The garden is prettily laid out with winding paths, flower-beds, fountains, cosy arbors, where refreshments may be ordered, and a tête-à-tête enjoyed, the trees hung with colored lights, artificial perspectives made by bits of painted scenery placed at the end of pretty walks, &c. In the centre is a brilliantly lighted stand, which is occupied by a fine orchestra, and upon the smooth flooring about it, within sound of the music, the dancers. The frequenters of Mabille are of the upper and middle class among the males, the females are generally lorettes, and the spectators largely composed of Americans and English. The leader of the orchestra displays a large card bearing the name of each piece the orchestra will perform, as "Galop," "Valse," "Quadrille," &c., before it commences, and it is the dance which is one of the great features of the place; but this, which, a few years ago, used to be so novel, has been so robbed of its "naughtiness" by the outrageous displays of the ballet, and the indecencies of "White Fawn" and "Black Crook" dramas have left the Jardin Mabille so far in the background that even American ladies now venture there as spectators.
The fact that the women at Mabille are lorettes, and that in dancing they frequently kick their feet to the height of their partners' heads, appears to be the leading attractive feature of the place. The style of dancing is a curiosity, however; a quadrille of these women and their partners is a specimen of the saltatory art worth seeing. There is no slow, measured sliding and dawdling through the figure, as in our cotillons at home; the dancers dance all over—feet, arms, muscles, head, body, and legs; each quadrille, in which there are dancers of noted skill and agility, is surrounded by a circle of admiring spectators. The men, as they forward and back, and chassé, bend and writhe like eels, now stooping nearly to the floor, then rising with a bound into the air like a rubber ball: forward to partners, a fellow leans forward his head, and feigns to kiss the advancing siren, who, with a sudden movement, brings her foot up in the position just occupied by his face, which is skilfully dodged by the fellow leaping backwards, agile as an ape; the men toss their arms, throw out their feet, describe arcs, circles, and sometimes a spry fellow turns a summersault in the dance. The girls gather up their long skirts to the knee with their hand, and are scarcely less active than their partners; they bound forward, now and then kicking their boots, with white lacings, high into the air, sometimes performing the well-known trick of kicking off the hat of a gaping Englishman or American, who may be watching the dance. The waltz, polka, and galop are performed with a frantic fervor that makes even the spectator's head swim, and at its close the dancers repair to the tables to cool off with iced drinks, or a stroll in the garden walks.
The proprietors of the Jardin Mabille, Closerie des Lilas, and similar places, generally have some few female dancers of more than usual gymnastic skill, and with some personal attraction, whom they employ as regular habitues of the gardens as attractions for strangers, more particularly green young Englishmen and Americans. This place, however, is perfectly safe, being under strict surveillance of the police, and there is very rarely the least disturbance or rudeness; the police see that the gardens are cleared, and the gas extinguished, at midnight. Two nights in the week at the Jardin Mabille are fête nights, when a grand display of fireworks is added to the other attractions of the place.
The Closerie des Lilas is a garden not so extensive as Mabille, frequented principally by students and their mistresses—admission one franc, ladies free. Here the dancing is a little more demonstrative, and the dresses are cut rather lower in the neck; yet the costume and display of the person are modest in comparison with that in the spectacular pieces upon the stage. The students go in for a jolly time, and have it, if dancing with all their might, waltzing like whirling dervishes, and undulating through the Can-Can with abandon indescribable, constitute it.
