University of Virginia Library

10. LETTER X.

The garden of the Tuileries is an idle man's paradise.
Magnificent as it is in extent, sculptures, and
cultivation, we all know that statues may be too dumb,
gravel walks too long and level, and trees and flowers
and fountains a little too Platonic, with any degree of
beauty. But the Tuileries are peopled at all hours
of sunshine with, to me, the most lovely objects in the
world — children. You may stop a minute, perhaps,
to look at the thousand gold fishes in the basin under
the palace-windows, or follow the swans for a single
voyage round the fountain in the broad avenue — but
you will sit on your hired chair (at this season) under
the shelter of the sunny wall, and gaze at the children
chasing about, with their attending Swiss maids, till
your heart has outwearied your eyes, or the palace-clock
strikes five. I have been there repeatedly since
I have been in Paris, and have seen nothing like the
children. They move my heart always, more than
anything under heaven; but a French child, with an
accent that all your paid masters can not give, and
manners, in the midst of its romping, that mock to the
life the air and courtesy for which Paris has a name
over the world, is enough to make one forget Napoleon,
though the column of Vendome throws its shadow
within sound of their voices. Imagine sixty-seven
acres of beautiful creatures (that is the extent of the
garden, and I have not seen such a thing as an ugly
French child) — broad avenues stretching away as far
as you can see, covered with little foreigners (so they
seem to me), dressed in gay colors, and laughing and
romping and talking French, in all the amusing mixture
of baby passions and grown-up manners, and answer
me — is it not a sight better worth seeing than all
the grand palaces that shut it in?

The Tuileries are certainly very magnificent, and to
walk across from the Seine to the Rue Rivoli, and
look up the endless walks and under the long perfect
arches cut through the trees, may give one a very
pretty surprise for once — but a winding lane is a better
place to enjoy the loveliness of green leaves, and a
single New England elm, letting down its slender
branches to the ground in the inimitable grace of nature,
has, to my eye, more beauty than all the clipped
vistas from the king's palace to the Arc de l'Etoile,
the Champs Elysées inclusive.

One of the finest things in Paris, by the way, is the
view from the terrace in front of the palace to this
“Arch of Triumph,” commenced by Napoleon at the
extremity of the “Elysian Fields,” a single avenue
of about two miles. The part beyond the gardens is
the fashionable drive, and by a saunter on horseback
to the Bois de Boulogne, between four and five, on a
pleasant day, one may see all the dashing equipages
in Paris. Broadway, however, would eclipse everything
here, either for beauty of construction or appointments.
Our carriages are every way handsomer
and better hung, and the horses are harnessed more
compactly and gracefully. The lumbering vehicles

here make a great show, it is true, for the box, with
its heavy hammer hammer-cloth, is level with the top, and the
coachman and footmen and outriders are very striking
in their bright liveries; but the elegant, convenient,
light-running establishments of Philadelphia and New
York, excel them, out of all comparison, for taste and
fitness. The best driving I have seen is by the king's
whips, and really it is beautiful to see his retinue on
the road, four or five coaches and six, with footmen
and outriders in scarlet liveries, and the finest horses
possible for speed and action. His majesty generally
takes the outer edge of the Champs Elyscés, on the
bank of the river, and the rapid glimpses of the bright
show through the breaks in the wood, are exceedingly
picturesque.

