CHAPTER XIX.

June 3.
H OW sumptuous is the Luxembourg Palace ! Be- ginning with thp lone ornament of the SaUe des Cent Gardes — the life-size marble statue of Jeanne Hachette, with its firm, proud and heroic air — and con- tinuing on to salons , where the regal taste of Marie de Medicis still lingers, we feel that we are under some mag- ical guidance, and are not soon to see the end of lavish splendor. Nowhere is this feast more abundantly grand than in the Salle du Trone , with golden beauty flashing from ceiling and wall ; with the history of France, em- bracing some of its early epochs, and extending up to the present rule, glowingly set in the artists* colors — with the magnificently decorated Throne, where sat the first Napoleon, and the superb statues, representing the four principal powers of Europe. The gallery of Busts presents a distinguished array of statesmen and generals ; and the Cabinet of the Emperor furnishes several histori- cal scenes in the life of Napoleon I ; besides two of more recent interest, the triumphal entry of Napoleon III, into Paris, after being proclaimed Emperor, at St. Cloud — flowers strew his pathway ; banners wave above his head ; music and fair lips send forth a welcoming shout, — and
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the marriage of Eugenie. Beauty’s spell always hovers o’er a nuptial scene, and holy tenderness freights the hour when the most sacred of all obligations is blessed on earth, and “ registered in heaven.” The Senate Cham- ber, with its sedate, legislative air, and wood-work of carved oak, is in sombre contrast with the glittering grandeur of the rest of the Palace, but it has some bright features in the allegorical paintings of Law, Justice, Patriotism and Wisdom; the two large side pictures by Blondel, and the statues of Charlemagne and St. Louis. The public are always excluded from this chamber during the debates. Descending the staircase, the visi- tor enters a little room, which is graced with the cele- brated picture of Christ on the Cro88 } by Philippe de Champagne, valued at two hundred thousand francs. Four or five artists have recently been engaged in copy- ing it. One young man, to-day, was bending over another pensive subject, The Haler Dolorosa , on whose face there dwells an agony of grief, the sullying shade to beauty’s brightness. HoVmany of earth’s children wear, like this holy mother, the stamp of suffering, and carry like a dove with bruised wing, the smart and burden of a wound ! The bcd-chambcr of Marie dc Medicis — sans lit — is profusely ornamented, the doors being tinted in gold, with gay colored designs. The exquisite me- dallion paintings around the wall, are by Nicholas Pous- sin and Phillij)c dc Champagne. Rubens lias croicned the Queen with all the glory of his brush, as she looks down from the plafond in majestic state ; and we, who gaze upon her, irresistibly say, Oh! fatal mirage — ye /*
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gilded thrones and jeweled crowns ! Oh ! deceitful, flat- tering voice of power, out of whose melody come groans and weeping, and sorrow/s curse ! What vicissitudes have marked the career of this woman! Here she dwelt in the magnificence of station, treading a bright, velvety path, and foreseeing no shadow, or stumbling-block in the future ; but sunny smiles and joyous hopes are fleet- ing, for now the scene shifts, and there appears a lone garret at Cologne, where rags, poverty and obscurity take the place of regal grandeur, and finish the last act in the drama of life. The chapel, although not covering much space, contains a few large paintings, representing the Samaritan labors of the Apostle Philip, the clemency of St. Louis, the Marriage of the Virgin, and St. Louis in Palestine. But the statue of the Guardian Angel, and two little children, hewn out of a single block of marble, is the most engrossing object of art.
