men, theydeputied Voiture to the poet, to induce him, if possible, to withdrawit, for the christianity in it the people would not endure. But the playwent to the people without amendment, and so beautiful was itscharacter, and so delightful the acting, that it carried away the heartsof the listeners. 

Corneille now tried again to write comedy, but did not succeed so wellas in tragedy. He triumphed, however, over a rival, and that to him wassomething, though the play is an inferior one. From this time the poetwrote no better, but in truth worse and worse. He did not fail to writebeautiful scenes, but failed in selecting good subjects. He establishedhimself in Paris, and could do so with comfort, for the king bestowed apension upon him. Before this he had resided at Rouen, running up toParis quite often. In 1642 he was elected a member of the FrenchAcademy. He was never a courtier, and was not fitted to shine in gayParisian circles. His tastes were very simple, and he was in his mannerslike a rustic. To see him in a drawing-room you would not think the mana genius, nor even a bright specimen of his kind. Some of his friendsremonstrated with him, and tried to rouse him from his sluggishness insociety. He always replied, "I am not the less Pierre Corneille. "

La Bruyere says of him, "He is simple and timid; tiresome inconversation--using one word for another--he knows not how to recite hisown verses. " It is strange that he came to Paris, for he loved thecountry better, and many attribute the remove to his brother, who wasalso winning success as a dramatist. 

It had been well if after this Corneille had been content to write nomore plays, for everyone he now produced only proved that his geniushad decayed. The old cunning was gone. A young rival sprung up, thegraceful Racine, and for awhile the old favorite was forgotten, orlaughed at. 

Racine took a line from one of his pieces and used it in such a manneras to excite laughter. Corneille said: "It ill becomes a young man tomake game of other people's verses. " Unfortunately he was tempted into aduel with Racine. The latter triumphed as a writer for the time, andCorneille stopped his pen, as he should have done a long time before. But often he had the pleasure of seeing some of his best pieces enactedupon the stage, and they always excited great enthusiasm. He also knewthat the refined and critical loved his best plays--the better the morethey read them. 

The conduct of the poet through his whole life was, in the main, suchas to excite great admiration in after generations. He was no sycophantin that age of fawning courtiers. He was simple and manly. He was alwaysmelancholy and cared little for the vanities of life. Though poor inearly life, he cared but little about money. The king gave him a pensionof two thousand francs, which at that time was a good income. He wasgenerous and died utterly poor. One evening when age had bowed his formhe entered a Paris theater. The great _Conde_ was present, and princeand people as one man rose in honor of the great dramatist. He died inhis seventy-ninth year, and Racine pronounced a high eulogy upon him, before the academy. Such was its beauty that the king caused it to berecited before him. In it he extolled the genius of the man who had atone time been his rival, and he taught his children to revere hismemory. 

In France, much more in Paris, the name of Corneille is to-day halfsacred. The house he lived and died in has many visitors, and to histomb many a pilgrim comes. And it is not strange that Parisians adorehim, for he was the father of comedy as well as tragedy. It was hisplays that caused the erection of commodious theaters. His plays havecontinued to hold their place in the affections of the nation, and he isreverenced more to-day than he was while living. The foreigner cannotunderstand fully the character of modern French dramatists, and that oftheir works, without knowing something of Corneille, nor can he wanderlong among the streets of Paris, without becoming aware of theestimation in which he is held at the present time by the intelligentclasses. 

THE GREAT JESTER

Rabelais was born in 1483. He was a learned scholar, a physician, and aphilosopher. He was called "the great jester of France, " by Lord Bacon. Many buffooneries are ascribed to him unjustly, and he was a greater manthan certain modern writers make him out to be. 

His place of birth was Chinon, a little town of Touraine. His father wasa man of humble means. He received his early education in a convent nearhis home. His progress was very slow and he was removed to another. Hepromised poorly for future distinction, but at the second convent he wasfortunate in making the acquaintance of Du Ballay who afterward became abishop and cardinal, and whose friendship he retained to the day of hisdeath. 

He was again removed to another convent, where he applied himself to thecultivation of his talents. There was, however, no library in the place. Rabelais soon took to preaching, and with the money he was paid for it, he purchased books. His brother monks hated him for his eloquence inpreaching, and for his evident learning. He was persecuted by these menand suffered a great deal, principally because he knew Greek. For somealleged slight offered against the rules of the convent, they wreakedtheir vengeance upon him by condemning him to the prison cell, and to adiet of bread and water. They also applied their hempen cordsthoroughly, and this course of treatment soon reduced Rabelais to a veryweak condition. His friends were by this time powerful and they obtainedhis release, and a license from the Pope for him to pass from thisconvent to another. But he was thoroughly disgusted with convent life, and fled from it, wandering over the provinces as a secular priest. Henext gave up this employment altogether, and took to the study ofmedicine. He went through the different steps of promotion and was madea professor. He delivered medical lectures, and a volume of his--anedition of Hippocrates--was long held in high estimation by the medicalfaculty of France. 

A medical college of Montpellier had been deprived for some reason ofits privileges, and Rabelais was deputed to Chancellor Duprat to solicita restoration of them. The story is told--to illustrate hislearning--that when he knocked at the chancellor's house he addressedthe person who came to the door in Latin, who could not understand thatlanguage; a man shortly presented himself who could, and Rabelaisaddressed him in Greek. Another map was sent for, and he was addressedin Hebrew, and so on. The singularity of the circumstance arrested theattention of the chancellor, and Rabelais was at once invited to hispresence. He succeeded in restoring the lost honors to the college, andsuch was the enthusiasm of the students that ever after, when takingdegrees, they wore Rabelais scarlet gowns. This usage continued till therevolution. 

Rabelais now went to Lyons, and still later to Rome as the physician toDu Ballay, who was ambassador at that court. Some writers claim that hewent as buffoon instead of physician, but this is unsupported byevidence. Many stories are told of his buffooneries at the court ofRome, but unquestionably the majority were entirely untrue. One storytold, however, is good enough to be true. The pope expressed hiswillingness to grant Rabelais a favor. The wit replied that if such wasthe fact, he begged his holiness to excommunicate him. The pope wishedto know the reason. The wit replied that some very honest gentlemen ofhis acquaintance in Touraine had been burned, and finding it a commonsaying in Italy when a fagot would not burn "that it had beenexcommunicated by the pope's own mouth, " he wished to be renderedincombustible by the same process. It is asserted that Rabelais offendedthe pope by his buffooneries, but the assertion can scarcely bebelieved. When he had resided for a time in Rome, Rabelais went toLyons, then returned to the holy city, and after a second visit went toParis, where he entered the family of Cardinal du Bellay, who had alsoreturned from Rome. He confided to Rabelais the government of hishousehold, and persuaded the pope to secularize the abbey of St. Maurdes-Fosses, and conferred it upon the wit. He next bestowed upon himthe cure of Meudon, which he retained while he lived. 