There is nothing in Paris that looks so outlandish
to my eye as the common vehicles. I was thinking
of it this morning as I stood waiting for the St. Sulpice
omnibus, at the corner of the Rue Vivienne, the great
thoroughfare between the Boulevards and the Palais
Royal. There was the hack-cabriolet lumbering by
in the fashion of two centuries ago, with a horse and
harness that look equally ready to drop in pieces; the
hand-cart with a stout dog harnessed under the axletree,
drawing with twice the strength of his master;
the market-wagon, driven always by women, and drawn
generally by a horse and a mule abreast, the horse of
the Norman breed, immensely large, and the mule
about the size of a well-grown bull-dog; a vehicle of
which I have not yet found out the name, a kind of
long demi-omnibus, with two wheels and a single
horse, and carrying nine; and last, but not least amusing,
a small close carriage for one person, swung
upon two wheels and drawn by a servant, very much
used, apparently, by elderly women and invalids, and
certainly most admirable conveniences either for the
economy or safety of getting about a city. It would
be difficult to find an American servant who would
draw in harness as they do here; and it is amusing to
see a stout, well-dressed fellow, strapped to a carriage,
and pulling along the pavés, sometimes at a jog-trot,
while his master or mistress sits looking unconcernedly
out of the window.

I am not yet decided whether the French are the
best or the worst drivers in the world. If the latter,
they certainly have most miraculous escapes. A cabdriver
never pulls the reins except upon great emergencies,
or for a right-about turn, and his horse has a
ludicrous aversion to a straight line. The strects are
built inclining toward the centre, with the gutter in the
middle, and it is the habit of all cabriolet-horses to run
down one side and up the other constantly at such
sudden angles that it seems to you they certainly will
go through the shop-windows. This, of course, is
very dangerous to foot-passengers in a city where there
are no side-walks; and, as a consequence, the average
number of complaints to the police of Paris for people
killed by careless driving, is about four hundred
annually. There are probably twice the number of
legs broken. One becomes vexed in riding with these
fellows, and I have once or twice undertaken to get
into a French passion, and insist upon driving myself.
But I have never yet met with an accident.
“Gar-r-r-r-c!” sings out the driver, rolling the word
off his tongue like a bullet from a shovel, but never
thinking to lift his loose reins from the dasher, while
the frightened passenger, without looking round, makes
for the first door with an alacrity that shows a habit of
expecting very little from the cocher's skill.

Riding is very cheap in Paris, if managed a little.
The city is traversed constantly in every direction by
omnibuses, and you may go from the Tuileries to
Père la Chaise, or from St. Surplice to the Italian
Boulevards (the two diagonals), or take the “Tous les
Boulevards,” and ride quite round the city for six sous
the distance. The “fiacre” is like our own hacks,
except that you pay but “twenty sous the course,”
and fill the vehicle with your friends if you please;
and, more cheap and comfortable still, there is the
universal cabriolet, which for fifteen sous the course,”
or “twenty the hour,” will give you at least three
times the value of your money, with the advantage of
seeing ahead and talking bad French with the driver.

Everything in France is either grotesque or picturesque.
I have been struck with it this morning, while
sitting at my window, looking upon the close inner
court of the hotel. One would suppose that a pavé,
between four high walls, would offer very little to seduce
the eye from its occupation; but, on the contrary,
one's whole time may be occupied in watching
the various sights presented in constant succession.
First comes the itinerant cobbler, with his seat and
materials upon his back, and coolly selecting a place
against the wall, opens his shop under your window,
and drives his trade, most industriously, for half an
hour. If you have anything to mend, he is too happy;
if not, he has not lost his time, for he pays no rent,
and is all the while at work. He packs up again,
bows to the concierge, as politely as his load will permit,
and takes his departure, in the hope to find your
shoes more worn another day. Nothing could be
more striking than his whole appearance. He is met
in the gate, perhaps, by an old clothes-man, who will
buy or sell, and compliment you for nothing, cheapening
your coat by calling the Virgin to witness that
your shape is so genteel that it will not fit one man in
a thousand; or by a family of singers, with a monkey
to keep time; or a regular beggar, who, however,
does not dream of asking charity till he has done
something to amuse you: after these, perhaps, will
follow a succession of objects singularly peculiar to
this fantastic metropolis; and, if one could separate
from the poor creatures the knowledge of the cold
and hunger they suffer, wandering about, houseless,
in the most inclement weather, it would be easy to
imagine it a diverting pantomime, and give them the
poor pittance they ask, as the price of an amused hour.
An old man has just gone from the court who comes
regularly twice a week, with a long beard, perfectly
white, and a strange kind of an equipage. It is an
organ, set upon a rude carriage, with four small
wheels, and drawn by a mule, of the most diminutive
size, looking (if it were not the venerable figure
crouched upon the seat) like some roughly-contrived
plaything. The whole affair, harness and all, is evidently
his own work; and it is affecting to see the
difficulty, and, withal, the habitual apathy with which
the old itinerant fastens his rope-reins beside him, and
dismounts to grind his one — solitary — eternal tune, for
charity.

