The American in Paris; vol. 1 of 2

by John Sanderson

Paris, Oct. 25th.

I rose this morning, and refreshed myself from the repose of the night, by running boyishly up the broad and elegant walk which leads to the south end of the garden, to the Observatory, the place where they make almanacks; I went in and saw great piles of astronomical books and instruments, an anemometer to measure the winds, and another affair baptised also in Greek, to measure the rain; also, a thing in the cellar, which, in this Latin quarter, they call an “acoustic phenomenon.” By this you can talk aloud all day to any individual standing in a particular place, and not another of the company will be anything the wiser for it.

There are a number of men here, whom they call astronomers, who, while we are asleep, look after the stars, and observe what is going on in the moon; and who go to bed with Venus and the heavenly bodies towards morning.

There is an old woman here in a little stall, upon the broad and paved place in front of the Observatory, who sells tobacco and butter, besides vaudevilles and epic poems, who shewed me, what do you think?—the very stone upon which Marshal Ney stood to be shot. “There stood the wretches that shot him. Yes, sir, I saw him murdered, and I never wish to see the like again.”

Just east, I visited another remarkable building, which young girls read about in their romances, called Val de Grace. This church, built by Anne of Austria, was called Val de Grace. If you wish to see the prettiest fresco paintings of all Paris, you must go in here and look up at the dome; the chapels, too, are full of virgins and dirty little angels. She came here in 1624, and laid the corner-stone with her own little hands. She bestowed some special privileges upon the monastery, amongst others the right of burying in this church the hearts of all the defunct princesses, beginning with herself; and at the Revolution, “one counted even to twenty-six royal hearts.” The convent of Val de Grace is now turned into a military hospital, and greasy soldiers are stabled where once lived and breathed the pretty nuns you read of in your novels.

Just in the neighbourhood is the Hospice des Enfans Trouvés, to which I paid a hasty visit. If a child takes it into its head to be born out of lawful wedlock, which now and then occurs, it is carried to this hospital for nourishment and education. The average number admitted here, is 6,000 annually, 16½ per day. They are received day and night, and no questions asked. All you have to do is, to place the little human being in a box, communicating with an apartment in the interior, which, on ringing a bell, is taken in, and gets on afterwards well enough, often better than we who think ourselves legitimate. It sucks no diseases from its mother’s milk; and from its father’s example no vices; and it has a good many virtues incident to its condition. It has amongst these a great reverence for old age, not knowing but that every old gentleman it meets might be its papa.

On entering this hospital you will see two long rows of cradles running over with babies, and a group of sisters, in gowns of black serge, making and mending up the baby wardrobe, or extending to the little destitute creatures the offices of maternity; and indeed they take such care of them, as almost to discourage poor people from having legitimate children altogether. But what praise can be equal to the merits of these Sisters of Charity? You see them wherever suffering humanity needs their assistance; their devotion has no parallel in the history of the world. They are very often, too, of rich and distinguished families; women who leave all the enjoyments of gay society to pursue these humble and laborious duties, to practise, in these silent walls, prudence, patience, fortitude, and all those domestic virtues and peaceful moralities which, in this naughty world of ours, obtain neither admiration nor distinction. Think only of relinquishing fashion, and rank, and pleasure, to be granny to an almshouse!

This hospital was founded by one of the most respectable saints of all Paris, Vincent de Paul. His statue is placed in the vestibule. It would do your heart good to see the babies go down on their bits of knees every evening, and bless the memory of this saint. A cradle used to be hung up as a sign to draw customers here, but the reputation of the house is now made, and it is taken down. Formerly the ringing of a bell, too, or the wailings of the infant, the mother giving it a pinch, was enough to announce a new comer, but lately so many dead children have been put in the box to avoid the expense of burying them that they have been obliged to stop up the hole. I am sorry for this; it was so convenient. You just put in a baby as you put a letter in the post-office; now you are obliged to carry it into a room inside, where the names, dress, the words, and behaviour of those who bring it, as also its death, are entered in a register; this register is kept a profound secret; never revealed to any one, unless one pays twenty francs. I visited the school-rooms, where those of proper age are taught to read and write. They seem very merry and happy; and, having no communication with the world, are unconscious of any inferiority of birth. When very young or sickly they are put out to nurse in the country, and at twelve are apprenticed to a trade. The sisters will point you out a mother who has placed her infant here, and got herself employed as child’s nurse to the hospital to give it nourishment and care. I forgot to mention that mothers are not allowed to see their babies, or receive their bodies if they die; they are reserved for the improvement of anatomical science.

A useful appendage to this establishment are the numerous Maisons d’Accouchement, distributed everywhere over the city, in which persons find accommodations, as secretly as they please, and at all prices, to suit their circumstances. The evils of all these establishments are manifest: the good is, the prevention of infanticide, often of suicide, and of the perjuries innumerable, and impositions practised in some other countries. I doubt whether a city like Paris could safely adopt any other system. The tables of the last year’s births stand thus:—seventeen thousand one hundred and twenty-nine legitimate; nine thousand seven hundred and twenty-one illegitimate. So you see that every second man you meet in Paris wants but a trifle of being no bastard. Expense, above a million and a half of francs.

Here is the Place St. Jaques; the place of public execution. It is the present station of the guillotine, which has already made several spots of the city classical. And here is appropriately the Barrière d’Enfer. These barriers are found at all the great issues from the city through the walls. They are amongst the curiosities of Paris; often beautiful with sculpture, and other ornaments.