One of the first of Rabelais' books was entitled "_Lives of the greatGiant Garagantua and his Son Pantagruel"_. To it he owes a great deal ofhis reputation and popularity. It created a vast deal of talk, and wasboth highly praised and bitterly attacked. The champions of the churchcriticised his book with great severity. Calvin the reformer also wroteagainst it with much earnestness. The Sorbonne attacked it for teachingheresy and atheism, and it was condemned by the court of parliament. 

The subjects held up for ridicule were the vices of the popes, theavarice of the prelates, and the universal debaucheries of the monasticorders. It was a wonderful book for the times, and it required greatcourage in Rabelais to venture upon its publication. He would have lostposition, and perhaps his liberty, had it not been for the monarchFrancis I. , who sent for the volume, read it, and declared it to beinnocent and good reading, and protected the author. The sentenceagainst the book amounted to nothing after this, and it was everywhereread and admired. Rabelais was set down as the first wit and scholar ofhis age. 

The character of the book we have noticed cannot be defended. Itsirreverent use of scripture quotations, and loose wit, are not to beoverlooked, but there was no advocacy of atheism in it. Indeed we mustlook upon Rabelais as acting the part of a reformer. If he had soughtsimply popularity and the favor of the court and church, he wouldcertainly not have written a book which is a scathing attack upon pope, prelate, and monk. The book is full of dirty expressions--but the agewas a very impure one, and we should not judge him too severely. He wasa Frenchman, and French wit in all ages has taken great liberties withdecency. 

Among the other books which Rabelais wrote, we may mention "_SeveralAlmanacs_, " "_The Powers of Chevalier de Longery_, " "_Letters fromItaly_, " "_The Philosophical Cream_, " etc. Etc. His greatest book, whichwe have mentioned, went through a great number of editions and had atremendous sale. It was republished in several foreign states. 

Rabelais was a scholar, for he knew well fourteen languages, and wrotewith facility Greek, Latin, and Italian. He was a good physician, anaccomplished naturalist, a correct mathematician, an astronomer, anarchitect, a painter, a musician, and last of all, a wit andphilosopher. He was a good pastor over the parishioners of Meudon, andacted as physician to their bodies as well as souls. 

There are idle tales to the effect that he made his will as follows: "Ihave nothing--I owe much--I leave the rest to the poor. " And also thathe sent a message as follows, to Cardinal du Ballay. "Tell the cardinalI am going to try the great 'perhaps'--you are a fool--draw thecurtain--the farce is done. " These were fictions invented by the verypious Catholics, who hated him for his satires upon the church. 

Rabelais must have been a great man. Even his learning alone would havemade him the most distinguished man in France at the time he lived. Those who hated him have tried to cover his memory with shame, and haverepresented him as merely a buffoon, but such was not the truth. He didoften descend to buffooneries and to almost obscene sayings, and thesethings have had their influence upon France, and have contributed tomake the French people what they are to-day--a nation of professedCatholics, but really a nation of infidels and atheists. But Rabelaiswas more than a wit. He was a public benefactor. He improved medicalscience, and was as much a reformer in his laughable attacks upon thefat and lazy monks, as was Calvin himself. 

Rabelais died at the age of seventy, and was buried in the churchyard ofSt. Paul, Rue des Jardins, at the foot of a beautiful tree which waspreserved in his memory. No monument was ever placed over his grave, buthe did not need one to perpetuate his memory. 

THE DRAMATIST. 

One of the men of the past who exerted and still exerts a wide influenceover French literature, is Racine. He was born in 1639, in the smalltown Ferte-Milon, in Valois. The parents died while he was in infancy, and he and a sister, their only children, were left orphans in the careof their maternal grandfather. This sister remained in Ferte-Milonduring her life, which was not long. Racine was not happy while young, and being neglected by his grandparents felt it keenly. He was a scholarat Beauvais, and attached himself to one of the political parties whichat that time always sprang up in schools and colleges. He was in one oftheir contests wounded upon his forehead, and bore the scar throughlife. 

Racine was transferred from Beauvais to the school of the convent ofPort Royal, and the Jesuits noticing his natural quickness, bestowedcareful attention upon his education. He was so wretchedly poor that hecould not buy copies of the classics, and he was obliged to use thoseowned by others, and which were much inferior to copies he could havepurchased had he possessed money. He was early struck with the beauty ofthe Greek writers--and more especially the Greek tragedians. He wanderedin the woods with Sophocles and Euripides in his hands, and many yearsafter could recite their chief plays from memory. He got hold of theGreek romance of Theogines and Chariclea, but the priests would nottolerate such reading and committed the volume to the flames. He gotanother copy and it shared the same fate. He concluded to purchaseanother, kept it till he learned it by heart, and then took it to thepriests and told them they might have that also. 

At Port Royal Racine was happy. He was a gentle-hearted boy and hismasters loved him. He early began to compose verses and showed anintense love of poetry. At nineteen he left Port Royal for the collegeof Harcour, at Paris. When he was twenty-one Louis XIV. Was married, andinvited every versifier in the kingdom to write in honor of theoccasion. Racine was an obscure student and was unknown as a poet. Hewrote a poem on the marriage, and it was shown to M. Chapelain, who wasthe poetical critic of Paris at that time. He thought it showed a gooddeal of promise and suggested a few alterations. It was carried to thepatron of the critic, who sent him a hundred louis from the king, and apension of six hundred livres. The poet's friends were anxious that heshould choose a profession, and that of the bar was strongly urged uponhim. He objected. An uncle who had a benefice at Uzes, wished to resignit to his nephew. Racine concluded to visit his uncle in the provinces. He remained for some time there, but he found there was little hope ofadvancement and grew restless. The scenery around him was magnificent, yet, though he was a poet, he had no eye for the grand and impressive inscenery. He was too much of a Parisian for that. A Parisian is allart--and cares nothing for nature. He prefers fine buildings andpaintings to fields, mountains, and majestic rivers. 