Of course we did not omit the Palace of the Luxembourg, with its superb gallery of modern paintings, among which we noticed Delacroix' pictures of Dante and Virgil, and Massacre of Scio; Oxen ploughing by Rosa Bonheur, and Hay Harvest by the same artist; Horace Vernet's Meeting of Raphael and Michael Angelo, and Müller's Calling the Roll of Victims to be guillotined, during the Reign of Terror. In this palace is also the Hall of the Senate, semicircular, about one hundred feet in diameter, elegantly decorated with statues, busts, and pictures, and the vaulted ceiling adorned with allegorical frescoes. Here is also the Salle du Trône, or Throne Room, a magnificent saloon, elegantly frescoed, ornamented, and gilded. The throne itself is a large chair, elegantly upholstered, with the Napoleonic N displayed upon it, upon a raised dais, above which was a splendid canopy supported by caryatides. The walls of the saloon were adorned with elegant pictures, representing Napoleon at the Invalides, Napoleon I. elected emperor, and Napoleon I. receiving the flags taken at Austerlitz. Other paintings, representing scenes in the emperor's life, are in a small apartment adjoining, called the Emperor's Cabinet. We then visited here the chamber of Marie de Medicis, which contains the arm-chair used at the coronation of Napoleon I., and paintings by Rubens. The latter were taken down, with some of the beautiful panelling, which is rich in exquisite scroll-work, and concealed during the revolution of 1789, and replaced again in 1817.
The Garden of Plants, at Paris, is another of those very enjoyable places in Europe, in which the visitor luxuriates in gratifying his taste for botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and natural science. Here in this beautiful garden are spacious hot-houses and green-houses, with every variety of rare plants, a botanical garden, galleries of botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy, and a great amphitheatre and laboratories for lectures, which are free to all who desire to attend, given by scientific and skilled lecturers, from April to October. The amphitheatre for lectures will hold twelve hundred persons; and among the lectures on the list, which is posted up at its entrance, and also at the entrance of the gardens, were the subjects of chemistry, geology, anatomy, physiology, botany, and zoölogy. Many scientific men of celebrity received their education here, and the different museums are rich in rare specimens of their departments. The Zoölogical Museum has a fine collection of stuffed specimens of natural history, zoöphites, birds, butterflies, large mammiferous animals, &c. The Geological Museum is admirably arranged—curious specimens from all parts of the world—from mountains, waterfalls, volcanoes, mines, coral-reefs, and meteors, i. e., specimens from the earth below and the heavens above. The Botanical Department, besides its botanical specimens, has a museum of woods similar to that at Kew Gardens. A Cabinet of Anatomy contains a collection of skeletons of animals, &c. The Zoölogical Garden is the most interesting and most frequented part of the grounds. The lions, tigers, bears, elephants, hyenas, and other beasts have spacious enclosures, as in the Zoölogical Gardens at London, though not so well arranged, nor is the collection so extensive. The Palais des Singes (palace of monkeys), a circular building provided for these agile acrobats, is a most attractive resort, and always thronged with spectators. Parterres of flowers, handsome shade trees, shrubs, and curious plants adorn the grounds and border the winding walks and paths; and the visitor cannot help being impressed that almost everything connected with natural science is represented here in this grand garden and museum—plants, animals, fossils, minerals, curious collections, and library. A single visit scarcely suffices to view the menagerie, and many days would be required to examine the whole collection in different departments.
St. Cloud! Even those who travel with a valet de place, and cannot understand a word of French, seem to learn the pronunciation of this name, and to air their "song klew" with much satisfaction. Through the splendid apartments of this palace—since our visit, alas! destroyed by the invading Prussians—we strolled of a Sunday afternoon. There was the Saloon of Mars, Saloon of Diana, rich in magnificent frescoing, representing the gods and goddesses of heathen mythology upon the lofty ceilings; the Gallery of Apollo, a vast and magnificently-decorated apartment, ceiling painted by Mignard, with scenes in the life of Apollo, walls beautifully gilt and frescoed, hung with rare paintings, furnished with cabinets of elegant Sèvres porcelain, rich and curious furniture, and costly bronzes. It was here, in this apartment, that Prince Napoleon, son of Jerome, was baptized by Pope Pius VII., in 1805, and here the marriage of Napoleon I. and Maria Louisa was celebrated in 1810. Then we go on through the usual routine of grand apartments—Saloons of Minerva, Mercury, Aurora, Venus, &c.—rich in magnificent paintings, wondrous tapestry, elegant carving, and splendid decorations. Here are a suit of rooms that have been occupied by Marie Antoinette, the Empress Josephine, Marie Louise, Louis Philippe, and also by Louis Napoleon. Historical memories come thickly into the mind on visiting these places, and throw an additional charm about them. St. Cloud often figures in the history of the great Napoleon. That great soldier and his Guard, Cromwell-like, dispersed the Council of Five Hundred that held their sessions here in 1799, and was soon after made first consul. Farther back in history, here the monk assassinated Henry III., and it was here Louis XIV. and Louis XVI. often sojourned.