The gallery of paintings, in the eastern wing of the palace, is very creditable to our contemporary artists ; and, in singling out RosaJBonheur and Eugene Delacroix for the largest meed of praise, we do not mean to depre- ciate other artists, some of whom are quite up to their high standard. Subjects of the remote past and of the present blend like the colors of a kaleidoscope, and of the great variety may be named The Glorification of St Louis ; The Levite of Ephraim finding the dead body of his wife, who fell a victim to the tribe of Benjamin'; The Death of Cccsar y with Mark Antony carrying the bloody mantle among the Romans ; The Death of Cleo- patra ; The Kiss of Judas ; Le Mont de Piete — pawn-
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brokers ; Jane Shore reviled as sorceress by the London populace ; Raphael at the Vatican ; Homer Deified ; St. Cecilia! 8 Body being carried into the Catacombs ; and the graceful Psyche , leaving hell with the box for Venus. Cerberus stands at the entrance, formidable and uninter- esting, beside the lovely figure draped in white, with flowing, golden locks and blue wings. Another picture, heart-rending to behold, is the Incendiary Scene , repre- senting a family cut off from escape — a mother holds her babe, and two older children cling to her knees, terror-struck at the flames bursting through a half-open door ; the husband, at an open window, is driven back by the volumes of smoke. There is an adjoining gal- lery devoted to sculpture — groups and single statues. Of the former the most attractive are The Mother of the Gracchi — firm, loving and true ; The Infancy of Bac- chus — Pan holding aloft the young god ; and Agrippina and Caligula. The grace, dignity and courage portrayed in the last statue, strike very agreeably the spectator. She is leaving the tent of her husband, Germanicus, with her child in her arms ; and, again, she is taking her de- parture from Syria for Rome, carrying her husband’s ashes. Of the single figures, the most beautiful are — Minet*va y after the judgment of Paris; Truth ; the tear- ful, grief-stricken Ariadne; Psyche ; A Young Girl con- fiding her first secret to Venus — for love must make known its joy ; and To Scon and To Be , in which the mask is introduced.
From the palace we went to the Madelainc. Stand- ing in front of its elevated and noble portico, where
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column after column rises in Grecian beauty, and ornate sculpture stamps the majestic facade, we could but unite in the universal opinion that it is, par excellence , the classic church of Paris. The massive bronze doors — after the style of which our national Capitol at Wash- ington has lately received an adornment — are illustrative of the ten commandments. On entering, we first see the fine marble groups of The Baptism of Christ and The Marriage of the Virgin ; and then we move on to the centre of the vast nave, impressed with a spirit of the beautiful, and deriving a holy lesson from arabesques and paintings that tell of the Evangelists and Apostles, of martyrs and saints. The high altar, with the figure of Mary Magdalen, redeemed from the sins and sorrows of earth, and carried on angel wings to Paradise, and the Archangels at prayer, accord with, if they do not surpass, the other marbles that incrust the walls of the side chapels. Everywhere in this temple-slirine is there a claim to admiration, and it may be very aptly quoted, u I could not one moment live the guest of such a scene without the springs of prayer overflowing all ray soul.” The church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois engages special interest, its site being one of the ancient landmarks of the city — a religious shrine sacked by the ruthless hand of the Normans, in 886. Reconstructed more than a hundred years later, and taking its present name, it rose rapidly to distinction, and, by degrees, grew into royal favor. It has passed through the trials of insurrection, and it gave that dread and mournful signal, in 1572, which carried out the atrocity and dissimulation of
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Queen Catherine’s plot. Now, the visitor sees this church with the mist of erring fate cast aside, where the public go to worship in quiet devotion. Deep in its recesses has the prodigal hand of art scattered beauties, and from window, aisle and altar, we have Christ before us, and the ministrations of saints. In the chapel, dedi- cated to the Lady of our Compassion, is a magnificent specimen of carved wood, in altar form. A gothic altar, illuminated, is in another chapel, the painted windows of which are exceedingly rich, one being by the cele- brated Amaury Duval.