Racine wrote a poem entitled "_The Bath of Venus_, " and began a playupon the Greek one of Theogines and Chariclea, which had delighted himso much when he was young. He returned to Paris somewhat discouraged, after an absence of only three months. Here, through the rivalry of twoplay-writers, he was persuaded to write very hastily a new play. Heconsented, and produced one which was well received by the Parisians. Itdid not do justice to his powers, however, and he soon after wrote"_Alexandre_, " which was an advance upon the previous performance. Hewas unacquainted with the English or Spanish drama, and had studied onlythe French of Corneille, and the Greek. He attempted the Greek drama, and of course found it very difficult to render dramas founded uponGrecian national subjects, and with Grecian manners, interesting to aParisian audience. "_Alexandre_" was not successful upon the stage, butthe best critics did not hesitate to award the premium of great dramaticgenius to Racine, and he was encouraged to go on. 

While the dramatist was writing "_Andromaque_" he was bitterly attackedby the leader of a sect of religionists for the wretched morality of hisplay. He felt the attack keenly, and that it was just, no American willdeny, though Frenchmen will. The poet replied to the attack in a wittyand satirical letter. 

The "_Andromaque_" of Racine had a fine success, and one character wasso full of passion and was so well represented upon the stage, that itcost the life of the actor who fell dead from excitement. Then followedin quick succession "_Brittonicus_" and "_Berenice_, " which were alsosuccessful. His plays were full of intense passion and eloquence, and itwould not give the reader a fair idea of their influence over theFrench, did we not admit that their representations of human life weresuch as to undermine the morality of those who listened to them. Theplays of Racine have exerted a prodigious influence over the intelligentclasses of Paris, and their wretched morality poisoned the nation. Formy part, when I consider the literature of France--and no one can judgeof a people without knowing its literature--I do not wonder that a verylow morality exists throughout the country, but more especially inParis. The great plays of past and modern times are saturated withlicentiousness--the great romances of past and present years, are foulwith impurities. Racine, living in an age of licentiousness, reflects itin his plays, and his plays are admired to-day in Paris, as of yore;hence it follows that those who go and see them acted must be somewhataffected by their immorality. Madame Rachel has made the characters ofRacine familiar to all France, and has revived all his blemishes as wellas beauties. 

The poet met with much severe criticism after the representation of thelast mentioned of his plays. Madame Sevigne was one of Corneille'swarmest admirers, and did not join the company of Racine worshipers. Abenefice was now given the poet, but soon after it was disputed by apriest; lawsuits began, and finally he relinquished it in disgust. Racine, Moliere, Boileau, and others were in the habit of meeting andhaving convivial suppers together, and on such occasions Racineprojected new plays, and characters were often suggested to him by hisfellow authors. In one of his after plays, which was not successful, heshowed a talent for comedy far above mediocrity. It was once representedbefore the king, who laughed so hard that his courtiers were astonished. 

Racine was elected member of the Academy in 1673, and made a very modestspeech when the honor was conferred upon him. He brought out one afteranother, "_Bajazet_, " "_Mithridates_, " "_Phoedra_, " and "_Iphigenia_, "all of which had an excellent reception. The day "_Phoedra_" was broughtout, another dramatist brought out a drama with the same title. He hadpowerful friends who went so far as to pack his theater, and buy boxesat the theater upon the stage of which Racine's play was to be enacted, and leave them empty. This incident shows us the fierceness of rivalrybetween authors at that time. To such an extent was the quarrel carriedby the friends of the respective authors, that Racine, who was a verysensitive man, resolved to renounce the drama. His early religiouseducation tended to strengthen his resolution. He soon became a severeand stern religionist, undergoing penances to expiate the guilt incurredfor his life of sin. His confessor advised him to marry some woman ofpiety, to help him on in his good work, and he therefore married. Thewoman was Catherine de Romenet. She was of a higher position, and waswealthy. She knew nothing of the drama, was not fond of poetry, and wasa very strict religious woman. She was sincere and affectionate, andwrought a wonderful change in Racine. Under her quiet tuition he becamevery narrow in his religious convictions, but quite happy in his mind. He brought up his children with the same views, and they all tookmonastic vows. His daughters were, one after another, given to theconvent. He had seven children in all, and found it difficult to meetall his family expenses. 

At this time he was made historiographer to the king, and witnessed manyimportant battles. His life at court was very pleasant to him, andthough he was a little too much inclined to be servile, yet he wasgenerally an upright man. The story is told of him, that once when inthe bosom of his little family, an attendant of the great duke came toinvite him to dinner at the Hotel de Conde. 

He sent back the reply, "I cannot go; I have returned to my familyafter an absence of eight days; they have got a fine carp for me, andwould be much disappointed if I did not share it with them. "

Boileau and Racine were very intimate friends, and many anecdotes arerelated of them. Boileau had wit--Racine humor, and a natural turn forraillery. The contests of the two were often amusing. The king was muchpleased with the dramatist, and gave him a suit of apartments in thepalace, and the privilege of attending his parties. Madame de Maintenonmade a great favorite of him. He could recite poetry freely, and wasasked to declaim before a young princess. He found that she had beenlearning some of his own plays. One of the best of his plays wasperformed in the presence of Madame de Maintenon, who liked it so wellthat she beseeched him to write a play which should contain no offensivesentiments. Racine was in agony, for he feared to injure his reputation. His vow prevented his return to his old employment, yet he feared torefuse the request. He compromised the matter by dramatising thetouching bible history of Esther. At court the play had a wonderfulsuccess, and the poet tried again upon the story of Atheliah of thehouse of Judah; and in "_Athalie_" we have the best of all his dramas. Singular as it may seem, this play was not well received at court, andRacine felt mortified. Boileau told him, however, that posterity woulddeclare it the best of all his plays, and he was right. 

It was about this time that the dramatist received the keenest blowwhich he had experienced hi his lifetime, and which broke his heart. Madame de Maintenon was his warm friend, and was extremely fond of hissociety. The country was at that time in great distress, and sheconversed with the poet upon the subject. She was much pleased with hisobservations, and asked him to commit them to paper, promising that whathe should write should be seen by no eye but her own. He complied withher request, and while she was one day reading his essay, the kingsuddenly entered, and casting his eye upon the paper, demanded the nameof the author. Madame de Maintenon broke her promise, and gave the nameof the writer. The king was very angry, and asked, "Does he think thathe knows everything because he writes verses?"

Madame de Maintenon saw at once that the king was much displeased, andfelt it to be her duty to inform the poet, that he might stay away fromcourt for a while, until the monarch's anger died away. Racine wasplunged into the deepest distress, and grew daily weak and ill. Hewandered over the park of Versailles, hoping to accidentally meet Madamede Maintenon, for she did not dare to receive him publicly. He at lengthmet her, and she promised that she would yet bring pleasanter days tothe poet--that the cloud would soon pass away. He replied with greatmelancholy that no fair weather would return for him. 