Among the thousands of wretched objects in Paris
(they make the heart sick with their misery at every
turn), there is, here and there, one of an interesting
character; and it is pleasant to select them, and make
a habit of your trifling gratuity. Strolling about, as I
do, constantly, and letting everybody and everything
amuse me that will, I have made several of these
penny-a-day acquaintances, and find them very agreeable
breaks to the heartless solitude of a crowd. There
is a little fellow who stands by the gate of the Tuileries,
opening to the Place Vendome, who, with all the
rags and dirt of a street-boy, begs with an air of superiority
that is absolutely patronizing. One feels
obliged to the little varlet for the privilege of giving
to him — his smile and manner are so courtly. His
face is beautiful, dirty as it is; his voice is clear, and
unaffected, and his thin lips have an expression of
high-bred contempt, that amuses me a little, and puzzles
me a great deal. I think he must have a gentleman's
blood in his veins, though he possibly came
indirectly by it. There is a little Jewess hanging
about the Louvre, who begs with her dark eyes very

eloquently; and, in the Rue de la Paix there may be
found at all hours, a melancholy, sick-looking Italian
boy, with his hand in his bosom, whose native language
and picture-like face are a diurnal pleasure to
me, cheaply bought with the poor trifle which makes
him happy. It is surprising how many devices there
are in the streets for attracting attention and pity.
There is a woman always to be seen upon the Boulevards,
playing a solemn tune on a violin, with a child
as pallid as ashes, lying, apparently, asleep in her lap.
I suspected, after seeing it once or twice, that it was
wax, and, a day or two since I satisfied myself of the
fact, and enraged the mother excessively by touching
its cheek. It represents a sick child to the life, and
any one less idle and curious, would be deceived. I
have often seen people give her money with the most
unsuspecting look of sympathy, though it would be
natural enough to doubt the maternal kindness of
keeping a dying child in the open air in mid-winter.
Then there is a woman without hands, making braid
with wonderful adroitness; and a man without legs or
arms, singing, with his hat set appealingly on the
ground before him; and cripples, exposing their abbreviated
limbs, and telling their stories over and
over, with or without listeners, from morning till
night; and every description of appeal to the most
acute sympathies, mingled up with all the gayety,
show, and fashion, of the most crowded promenade in
Paris.

In the present dreadful distress of trade, there are
other still more painful cases of misery. It is not uncommon
to be addressed in the street by men of perfectly
respectable appearance, whose faces bear every
mark of strong mental struggle, and often of famishing
necessity, with an appeal for the smallest sum that
will buy food. The look of misery is so general, as to
mark the whole population. It has struck me most
forcibly everywhere, notwithstanding the gayety of
the national character, and, I am told by intelligent
Frenchmen, it is peculiar to the time, and felt and
observed by all. Such things startle one back to nature
sometimes. It is difficult to look away from the
face of a starving man, and see the splendid equipages,
and the idle waste upon trifles, within his very sight,
and reconcile the contrast with any belief of the existence
of human pity — still more difficult, perhaps, to
admit without reflection, the right of one human being
to hold in a shut hand, at will, the very life and breath
for which his fellow-creatures are perishing at his
door. It is this that is visited back so terribly in the
horrors of a revolution.