St. Uocli, one of the most beautiful, if not the most costly of church edifices, is deeply interesting in its several associations with the revolutions of Paris, if only to name the occasion, when the excited mob gathered on its broad steps to witness Marie Antoinette led to execu- tion. Eighteen chapels abound in paintings and mar- bles, and bas-reliefs in plaster, portraying scenes in the life of Jesus and the Saints. St. Augustin, St. Andre, St. Denis, St. Genevieve, St. Leon — le Grand — and St. Marcel are perhaps the most admirably exalted in sculp- ture and colors. The altar, most curiously wrought — a blaze of golden light, shooting off into rays which lose themselves in dark clouds — has for its ornament, the figure of the Infant Jesus in swaddling clothes, attended by Mary and Joseph. Tablets and monuments also find a place at St. Roch, and the one which most eloquently appeals to the heart.of the visitor, is “ a VAbbe de VEpte” showing the gratitude of the deaf and dumb for the founder of their institution of learning. The chapel of
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Calvary, adjoining the church, is a faithful, yet triste representation of the name it bears. In a niche, mid- way between the floor and ceiling, there is a cross, with the figure of the Savior and the two Mary’s — the sun- light streaming down upon them — and in lower niches are plaster carvings, illustrating the passion of our Lord. A sepulchre, constructed of rough stone, completes the sorrowful scene.
June 4. — This day has been warm enough to make idlers of all persons, except those whom necessity com- pels to labor by the sweat of the brow. I remain at home, with no other occupation than tc gaze from the balcony at the promenaders, and then to lounge in a comfortable arm-chair. Armand, the bright-faced little boy of our concierge, makes his appearence in a straw hat, with a band of sky-blue ribbon, and brings me for
un petit cadeau ” a basket of strawberries and a bunch of roses. Lucie, the bonne , has left off her black sergS dress, and donned a figured lawn. The liair-dresser, needing to be refreshed, treats his handkerchief to a shower of cologne from one of the bottles he has offered us for sale, and even the cook leaves the kitchen-range, — that "furnace of affliction,” — thinking charbon a dread- ful thing, and asks Madame for “ un peu de glace,” which is cheerfully given her. Old Mr. R — , who, every day, paces up and down the Champs Elysees, with gray overcoat, and always looks so thin and cold, is actually using a fan, and wipes his face, and stops to blow. Mile. G — lies back in her open landau, and
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holds her parasol with the air of an ennuyee; Mme. H — wears no longer her velvet hat and bird of Paradise, but a leghorn trimmed with daisies ; and the Professeur de Chant , excused from a lesson at our number, says adieu with inimitable grace, knowing that he can go off and sing the song of “Je suis litre”
We did not venture out until the sun had gone soundly to sleep, and then the beautiful, starry night, led us down in the direction of Avenue Montaigne, where our eyes were dazzled by the brilliancy of some gas-jets that spelled out the word Mabitte . Shall we go in among the lights and flowers, groves and grottoes, where Terpsichore is throwing a spell over the evening hours ? Yes ! — this little syllable never seeming more mischiev- ously disposed — we entered by an avenue softly lighted, that lay under arching foliage, and arrived shortly after- wards in the crowded circle, just to the left, where flying feet were pulsing the air with that vibratory motion, which, once seen, is never forgotten. But the magical beauty of the scene! At our feet, on mossy beds, glim- mered numerous lights, some of the Tyrian dye, and others springing from the hearts of tulips and roses. All that was needed was the presence of a fairy, who might whisper, “ Thou slialt stray among flowers, and thy foot- steps be lighted.” Moore wrote of a summer fete , and Mabille has realized his dream.
u Here shone a garden — lamps all o’er,
As though the spirits of the Air Had tak’n it in their heads to pour A shower of summer meteors there
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Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded.
That shrunk from such warm neighborhood ;
And, looking bashful in the flood,
Blush’d to behold themselves so wedded.”