One day, while in his study, he was seized with a sudden illness, andwas obliged to take at once to his bed. An abscess in his liver hadclosed, though this was not known at the time. His disease grew verypainful, and he became more patient and resigned. As death drew near, his original sweetness of disposition came back to him, and his deepmelancholy fled away. The nobles of the court gathered around hisbed-side, and the king sent to make inquiries as to his condition. Hearranged all his pecuniary affairs. Boileau was with him, and when hebade him farewell, he said, "I look on it as a happiness that I diebefore you. "

When the physicians had discovered the abscess in his liver, theyresolved upon an operation, and he consented, though with no hope ofsaving his life. He said, "The physicians try to give me hope, and Godcould restore me; but the work of death is done. " In three more days heexpired, in his sixtieth year. Thus lived and died one of the mostbrilliant men in the history of France. 

CHAPTER XII

THE FABULIST--THE INFIDEL--THE COMIC WRITER

THE FABULIST. 

La Fontaine, the fabulist, was buried by the side of Moliere, who diedlong before him. He was born July 8th, 1621, at Chateau Thierry. Hisfather was keeper of the royal domains. While young, La Fontaine gave nopromise of his after distinction. His teachers declared him to be adunce. His father, who seems to have been an admirer of poetry, persuaded him to attempt to write verses, but he could not make a rhyme. Seeing at nineteen that he could not make a poet of his son, the old manresolved to make a priest of him. After eighteen months of trial theyoung man returned to society. His father then proposed that he shouldtake the keepership of the royal domains, and marry Marie d'Hericart, the daughter of his friend. La Fontaine made no objection, though wehave no evidence that he loved the girl. She was both beautiful andtalented, however. The father still clung to the idea that his son couldwrite poetry, and with a kind of prophetic instinct. 

When La Fontaine was twenty-two, a French officer visited him, who was agreat admirer of poetry, and who brought the poems of Malherbe. LaFontaine became excited by the poetry, or the passionate recitation, andfor days did nothing but read and recite poetry. He commenced writingodes in imitation of Malherbe, and when his father beheld his firstattempt, he cried for joy. The character of the poetry was certainlydifferent from that which afterward gave him his fame. He soondiscovered the secret of success. By studying the old authors, heimproved his taste, and acquired a disrelish for French literature. Hewas very fond of the Italian authors, but not knowing Greek, he onlyread the Greek authors through translations made by others. He wasexceedingly fond of Plato, and his favorite copy was entirely filledwith annotations. 

La Fontaine remained for several years at Thierry, indolent, except inhis reading, and neglecting his business and his family. His "_Adonis_"was written at this time. His good nature and simplicity are wellillustrated by an anecdote which is told of him. An officer was in theconstant habit of visiting his house, and his friends told him that thereputation of Madame La Fontaine was compromised, and that nothing wasleft but for him to challenge the officer to a duel. Now the fabulistcared little for madame, and less for his own reputation in connectionwith hers; but he believed his friends, and so after a great effortshook off his indolence, and early one morning went to the officer, whowas in bed, and demanded that he should rise at once and go out tomortal combat. The officer rose and followed him, and easily disarmedhim. An explanation followed. The friends of La Fontaine had been jokinghim, and when the officer declared that he would never cross thethreshold of Thierry again, La Fontaine told him that thenceforth heshould come more frequently than ever. 

But though Madame La Fontaine was guiltless in this affair, hercharacter was by no means above reproach. She was giddy and thoughtless, and fond of the society of gentlemen, and made a poor wife for thepoet. But she had an excuse. La Fontaine bestowed upon her no attention, deserted her for weeks together, and was guilty of amours with otherwomen. He possessed a wretched memory, and was given to astonishingabsences of mind. The duchess of Bouillon left him one morning walkingin the open air, with a favorite book in his hand. At night he was stillthere, though it had been raining hard for some time. 

His acquaintance with the duchess of Bouillon was of great service tohim. Had it not been for her he would probably never have left Thierry. She was at that time in the country, being disgraced and exiled fromcourt. She was gay, witty, and fond of poetry. Chancing to read somelines of La Fontaine, she sent for him, and at once saw his genius, andsuggested that he should write tales and fables. When the duchess wasallowed to return to Paris she took La Fontaine with her, and he was atonce introduced into the most brilliant society. The duchess of Mazarin, sister to the duchess of Bouillon, was also his warm friend; and withthe friendship of the two sisters he had no lack of attention. He becameacquainted with Moliere, Boileau, and Racine, and was warmly attached tothem until death invaded the circle. 

The circles which La Fontaine frequented were amused by his greateccentricities. He was often seized with his absences of mind, and greatsport was made of him. But Moliere was in the habit of saying at suchtimes, "The good man will take a flight beyond them, "--a predictionwhich proved perfectly true, for the name of La Fontaine will livelonger than that of any of his companions. 

Boileau and Racine remonstrated with La Fontaine for having separatedfrom his wife. Simple as he was, he believed what they told him--that itwas his duty to return to her. He very soon came back, and when he wasasked why he came back so soon, he replied, "I did not see her!"

"How, " they asked, "was she from home?"

"Yes, " he replied; "she was gone to prayers, and the servant not knowingme, would not let me stay in the house until she returned. "

The fabulist and his wife were so extravagant and careless in theirhabits, that in a very short time the property of La Fontaine was wastedaway. Foquet, the minister, pensioned him, and he remembered him alwaysafter. When Foquet was banished, La Fontaine solicited his pardon, butthe king was incapable of forgiving an enemy, and changed the sentenceto solitary confinement for life. The succeeding minister took away LaFontaine's pension, as might have been expected. 

In 1664 La Fontaine published his first collection of fables, and itgave him immediately the very highest rank as a fabulist. Shortly after, he published a tale entitled "_Psyche and Cupid_. " He was now withoutmoney and a home. The duchess of Orleans added him to her suite, andgave him a pension. She soon died, however, and he was again lefthomeless. A woman by the name of de la Sabliere now invited him to herhouse, and with her he lived the next twenty years. She was a woman ofgreat refinement and taste, but was singularly situated. She lived apartfrom her husband, and had her lover. She gave parties which the mostdistinguished men in France attended, and La Fontaine was very happywhile in her house. He was oppressed by no care or anxiety, and hadnothing to do but to read and write when it suited him. He wroteseveral operas, and actually fell asleep during the first performance ofone of them at the theater!

