High up here, at the edge of the ramparts, are figures of demons, carved in stone, looking over the edge, which appear quite "little devils" from the pavement, but which are, in reality, of colossal size. The pure air of the heavens, as we walked around here near the clouds, was of a sudden charged with garlic, which nauseous perfume we discovered, on investigation, arose from the hut of a custodian and his wife, who dwelt up here, hundreds of feet above the city, like birds in an eyrie, and defiled the air with their presence.
One of the most gorgeous church interiors of Paris is that of Sainte Chapelle; this building, although not very large, is a perfect gem of Gothic architecture, and most beautifully and perfectly finished in every part; it is one hundred and twenty feet long, forty wide, and has a spire of one hundred and forty feet in height. Every square inch of the interior is exquisitely painted and gilded in diamonds, lozenges, and fleurs-de-lis; and stars spangle the arched roof, which is as blue as the heavens. The windows are filled with exquisite stained glass of the year 1248—glass which escaped the ruin of the revolutions; and the great rose window can only be likened to a magnificent flower of more than earthly beauty, as the light streams through its glorious coloring, where it rests above a beautiful Gothic balustrade.
Leaving the Sainte Chapelle, we passed a few rods distant, after turning a corner, the two old coffee-pot-looking towers of the bloody Conciergerie, where poor Marie Antoinette languished for seventy-six days, before she was led forth to execution; here also was where Ravaillac, Robespierre, and Charlotte Corday were imprisoned; and the very bloody record-book of the names of those who were ordered to be despatched during the revolution, kept by the human butchers who directed affairs, is still preserved, and shown to the visitor.
That magnificent Grecian-looking temple, the Madeleine, is one of the first public buildings the tourist recognizes in Paris. As many Americans are apt to estimate the value of things by the money they cost, it may be of interest to state that this edifice cost two million six hundred thousand dollars. It is really a magnificent structure, with its thirty Corinthian columns, fifteen on each side, and its noble front, with ornamental pediment, its great bronze entrance, doors thirty-two feet high, reached by the broad flight of marble steps extending across the whole length of the end of the building, the dimensions of which are three hundred and twenty-eight feet in length by one hundred and thirty-eight in breadth. The beautiful Corinthian columns, which, counting those at the ends, are fifty-two in number, are each fifty feet in height. The broad, open square about the Madeleine affords an excellent opportunity of viewing the exterior; and one needs to make two or three detours about the building to obtain a correct idea of its magnitude and beauty. The interior is one spacious hall, the floors and walls all solid marble, beautifully decorated, and lighted from the top by domes; all along the sides are chapels, dedicated to different saints, and decorated with elegant statues and paintings; the high altar is rich in elegant sculpture, the principal group representing, in marble, Mary Magdalene borne into Paradise by angels—exquisitely done. The whole effect of this beautiful interior, with its lofty ornamented domes and Corinthian pillars, the beautiful statuary and bass-reliefs, frescoing, and walls incrusted with rich marbles, is grand beyond description.
The Church of St. Genevieve, better known as the Pantheon, is another magnificent structure: three hundred and fifty feet long and two hundred and sixty wide is this beautiful building, and three rows of elegant Corinthian columns support its portico. We gazed up at the beautiful pediment, over this portico, which is over one hundred and twenty feet long and twenty-two feet high, and contains a splendid group of statuary in relief, the central figure of which is fifteen feet in height; but above the whole building rises the majestic dome, two hundred and sixty-four feet. Inside we ascended into this grand and superb cupola, and, after making a portion of the ascent, paused in a circular gallery to have a view of the great painting which adorns the dome, representing St. Genevieve receiving homage from King Clovis. After going as far above as possible, we descended with a party to the vaults below, where we were shown the place, in which the bodies of Mirabeau and Marat were deposited, and the tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau, which, however, do not contain the remains of the two philosophers. We were then escorted by the guide, by the dim light of his lantern, to a certain gloomy part of the vaults, where there was a most remarkable echo; a clap of the hand reverberated almost like a peal of thunder, and a laugh sounded so like the exultation of some gigantic demon who had entrapped his victims here in his own terrible caverns, as to make us quite ready to follow the guide through the winding passages back to the upper regions, and welcome the light of day.