The Cascade at St. Cloud is the object that figures most frequently in illustrated books and pictures, and the leading attraction inquired for. It is in the grand park, and consists of a series of vast steps, at the top of which are huge fountains, which send the water down in great sheets, forming a succession of waterfalls, the sides of the steps ornamented with innumerable vases and shell-work. The water, after passing these steps, reaches a great semicircular basin, surrounded by jets d'eau, and from thence falls over other grand steps into a grand canal, two hundred and sixty feet long and ninety wide; dolphins spouting into it, fountains running over from vases, and spouting upright from the basin itself, and one huge waterspout near by sending up its aqueous shaft one hundred and forty feet into the air, the whole forming a sparkling spectacle in the sunlight of a summer afternoon.
Every alternate Sunday in summer is a fête day here; and on one of these occasions we saw fountains playing, merry-go-round horses, with children upon the horses, ten-pin alleys, in which the prizes were dolls, china ware, and macaroon cakes. Here was a figure of an open-mouthed giant, into which the visitor was invited to pitch three wooden balls for two sous; prizes, three ginger-snaps in case of success. The d—l among the tailors was in brisk operation; a loud-voiced Frenchman invited spectators to throw leathern balls at some grotesque dolls that he had in a row astride of a cord, a sou only for three shots; and prizes for knocking off the dolls, which were dressed to represent obnoxious personages, and duly labelled, were paid in pretty artificial flowers made of paper. Fortune-wheels could be whirled at half a franc a turn, the gifts on which that halted beneath the rod of the figure of the enchanter that stood above them belonged to the whirler. I heard a vigorous crowing, succeeded by a fellow shouting, "Coq de village, un sou! Coq de village, un sou, messieurs!" He had a huge basket filled with little shells, which were so prepared that, when blown upon, they gave a clever imitation of chanticleer. Fandangos carried their laughing groups up into the air and down again; inclined planes, with self-running cars, gave curious rides; and in one part of the grounds were shown booths of the old English fair kind. Before one, on a platform, a clown danced, and invited the public to enter, to the music of bass drum and horn; ponies, monkeys, trained dogs, and other performers were paraded, as an indication of what might be seen within; pictorial representations of giants, fat women, and dwarfs were in front of others; a sword-swallower took a mouthful or two by way of illustrating the appetite he would display for three sous; and a red-hot iron taster, in suit of dirty red and white muslin, and gold spangles, passed a heated bar dangerously near his tongue, intimating that those who desired could, by the investment of a few coppers, have the rare privilege of witnessing his repast of red-hot iron. These, and scores of other cheap amusements, invited the attention of the thousands that thronged the park on that pleasant Sunday afternoon; and among all the throng, which was composed principally of the common people, we saw not a single case of intoxication, and the trim-dressed officers of police, in dress coats, cocked hats, and swords, who sauntered here and there, had little to do, except, when a throng at some point became too dense, to open a passage, or cause some of the loungers to move on a little.
The traveller who visits the splendid retail establishments in the Rue de la Paix or on the Boulevards, unattended, and purchases what suits his fancy, paying the price that the very supple and cringing salesmen choose to charge, or even goes into those magasins in which a conspicuously-displayed sign announces the prix fixé, will, after a little experience, become perfectly amazed at the elasticity of French conscience, not to say the skill and brazen effrontery of French swindling.