In 1683 he was elected a member of the French Academy. He had forgottenhis old friends at Thierry, and indeed did not know his own son. Heattended the funeral of a friend, one day, and ten days after it had socompletely escaped his memory, that he called to visit the man. He waslionized, greatly to his displeasure. Attending one day at a dinnergiven by somebody who cared nothing for his genius, but wished the_eclat_ that would result from entertaining a great man, La Fontainetalked little, eat very heartily, and when dinner was over, got his hatto go. The host remonstrated: "The distance is short--you will be tooearly, " he said. "I'll take the longest road, " replied La Fontaine. 

After twenty years of easy existence, La Fontaine was suddenly deprivedof his home. Madame de la Sabliere had been living all this time withher lover. He now deserted her. At the same time her husband wasdeserted by his mistress, which so affected him that he took poison anddied. These events had so great an effect upon Madame de la Sablierethat she also died. 

The duchess of Bouillon was now in England, and she invited La Fontaineto join her there; but he was now too old, and could not undertake sucha journey. Madame d'Hevvart, the wife of a rich man, gave him anapartment in her house, where he remained during the rest of his days. He was now getting infirm, and the Jesuits turned their eyes toward him. He had thus far lived without a profession of religion, and a life ofloose morality. The Jesuits cared little for his want of good morals, but in many of his books he had ridiculed the church and the clergy. Itwas important, therefore, to make him confess his sins. Father Poujet, ashrewd and subtle Jesuit, was sent to converse with him. In a very shorttime he contrived to insinuate himself into the confidence of the simplepoet. He acknowledged, one after another, the truths of religion, and hewas called on to make expiations and a public confession. He was easilypersuaded to burn his operas, and to give up all the profits resultingfrom the sale of a volume of his worst tales; but he rebelled againstpublic confession. Three doctors of the Sorbonne were sent to him, andthey argued long and well, but to no purpose. An old man who was angeredby their bull-dog pertinancy, said, "Don't torment him, my reverendfathers; it is not ill will in him, but stupidity, poor soul; and GodAlmighty will not have the heart to damn him for it. "

That La Fontaine finally made some kind of a confession, there is littledoubt; but that he made the shameful confession which Catholic writersdeclare he did, no one now believes. He was probably worn out with theirentreaties, and came to a compromise with them. 

He added nothing to his reputation after this, but rather detracted fromit. He lived very quietly and devotedly, and died in 1695, in theseventy-fourth year of his age. It was found after his death that he wasin the habit of mortifying himself with a shirt of sackcloth. 

La Fontaine was unquestionably the greatest fabulist of his or any othertime, and he has been exceedingly popular throughout France. His talesand fables and light poems are full of beauty and grace. But we cannotspeak highly of their morality. They are, like almost all Frenchliterature, corrupt. They took their character from the times, and havehad a bad influence upon later generations of France. 

THE INFIDEL. 

Perhaps no man has existed in the past history of France, who has hadsuch a wonderful influence over succeeding generations, as Voltaire. Iname him the _infidel_, not because his infidelity was the mostprominent characteristic, but because he is known more widely in Americafor his scoffing skepticism. The effect of Voltaire's skeptical writingsis more perceptible in Paris than in the provinces, but in the capitalan amount of infidelity obtains which is perfectly frightful; and evenamong those who frequent the church, and sometimes ostentatiously paradean affection for it, this skepticism fills the intellects. No one writerof past years unsettled the already shallow-rooted faith of the peopleto such an extent as Voltaire. Yet he was by no means the man many ofhis enemies suppose him to have been. No mere scoffer or reviler of thebible could have obtained such an influence in France as Voltaire did. He was really a great man, and gained the affections of the people byhis advocacy of liberty. It is more than probable that under a system ofreligion as pure as now exists in America, Voltaire would never havebeen an infidel. The condition of the Catholic church in France, in histime, was sufficiently shocking to have startled every intelligent mindinto skepticism. It was filled with hypocrites and knaves, who professedto be filled with the spirit of God, but who in reality were verysensual and wicked men. The slightest independence in religious opinionswas punished by exile or imprisonment. How could a man with anindependent intellect succumb to such a church? And was it not verynatural for it to jump from belief to infidelity? This should be bornein mind when we estimate the character of Voltaire. 

Voltaire's real name was Francois-Marie Arouet, and he was born atChatenay, on the 20th of February, 1694. His father was a notary, andhad a lucrative situation. His mother was of noble extraction. When ababe, he was so feeble that it was not expected he would live. An abbein the family educated him, and it is a singular fact, that when he wasa boy, a deistical ode was put into his hands. He entered the college ofLouis-le-Grand, and his, talents rendered him a general favorite withthe teachers. One of his tutors, however, in a religious argument foundhimself so incompetent to defend the Catholic church, that in his angerhe exclaimed, "You will become the Coryphaeus of Deism. "

On leaving college the young man entered into Paris society. Louis XIV. Was in his dotage, and at this time paid little attention to men ofgenius. Arouet soon became popular in the highest circles for his witand genius. He resolved, much against his father's will, to devotehimself to a literary life. One of the first acts of the young man wasto fall in love with a rich but desperate woman's daughter, and amidmuch opposition he by stealth kept up an intercourse with her; but hewas at last obliged to give way before so much ill will. His father wasvery angry with him--so much so, that he consented at last to study thelaw. He entered a law-office in Paris, and pursued his studies withindustry. He frequented society, but he could not content himself withthe prospect of an attorney's life. He beseeched his father to releasehim from his course of study, and he consented that he should return tothe country-seat of a friend, and consider the matter. Here Arouet founda large library, and fed upon it. He staid there until the death of theking, when he went up to Paris to witness the joy of the people. Someverses were printed which were attributed to him, and he was instantlythrown into the Bastille. He passed a year in prison, without society, books, or pen and ink. 

While imprisoned, the idea occurred to him of writing a great Frenchepic, and he actually composed in his dungeon two cantos of it, whichafterwards were not altered. The poem was called "_Henriade_, " and wasregarded with admiration by his contemporaries. 

Arouet was finally set free, his innocence being satisfactorily proved. He now issued the tragedy of "_Oedipus_, " which had a great success. Thissuccess was only deserved in part. He still later wrote several lettersupon the tragedies of Sophocles, which gave him at once a high positionas a man of learning, and as a critic. His life alternated between workand pleasure. He quarreled with Rosseau about this time, and a littlelater visited England. He remained away from France three years. Uponhis return to Paris he again brought out plays, and was everywhereadmired and worshiped. But the priesthood hated him. 