An American thinks his visit to Paris scarcely completed unless he has visited the Jardin Mabille. It has the reputation of being a very wicked place, which, in some degree, accounts for tourists, whose dread of appearances at home restrains them from going to naughty places, having an intense desire to visit it; and it is amusing to see some of these very proper persons, who would be shocked at the idea of going inside a theatre at home for fear of contamination, who are enjoying the spectacle presented here like forbidden fruit, quite confused at meeting among the throng their friends from America who are in Paris, as is frequently the case. Sometimes the confusion is mutual, and then explanations of both parties exhibit a degree of equivocation that would rival a Japanese diplomat. Those, however, who expect to see any outrageous display of vice or immodesty will be disappointed: the garden is under the strict surveillance of the police, and there is a far more immodest display by the ladies in the boxes of the opera at the Grand Opera in London, than by the frail sisterhood at the Jardin. During the travelling season one meets plenty of tourists, English and American, at Mabille, and hears the English tongue spoken in the garden on every side of him.
Stroll up the beautiful Champs Elysées of a summer's evening; all along, on either side, the groves, gardens, and grounds are brilliant with gas-jets, colored lights, and Chinese lanterns, brilliant cafés, with chairs and tables in front, where you may sit and enjoy a cup of coffee and a cigar, or a glass of wine, while you view the never-ending succession of passers by. Just off amid the trees are little extemporized theatres, where the never-tiring comedy of Punch and Judy is performed to admiring crowds, at two sous a head; little booths, with a gambling game, which, translated into English, is "the d— among the tailors," afford an opportunity of indulging in a game of chance for a few sous, which game consists in setting a brass top spinning in among a curious arrangement of brass fixed and movable upright pins upon a board; the number of pins knocked over, and little brass arches passed under, by the top, determines the amount of the prize won by the player, which can be selected from the knickknacks in the booth ticketed with prize cards.
A friend of mine, a very proper young gentleman, was so attracted by the gyrations of the brass top spinning on these tables one evening, that he insisted upon stopping and trying his hand at the game: he did so, and so expertly that he bore off a pair of cheap vases, a china dog, and a paper weight; his triumph was somewhat dampened, however, at being reminded by a lady friend, whom he met with his hands filled with his treasures, that he had been gambling on Sunday evening. It is not at all surprising, however, from the sights and scenes, that one should forget the character of the day, there is so little to remind him of it in Paris.
Besides these booths are those for the sale of a variety of fanciful articles, illuminated penny peep shows; and off at side streets you are directed, by letters in gas jets, to the Cafés Chantants—enclosed gardens with an illuminated pavilion at one end of them, its whole side open, exposing a stage, upon which sit the singers, handsomely dressed, who are to appear in the programme. The stage is beautifully illuminated with gas and very handsomely decorated, generally representing the interior of a beautiful drawing room; the audience sit at tables in the garden immediately before the stage, which, from its raised position, affords a good view to all; there is no charge for admission, but each visitor orders something to the value of from half a franc to a franc and a half of the waiters, who are pretty sharp to see that everybody does order something. The trees are hung with colored lights, a good orchestra plays the accompaniment for the singers, besides waltzes, quadrilles, and galops, and the Frenchman sits and sips his claret or coffee, and smokes his cigar beneath the trees, and has an evening, to him, of infinite enjoyment. I saw, among the brilliant group that formed the corps of performers, seated upon the illuminated stage at one of these Cafés Chantants, a plump negro girl, whose low-necked and short-sleeved dress revealed the sable hue of her skin in striking contrast to her white and gold costume. She was evidently a dusky "star."
But we will continue our walk up the beautiful Elysian Fields; the great, broad carriage-way is thronged with voitures, with their different colored lights flitting hither and thither like elves on a revel: as seen in the distance up the illuminated course they sparkled like a spangled pathway, clear away up to the huge dusky Arc d'Etoile, which in the distance rises "like an exhalation." The little bowers, nooks, chairs, and booths are all crowded; music reaches us from the Cafés Chantants, and peals of laughter at the performances in the raree-shows; finally, reaching the Rond Point, a sort of circular opening with six pretty fountains,—and turning a little to the left upon the Avenue Montaigne, the brilliant gas jets of the Jardin Mabille are in view—admission three francs for gentlemen, ladies free.