The American in Paris; vol. 1 of 2

by John Sanderson

The Parisians have set apart three days annually, to commemorate their Revolution of 1830—the 27th, 28th, and 29th of July; they call them the “Three Glorious Days.” On the 27th are showers of sermons all over town in the churches, and fastings over good dinners in the cafés. Pious visits, too, are paid to the graves of those who had the glory of being killed on the original “three days,” who are called “the martyrs,” and are buried on or near the spot upon which they were killed. The military parade is the 28th, and the gala, or jubilee day, is the 29th.

As the time approaches, the town is big with visiters, and all is noise and preparation. Yew trees are planted by the graves of the “martyrs,” where the dogs and other obscene animals, the rest of the year, wallow; and willows are set a-weeping several days before. Theatres are erected at the same time, and orchestras and platforms for the buffoons; and the illuminations, which they keep ready made from year to year, are brought out upon the Champs Elysées. Every evening the whole of Paris comes out to see these works, and says, this is for the mourning of the 27th, and this is for the dancing of the 29th. On the present occasion a rain had turned the streets into mud; but the French turn out on their fête days, mud or no mud, and in numbers far exceeding our notions of arithmetic.

The 27th arrived, and every street and avenue poured their waves into the Boulevards and Champs Elysées, as so many rivers their waters to the ocean. A plump little widow of our hotel offered to guide my inexperience in the crowd, which I accepted. I took her for her skill in the town, and she for my manhood, as a blind person takes a lame one for the use of his eyes. I should have profited by her services, but she was no sooner in the street, than she ran off in a hurry, each of her little feet doing its uttermost to get before the other, and kept me running after her all day long;—you have sometimes seen a colt running after its mother, now falling behind, and now catching up with her; and there were just in front of me, I verily believe, five thousand French women, each exhibiting a pair of pretty ancles. A stranger has a great many things to see that are no curiosities to the natives. Never take a native with you as a guide, but always some one who knows no more than yourself.

On these muddy occasions, a French woman just places her hand upon the right hip, gathering up her lower gear on the nether side to the level of the knee, and then whips along, totally regardless of that part of the world that is behind her; as in a chariot race you see the charioteer bending over the lash, and striving after the one just before him, not caring a straw for those he has passed by. You might have seen my guide and me, at one time walking slowly and solemnly in a file of sisters of charity, and then looking down upon an awful procession from a gallery of the Boulevards; next you might have seen us behind a bottle of “vin ordinaire” at the café Turc, and then seated snugly together at the church of St. Roch.

Here we witnessed an interesting ceremony—a marriage. Fifteen young girls, and the same number of young men, children of the martyrs, were intermarried. They are apportioned by the government; and the marrying is to continue till the whole stock is married off—as encouragement to new “martyrs.” We stayed one hour here, and had a great deal of innocent squeezing, with prayers and sacred music, and then we went home and had our dinner.

After this repast, I sallied out again, under the ægis of my same guide, who now led me through long and intricate passages, and through thickets of men and women, all getting along in the slime of each other’s tracks towards the Hotel de Ville. Here, in the midst of an immense crowd, were the shrines of the martyrs, and over them a chapel of crape, with all the other mournful emblems. The relatives of the deceased were hanging up chaplets, and reverend men were saying prayers, and sprinkling holy water upon the graves.

July 28th.

This day was given to the general parade. More than a hundred thousand of the National Guard was arrayed upon the Boulevards; and the side walks were choaked up, and running over with the crowd, which was pushed back now and then, in great fright and confusion, by the gens d’armes, and the tails of the horses; and all the rest of Paris looked on from the windows, balconies, and roofs of the adjoining houses—I as much noticed, as a leaf of the Alleghany, upon a verandah of the Boulevard du Temple. Great was the noise, and long and patient the expectation. At length, there was a sudden flustering and bustle among the multitude, and I sat up closer to Madame Dodu—it was the King! He was accompanied by the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of Nemours, his sons, and passed along the line, followed by officers on horseback, very grim. He was received with not very ardent acclamations. Compared to “General Jackson’s visit,” it was a fifth-rate thing. Not a bird, though many flew over us, fell dead.

But how shall I describe to you the magnificence of the pomp? since in our country there is no object of comparison. How should we—we, who can hardly contain the Washington Grays, or Blues—which is it? with Johnson’s band, and the twenty little boys who run after them—how should we be able to conceive of a regular infantry of more than a hundred thousand men, with their ten thousand drums, and trumpets, and clarions, and accoutred in uniform, and trained to the last grace and dexterity of discipline? But, alas! what avails to individual power this exhibition of human strength, since we see its haughtiest pretensions, every day, the sport of some ignominious chance?

Achilles, they say, was killed by the most effeminate roué of all Troy; and his great descendant, Pyrrhus, by an old woman, who lived “au troisième,” and pitched, Heaven knows what, upon his head through her window. What signifies the strength of Hercules, if it may be outwrestled by a vapour?—It is vexatious, too, to see how much events are under the control of accident, and how little Providence seems to trouble itself about them; and to think how vain a thing is that boast of the world—human wisdom! I knew a man, who missed his fortune, and was ruined by his prudence; and another, who saved his house from being burnt by his foolishness! Who has not heard of no less an Emperor than Bonaparte being saved by some vanity of his wife?—the infernal machine blowing up, she fixing her tournure, or something in her chamber, and he fretting at the delay, and churning his spite through his teeth? Why, I have read of a lady who saved her life by staying at home at loo, on a Sunday, instead of going to prayers, where the church fell in, and killed the whole congregation. Yet, with all this experience, men still continue to be haughty of their strength, self-sufficient of their wisdom, and to throw Providence in each other’s teeth when anything happens.