He now bought the small estate of Voltaire, and took the name for hisown, as was customary at that time. His writings occasionally made lightof religion and the priests, and scoffed at their practices. An actressin Paris was refused the rites of burial by the priests, because of herlife and profession. Voltaire thereupon wrote her apotheosis, and inconsequence was obliged to conceal himself for several months in alittle village in Normandy. When it was safe for him to emerge from hisretirement, he wrote a book on England, which raised another storm abouthis head. He spoke too highly of English liberty in religious matters, and took occasion to speak sarcastically of all religion. The volume wasburned in public, and Voltaire concealed himself in the country. 

He now retired to the house of Madam du Chatelet in the country, wherehe remained for several years. She was a woman of fine intellect, but aharsh nature, and worshipped Voltaire. He here wrote several plays;labored at his essay "_On the Manners and Spirit of Nations_;" collectedmaterials for his "_History of the Age of Louis XIV_;" and wrote thefamous "_Pucelle d'Orleans_. " It was while at this house that Voltairecommenced the celebrated correspondence with Frederick the Great. Eachhad the highest admiration for the other. The great king wrote to him asfollows:

 "See in me only, I entreat you, a zealous citizen, a somewhat skeptical philosopher, but a truly faithful friend. For God's sake write to me simply as a man; join with me in despising titles, names, and all exterior splendor. "

Voltaire replied; "This is a command after my own heart. _I know not howto treat a king_; but I am quite at my ease with a man whose head andheart are full of love for the human race. "

The two men met at Cleave. The king had been very anxious for Voltaireto visit the court of Prussia, but he would not without Madame duChatelet; and Frederic cared not for the acquaintance of a French courtlady. Some time after this, Voltaire was sent on a secret mission toPrussia, and startled Frederic by his sudden appearance. He tried topersuade him to take up his abode with him, but the philosopher wouldnot consent. He sighed for his home, and the applause of a Parisianaudience. 

He brought out other plays, which were well received. A minister dyingat this time, who had been a bitter enemy of his, he ventured moreboldly before the world. He sought to be elected a member of theAcademy. A violent opposition arose. He had fought his enemies to thedeath, never sparing sarcasm or ridicule, and these things could not beforgotten. He lost his election, but was compensated by the success of anew tragedy, which set all Paris into transports of delight. 

He was chosen by the duke de Richelieu to negotiate with the king ofPrussia in reference to a treaty. He was honored in the highest degreeby Frederic--was feted, praised, and made as much of as if he had been aking. He succeeded in his negotiations, manifesting great subtlety andtact. He returned to the house of Madame du Chatelet. For a time helived either here or at Paris--until Madame du Chatelet died, when hewent to Paris to spend all his time. He was deeply affected by the deathof the only woman he ever loved with sincerity. He propitiated themistress of Louis XV. --Madame Pompadour--and was appointed to a place inthe court; and was also made historiographer of France. Soon after, hewas elected a member of the Academy, thus triumphing over his oldenemies at last. For a time he sacrificed his manly independence, andwas not unlike any other court flatterer. He had a rival in Crebillon;and disgusted with the state of things, he accepted the invitation ofFrederic, and made him a visit. He was received with the greatest joy bythe monarch--who even kissed the poet's hand in a transport ofadmiration. 

The king's cook awaited his orders when he wished to eat in his ownrooms, and the king's coach was ready for him when he would ride. Hespent two hours each day in studying with the king, correcting hisworks, etc. Etc. He was tempted by so much attention to accept of theking a pension and the office of chamberlain; and was obliged to resignhis places at the French court. He wrote to a friend in France:

 "How can I forget the barbarous manner with which I have been treated in my own country? You know what I have gone through. I enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years. "

He had a salary of twenty thousand francs for himself, and four thousandfor his niece, who bitterly opposed the acceptance of Frederick's offer. She prophesied that in the end it would be his death. He went at workcorrecting his tragedies and writing new plays. He soon thought hediscovered deceit in the king, and learned that he was despotic. Thekeen remarks of each were treasured up. Voltaire heard from a friendthat the king had said of him: "I shall not want him more than a yearlonger--one squeezes the orange and throws away the peel. "

The remark caused him much sorrow. The king also treasured up a remarksarcastically made by Voltaire, which was as follows: "When I correctthe royal poems I am washing the king's dirty linen. " They soon losttheir attachment for each other. Voltaire watched in vain for a way toescape from Prussia. At last it came, and he was once more a free man inSwitzerland. 

He went into a Protestant region, where there were no Catholics, andbought him a pretty estate, and determined to live in completeindependence. Persecution however followed him here, and he took up hisabode in a retired part of France. He wrote his "_Encyclopedia_" whichwas severely condemned. In 1788, in his eighty-fourth year, he returnedto Paris, bringing with him a newly-written tragedy. His new life inParis was not good for him, and he died at the end of May. 

This was the man who, in the years that followed him, ruled, as it were, the intellect of Paris and France. He was a mighty man, and the factthat he was bitterly persecuted, gave him a hold upon the sympathies ofsucceeding generations. The conduct of the church toward him wasshameful, and he made the sad mistake of rejecting all religion, thetrue as well as the false. 

His plays and writings abound with shocking sentiments, and some of hiswritings are exceedingly coarse. These scoffs, coming from an ordinaryman, would have wrought little harm; but from the great Voltaire, whowas worshiped by the French people, they possessed an astonishing powerto work iniquity. A New Englander can scarcely credit his senses inParis when he finds the estimation in which Voltaire and his writingsare held by a vast class of the most intelligent Parisians. In religiousAmerica he is regarded as a monster of iniquity; in France as a greatpoet, philosopher, and advocate of human liberty. 

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THE GREAT COMIC WRITER. 

The place where Moliere, the great comic writer of France, lived inParis, was pointed out to me one day while near the Rue St. Honore; andI have often noticed on one of the prominent streets a very neatmonument to the memory of the great man. It is a niche, with twoCorinthian columns, surmounted by a half-circular pediment, which isrichly ornamented. A statue of Moliere is placed in the niche in asitting posture, and in a meditative mood. In front of the columns oneach side, there are allegorical figures--one representing his serious, the other his comic plays. Each bears a scroll which contains--one, hiscomic plays, arranged in chronological order; and the other, his seriousplays, arranged in like manner. The basement is beautifully sculptured. The inscriptions are as follows: "_A. Moliere. Ne a Paris, le 15Jauvier, 1622, et mort a Paris, le 17 Fevrier, 1673_. " The monument isover fifty feet in height, and cost one hundred and sixty-eight thousandfrancs. It was erected in 1844, with a great deal of attendant ceremonywhen it was finished. 