This scene lacked a limpid lake, but, in other respects, was so charming that softer music than the harsh fiddle and clarionet was looked for, —some witching, gentle harmony from lyre or harp ; the song of the bird or the voice of a fey. And yet, where were the nymphs ? Hidden, perhaps, in the lonely grotto ! The demoiselles that meet here wear not the semblance of etherial life, but are solid enough to rush — as the battle cry says — “ To arms, to arms !” — for into such do they bound, yet linger not ; and to follow them through their numerous darts and poises would be more difficult than to work out a problem of Euclid. No ballet costume is allowed at this garden, the short walking dress prevailing; though, occasionally, a trailing robe may be observed sweeping the green lawn, where mademoiselle sits down to a tiny wine-glass, bending o’er its contents with danc- ing eyes and merry words. The band performed the (Eil Oreve with brilliant effect, and, if the lookers-on could scarcely keep their dignified feet still, imagine the excitement of the spirited danseuses. Following the peculiar mazes of the dance, my vein of thought ran to the measure of that old familiar rhyme — “ This is the house that Jack built.” This is the white and ruffled skirt that meets the boot, that covers the foot, that France alone knows how to use ; and here is the girl tliat raises that foot, to kick at a hat, to strike at the
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stars, or set the clouds in motion. This is MabUle , and here is Ma Belle, and where will you stop on the end of your toes ? With another leap to Egypt you *11 fly, but dance once more ere you say good-bye. If this is de- moralization, we are out of the giddy round in a little while— we have only looked at the gay Parisiennes, in a fairy-like scene; and what avails our opinion against that of the merriest city of the world, whose supreme aim is amusement, and which would order our arrest for stern, philosophic advice, and the repudiation of that which she loves most. Therefore, adieu to the idols we cannot break down! At 12 o’clock, to-day, our party further explored the Louvre, passing in review the Egyptian, Grecian and Roman museums, with their wealth of olden and curious treasure. What a huge memory to bring away ! — the tombs and sarcophogi of past ages, from the sphynx size to the pigmy fragment — the Italian and French earthenware and pottery — the models and patents — the drawings, pastels, miniatures, enamels, and the myriad things that the whole world, it appears, has contributed, no more to be counted than the sands of the ocean ! The frescoed ceilings, whose beauteous tints seem to have been stolen from the pea- cock, overspread all these collections, antique and modern, just as the coronet, that glistens on the brow of the king, gives the highest beauty to the rest of his gorgeous apparel. Especially in the Salle des Souverains, is the visitor prone to linger longest among the relics of mon- archs, and of famous women, some of whom have reigned in glory, then suffered and died. The mind busily runs AA
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from period to period, associating events with the articles closely grouped, the most interesting of which are the suits of armor, numbering six or seven — the sword and sceptre of Charlemagne, who was so renowned in con- quest, so just and good a monarch ; and the chair of Dagobert, reminding the spectator, that since the Mero- vingian sovereign sat there, twelve hundred years have been added to the history of France. Then, there are two prayer books — by whom were they used? The eyes of fair Marguerite of Valois have wandered over the pages of one, and the sorrowful Marie Stuart found religious solace in the other. There is the mirror, set around with agates, cameos and emeralds, that reflected the face of Marie de Medicis ; but the saddest things of all, are the old black silk shoe of Marie Antoinette, and her farewell letter to Mme. Elizabeth, the words of which send a sympathetic thrill through the heart of every reader. Of the numerous memorials in the room dedicated to Napoleon I, none impressed us more than the cradle of his son, the Xing of Rome. What must have been the joy of this ambitious man, when he saw fulfilled the hope of long years, — that hope which induced him to silence the voice of conscience ; to forget love’s tender pleadings, and to banish from the throne a true and noble wife ! But alas ! how soon did Waterloo’s gory strife sunder the fabric of that cherished dream ! We stopped a few moments at the Church of St. Clotilde, inaugurated in the year 1857, but the description of churches is so much of a repetition, that allusion shall only be made to the exquisite painted windows, after