Moliere is one of the names of which France is justly proud, and inParis his memory is half-worshiped. Not to know him well, would be inthe eyes of a Parisian the sure sign of intolerable stupidity. He wasthe greatest comic writer of France, and perhaps of the world. It willnot be out of place, therefore, to give a slight sketch of his life. 

The real name of Moliere was Jean Baptiste Poguelin, and he was born ina little house in the Rue St. Honore, in the year 1622. His father was acarpet-furnisher to the king, and he was brought up to the same businessby his father. His mother died when he was only ten years old, and hisfather was left with a large family of children to educate. The boypassed his early days in his father's warehouse, but his grandfather wasaccustomed to take him often to the play-house, where he listened tosome of the great Corneille's plays, to his thorough delight. Thus inhis youth, even while a mere boy, the taste for the drama was created. His father at one time remonstrated with the old man for taking the boythus early to the theater, and asked, "Do you mean to make an actor ofhim?"

Nothing daunted by this question, the grandfather replied, "Yes, if itplease God to make him as good a one as Bellerose"--who was the besttragic actor of that time. 

The boy was discontented as he grew older, and panted for knowledge. Ashe contemplated a life given up to trade, he grew melancholy. He wasfinally sent as an out-student to the college of Clermont, and afterwardto the college of Louis-le-Grand, which was under the direction of theJesuits. The young prince of Conti was at school at that time. Gassendi, the private tutor to the natural son of a man of fortune, namedChapelle--the son at that time at school with Poguelin--discovered theboy's talents, and taught him the philosophy of Epicurus, and gave himlessons in morals. Another of his fellow-students was one de Bergerac, of fine talents but wild disposition. Chapelle and de Bergerac becameafterward distinguished. 

As soon as he was through college, Poguelin entered into the king'sservice as _valet de chambre_, and made the journey with his majesty toNarbonne. After this he studied law in Orleans, and commenced practicein Paris as an advocate. He here became associated with a few friends ingetting up a series of plays. The age was one full of enthusiasm for thestage, and plays were enacted upon the stage and off of it, in privatecircles. The club of young men who acted together for the amusement oftheir friends, were so successful that they resolved to take to thepublic stage; and as was the custom, each took an assumed name. Poguelin assumed the name of Moliere, a name which he immortalized, andby which he was ever afterward known. 

His father was very much displeased with his course, and sent a friendto persuade him to relinquish it, but the deputy was so fascinated byPoguelin's acting, that he became a convert to him, and was not fittedto urge the arguments of the father. The family for a time refused in amanner to acknowledge their son, being ashamed of his new profession;but they are now known only through him. 

The masters under whom Moliere principally studied were Italians, and heimbibed a love for the Italian comic art. He also read the Spanishcomedies, and learned to admire them. 

Moliere and his little band left Paris for the provinces. The times wereunpropitious, for the wars of the Fronde at that time made the wholecountry a scene of confusion and danger. They had visited Bordeaux, andwere protected by the governor of Guienne. While here, Moliere wrote andbrought out a tragedy, which had so poor a success that he gave uptragedy. After a short provincial tour he returned to Paris, and renewedthe acquaintance of the prince of Conti. The latter caused Moliere andhis fellows to bring out plays at his palace. But Paris was too full ofstrife, and Moliere went to Lyons, where he wrote and brought out hisfirst comedy, "_L'Etouedi_. " It met with a great success. There is anEnglish translation, entitled "Sir Martin Marplot. " The next piece wasentitled "_Depit Amourex_, " and its genuine humor gave it a finereputation. 

The moral character of Moliere at this time was exceedingly bad. Thetimes were such that a band of players found every temptation beforethem. The French biographers give an account of some of his"gallantries, " but they only lead the reader to feel disgust rather thanadmiration. That plays written by such a man, and during times whichcorrupted the whole people, should be pure, one could not expect. Moliere's plays, therefore, bear the same character, in this respect, asall the great performances of authors of France in those and succeedingtimes. They were altogether loose in their morals. 

The company of players were invited to Paynas by the prince of Conti, who was staying there at the time. They acted before him, and Molierewrote several little interludes for the special amusement of the prince, which were afterward the ground-work of some of his best comedies. Theprince was so pleased with the comedian, that he invited him to becomehis secretary. He declined, but whether from love of comedy, or fear ofthe prince, we do not know. The prince possessed an awful temper, andactually killed his former secretary by throwing the tongs at him. 

Paris at length became more quiet, and Moliere turned his steps towardit. He obtained the protection of the king's brother, was introduced tothe king, and obtained permission to establish himself in the capital. There was a rival theater at the Hotel de Bourgogue, at whichCorneille's tragedies were played. Moliere and his company acted beforeLouis XIV. And his mother, in the Louvre. The play was that of"Nicomede, " and the success was very great. The play was a tragedy, butMoliere knew very well that they could not rival the othertragedy-theater, in that line; and he therefore introduced the customthat night of concluding a tragedy with a farce. The farce acted was oneof his own, and was so well received that the custom was ever afterkept up. The company finally settled down in the Palais Royal, which theking had granted them. 

The next poem which Moliere wrote and brought out, was aimed at asociety of men, including many of the most talented in Paris, called the"_Society of the Hotel de Rambouillet_. " The peculiarities of thissociety were too ridiculous to describe at this day, and Moliere'scomedy, which was aimed at them, was wonderfully successful. Paris atonce was in an uproar of laughter, and in the midst of the piece an oldman rose in the theater, crying out, "Courage, Moliere; this is a truecomedy!"

The next piece was entitled "_Sganarelle_, " and although it was quitesuccessful, it was inferior to those which preceded it. Moliere nowtried tragedy, but with no success. It was not his _forte_. He returnedto comedy, and brought out a piece entitled "_L'Ecoledes Maris_, " whichachieved a brilliant success. 

At this time Foquet was the minister of finance, and gave a fete inhonor of the king; indeed he entertained the king at his villa. He wasin some respects another Cardinal Wolsey, in his magnificence andrecklessness of display. Foquet loved a beautiful girl, who rejectedhim. He discovered that the girl loved the king, and that the passionwas reciprocated. In his anger he charged it upon the girl, who ran withthe secret to the king. Louis was resolved on the downfall of hisminister. The fete took place upon a scale of almost unparalleledsplendor. Le Brun painted the scenes, La Fontaine wrote verses for it, and Moliere prepared a ballet for the occasion. The king concealed hiswrath at this display of wealth, and very much enjoyed Moliere'samusements; and suggested a new comedy to the comedian, while talkingwith him at the minister's. Foquet soon fell. 

Moliere was by this time so distinguished that he had troops of friendsamong the wise, learned, and great. Among the warmest of them was thegreat Conde, who was always pleased with his society. He told thecomedian that he feared to trespass by sending for him on peculiaroccasions, and therefore requested him to come to him whenever he had aleisure hour; and at such times he would dismiss all other matters, andgive himself up to pleasant conversation. The king invariably defendedMoliere. A duke once attacked him, and the king reproved the noble. Hestill attended to his duties as _valet de chambre_ to the king, and wasconstantly subjected to annoyance on account of his profession. Theother officers of the king's chamber would not eat with him, such wastheir petty meanness and pride. The king determined to give them alesson, so one morning he addressed Moliere as follows:

 "I am told you have short commons here, Moliere, and that the officers of my chamber think you unworthy of sharing their meals. You are probably hungry; I got up with a good appetite. Sit down at that table where they have placed my refreshments. " The king sat down with him, and the two went heartily at a fowl. The doors were opened, and the most prominent members of the court entered. "You see me, " said Louis, "employed in giving Moliere his breakfast, as my people do not find him good enough company for themselves. "

From this time Moliere had no trouble on the score of treatment from hisfellow _valets_. 

Everywhere except at court, before this, Moliere was treated with thegreatest consideration on account of his brilliant genius. He wasintimate with Racine and with Boileau. The story for a time was believedthat Moliere married his natural daughter, but it has been proved afalsehood. He became attached to the sister of Madeleine Bejaet, a verywitty and graceful woman, and married her; but he soon found that shewas too fond of admiration to make him happy. She was coquettish, andwithout principle, and though Moliere bore with her long, they at lengthseparated. He said: "There is but one sort of love, and those who aremore easily satisfied, do not know what true love is. "

Moliere went on with the management of his theater, and writing andbringing out new plays. One of them--"_L'Ecole des Femmes_"--wastranslated and amended into the English by Wycherly, and was altogethermore licentious in plot than in the original language. It was verypopular in England, but not so much so in France. 

The next piece of Moliere's was entitled "_Impromptu de Versailles_, "and was written at the command of the king. The king and his courtierswere accustomed to take parts in the ballets in those days, and Louisand his court took parts in the ballets of Moliere's construction. Thesoldiers who guarded the king were accustomed to go into the theaterfree. They took up a large space, and Moliere represented his loss tothe king, who abolished the privilege. The soldiers were very angry, andthe next night they cut the door-keeper to pieces with their swords, andforced their way into the house. Moliere made them a speech, and peacewas restored. The king offered to punish with severity the lawlesssoldiery, but Moliere requested him not to do so, and the new order wasever after obeyed without trouble. 

One of his next acts was to hold up to ridicule, in a comedy, themedical faculty. The condition of the medical art at that time was suchthat it richly deserved ridicule. But no man can thus attack greatbodies of men without making enemies, and Moliere had them withoutnumber. 

The comedian was now at the height of his prosperity, and still he wasunhappy. Separated from his wife, whose conduct was now shameful, he hadno domestic happiness. He spent much of his time at his country-house atAntenil, where an apartment was always kept for his old school-fellow, Chapelle, for whom he always retained a warm affection. He was oftenalone, and preferred solitude, shutting himself away from society. Asupper was once given by him to all his brother wits. He alone wasindisposed, and as he took no wine or animal food, he went early to bed, leaving his friends merry over their wine. At last they grew so affectedby the wine they had drank, that they were ready to follow a leader intoany absurdity. Chapelle was, when tipsy, always melancholy, and on thisoccasion he addressed his companions in a strain of bathos which, hadthey been free from the effects of wine, would only have excited theirlaughter. But now they were in the same condition as himself. Chapellefinally wound up by proposing that they all proceed to a neighboringriver, and end life together by plunging into it. He expiated upon theheroism of the act, and the immortality it would give them, and they allagreed to it. Moliere overheard them quitting the house, and suspectingsomething wrong, followed them. He came up with them upon the bank ofthe river, when they besought him also to die with them. He professed tobe struck with the heroism of their plan, but demanded that it should beexecuted in the broad day. They fell in with his suggestion, andreturned to the house. Of course, the next morning they were ashamed tolook upon each other's faces. 

Moliere wrote many new plays and farces, but his days were fast drawingto a close. He was overworked, and took little care of his health. Theking asked him one day what he did with his doctor. "We conversetogether, " he replied--"he writes prescriptions, which I do not take, and I recover. " He had a weak chest, and a constant cough. 

About this time his friends persuaded him to invite his wife again tohis house, and she urged him to a more generous diet, but he grew theworse for it. He now brought out a new play, and could not be preventedfrom taking a prominent part in it. On the fourth night he was muchworse, and friends gathered around him, beseeching him not to go on thestage longer. He replied, "There are fifty poor workmen whose breaddepends on the daily receipts. I should reproach myself if I deprivedthem of it. " But while making others laugh, he was actually dying. Hewas, while in the ballet, seized with a fit of coughing, and burst ablood-vessel. A priest was sent for, but such was their antipathy to thecomedian, that it was long before one could be found willing to attendhim. He expired with but few friends around him. Two sisters of charitywhom he had been in the habit of receiving in his house while they werecollecting alms during Lent, remembered his generosity, and attended hisdeath-bed. 

The archbishop of Paris refused the rites of burial to the body. Hiswife was much moved by this act, and exclaimed, "What! refuse burial toone who deserves that altars should be erected to him!" She ran to theking, who being offended by some indiscretion of hers, refused tointerfere in the matter, though he privately ordered the archbishop totake off the interdiction. When the funeral took place, a mob of lowpeople, excited by their priestly advisers, attended, intending to offerinsult to the body, but the comedian's widow propitiated them bythrowing a thousand francs among them. We see by this shameful treatmentof a man whom France honored, and who, though not irreproachable incharacter, was as pure as those who persecuted him. 

Moliere was almost universally honored--always excepting those bodieswhich he had ridiculed. He was very generous, and would, long before hisdeath, have given up acting on the stage, were it not for his companionswhose subsistence depended upon his appearance with them. 

Very many years after, the eulogy of Moliere was made the subject of aprize; and when it was delivered, two persons by the name of Poguelinwere honored by a seat on the stage. 

At his death the band of comedians was broken up. His widow received apension, in after years, of one thousand livres. But one of his childrensurvived, and that one had no issue--so the race soon became extinct. 

THE END.