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the designs of Ainaury Duval and Galimard, and the bells that comprise a whole octave, and whose music is sweeter than that of any other chimes in Paris. An hour of this serene and pleasant day was devoted to the Artillery museum, where our footsteps led through cannon, cast-iron coast and siege-ordnance, fire-arms of every description, and various trophies of battle. On viewing, in an enclosed space outside, some monster specimens, we conjured up scenes of the siege of Sebas- topol, and pictured the fearful havoc that had been made there by those dread engines of war. In the Salle des Modeles, with a fond American eye, we descried the Maynard rifles, close by the arms of Britannia ; and a glow of pride was felt at seeing here the famous broech- loading gun of one of our countrymen, whose talents in other departments of science and art have won substan- tial recognition from several of the crowned heads of Europe. The saloon of armor contains every implement of w’ar — helmets, shields, coats of mail and weapons, some of which belong to the Merovingian age. One suit of armor, owned by a Marshal of France, dates back to 1556; and there are many others that were worn by brave and distinguished men. Glass cases enclose some of the most curious and costly objects of centuries ago, a few of the fire-arms being set in precious stones, aud others being inlaid and wrought in silver and gold. After leaving this place, we took the boat on the Seine, and made a pleasant little trip to the Jardin des Plantes , which is one of the bright, lovely spots of Paris. It has other attractions than the nursery,
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for, besides the botanical garden and the conservatories — one of which abounds in aquatic plants — there is a me- nagerie and a museum of anatomy. The first anatomical study that met our eye, on the ground-floor, was a whale, whose skeleton showed capacity sufficient to have accom- modated at least half a dozen Jonahs ; and, up-stairs, were dissections of all the animal kingdom, from the mightiest work of God’s creation, to the reptile that crawleth on the earth, and the bird that fendeth the clouds. The mummies, fossil-remains, and skulls came next in order, but, having no love for Hottentot black- ness, or “dead men’s bones” — however refined the race, — we passed on to a gallery, containing some things, a little less abominable — hyenas, porcupines, and apes, — and were not sorry to escape from them as soon as it was practicable. With a friendly pressure did our feet touch the greensward, it being pleasant to get out among the flowers; to look upon the little artificial stream, meandering through the grounds, and to walk around and among the netted compartments that held the birds and the parrots, the chickens and the doves, and all the contributions, it would seem, that had helped to make up Noah’s ark. Kindly glances were bestowed upon the little frisking deer, the goats, and all that there was of gentle make ; and then, we went on a few yards further to see grum, ugly bears, and such wild beasts as acknowledge the presence of visitors with a growl and a clutch.
As we took our departure, by the gate, a soda-fount was refreshingly revealed, with a sparkling vanilla drop
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to quench our thirst, and prepare us for further fatigue at the Buttes de Chaumont. The sun had just set when we reached this park, which differs so widely from others of Paris, in the wild grandeur of its natural scenery. Of the few ornaments, thus far added, is a quiet lake, with a suspension bridge, in airy height, and some leafy bowers, one of which we selected to take dinner in, — being obliged to look after the material life, although we should not have starved on romance. Afterwards, as- cending higher and higher with every step, and by dint of perseverance, we reached a rocky mount, and stood in the little Temple of Sibyl, where, under the charm of its name, we might have imagined ourselves at Athens or Tivoli, had there not prevailed in our minds a thought of those sanguinary days in the history of France when this same spot and the environs gave fierce battle, and the gallows and grave-pits cut off hundreds of men and women. Here, also, did Catherine de Medicis and Charles IX — accompanied by a gay cortege — conic to see, hanging on a gibbet, the mangled body of Admiral de Coligny, one of the victims of the St. Bartholomew tragedy. This remorseless woman, only a few hours before, had gazed upon the head, that had been cut off by an Italian, and carried to her at the palace. Not content with the terrible sight, she lent her presence to the scene where fiends in human shape were yelling and dancing around the remains of the venerable martyr. It would seem that the acts of atrocity here perpetrated should almost forbid the place to smile in verdure; but, to-day, all was bright and lovely, calm and peaceful, — AA*
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the grass growing, the flowers blooming, where were for- merly reeking, gory trenches; and the breeze wafting our light words, that once bore the sound of lamenta- tions. True it is that though “ states fall, — arts fade,” and man passeth away, “ nature doth not die.” From the heights, a charming panorama of forty leagues lies spread out before the eye. As we viewed it, a misty veil hung over the splendid city of Paris, the bosom of the Seine, and the many little nestling villages around ; yet, the landscape did not seem to lose much of its beauty by the mellowed aspect it presented. Leaving the up- land view, we descended to the rock-grotto, and rested awhile under its stalactite arch. Our route home was by the circular railway that belts around so much of in- teresting space.
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