So much has been said, written, thought, and exaggerated about Paris, that little remains to be said, written, thought, or exaggerated about it. Still, keeping clear of the broad road reserved to guide-books and travellers, I flatter myself that a comfortable, easy chat about it and its inhabitants, may not be unwelcome to my friends across the broad Atlantic.
If you hope some day to visit this great city—and what American does not cherish that hope?—pray that that day may not be made a dark one by the unceasing rain, and slippery, sloshy mud, which often usher in the winter. No place so wretched as Paris in the rainy season; elsewhere one may make up one's mind philosophically to india rubbers, umbrellas, and the blues, but here it seems a sort of personal insult when the sun does not shine, and brighten the long rows of while houses. Was not Paris made for enjoyment, light-heartedness, and sunshine? At this season, it is not unfrequent to hear visitors, with a grave shake of the head, declare that they are really quite disappointed; that it is not at all what they had expected, and that other places are much more interesting. They quarrel with the emperor for his great work of regenerating and beautifying the Paris of crooked, narrow, but picturesque memory. The changes he has wrought are indeed marvellous; and though he may well grumble at the wholesale destruction of old places, and also at the discomfort attendant on constant pulling down and building up, yet the unprejudiced traveller cannot but stand amazed at all that has been done during one man's reign, and also feel a certain degree of gratitude for the comfort of wide, well-paved streets, and well-built modern houses.
My first visit to Paris was some twenty years ago, when I was sent on my travels, before settling down to a hum-drum law office. I remember well many quaint nooks and corners, which I look for in vain now. Among other places, I see in my mind's eye a certain queer old tavern restaurant, famed for its English dishes, its gray-haired waiters, and its cheapness; it stood in Rue St. Lazarre, at the head of the Chaussée d'Antin, a wide and populace thoroughfare. Here, escaping from my establishment "de garçon" hard by, I used to find myself at about six o'clock waiting for my slice of "Ros bif." Well I remember the old room, with its comfortable half light, and white-covered tables; well, too, do I remember the old gentleman who invariably took the cosiest nook, and secured the paper over which he invariably dozed; and the student of medicine who carved his chicken with a skill that made my blood run cold. But more vividly than all do I remember a young countryman of mine, an artist, with his English wife, a young girlish creature, who particularly interested me; they seemed so happy, made so light of that hard struggle with poverty—which so often turns the strength of young men to despair, and the love of young wives to sourness— that I made an effort, notwithstanding my shyness, to become acquainted with them. We have been friends ever since, and as I write, the young artist, having conquered in the battle of life, is both known and respected in his native country; as to his wife, though she certainly is no longer girlish, she is as merry as ever, surrounded by her bevy of grown and growing daughters.
Remembering all these things, one of my first excursions was to this place, hoping to live these memories over again, and thereby perhaps to feel young once more. But I looked in vain; on the very spot where the humble restaurant stood, towers at this moment a beautiful new church, with wealth of statues and ornaments; it is called "La Ste. Trinité," and is the pride of the neighborhood. But I looked at its highly decorated white façade with a feeling of disappointment. I should so have liked another slice of that famed "Ros Bif!" Everybody has heard about the boulevards of Paris, encircling the city, and intersecting it in every direction, giving it fresh air and beauty. Every one, too, has heard of the straight new avenues, radiating from the Arc de Triomphe like rays from a sun, and of the manifold new streets which have swallowed up so many old ones; and, above all, of the wonderful opera house, which stands just opposite Rue de la Paix, and which is to be one of the wonders of the world. I have heard and read that it is almost finished, therefore conclude that it is my own want of perceptive powers which makes it still appear to me like a huge, uniform mass; lately, however, through the breaks in the scaffolding I have perceived parts nearly finished, with ornaments of color and white marble, and from these glimpses I conclude that when the time comes, I shall be able to indulge in the ecstasies of admiration expected from all beholders of this mammoth enterprise.
But all this is not Paris, Paris of olden times, of history; it is beautiful, but it is terribly new, and the old fogies of the Faubourg St. Germain, emerging from their narrow streets, shake their heads at the broad new avenues, with their unmitigated straightness and meaningless uniformity.
The other night I went to hear a play now much in vogue, called La Maison Neuve, a capital satire on this "Nouveau Paris," and full of local hits. But why should I attempt to tell you anything about it? Americans know everything about everything, and probably while you are reading this, The New House is figuring in large letters on the play bills at Wallack's, and managers "out West" are conning over the possibilities of adapting this nice little tid-bit of novelty to their stage. All the French shading, all the palpable hits, will, alas! be made limpingly to apply to New-York, Chicago, St. Louis, etc. We are a great people, there is no doubt; but do we not, sometimes, in our great hurry to be ahead of everybody else, make little mistakes? In a recent conversation with some French friends, I mentioned that La Famille Benoiton was figuring East and West. "Mais comment! how can they understand it? even Frenchmen, if not Parisians, would have difficulty! mais c'est impayable." I quietly replied that we were a great nation, which is a convenient answer on many occasions; but between ourselves, is it not a pity that we do not aim at a little originality? that we must ape Paris quite so much?
But, to return to La Maison Neuve. It was hissed at first, its satire was perhaps a little too piquant; but some of the thorns being removed, it blooms in glory, and Frenchman clap furiously at the merciless cutting up of Boulevard Malesherbes, and the upstart fashions of young France. From what I have seen and observed, I fancy the play is an exaggerated, but on the whole a tolerably faithful picture of modern French life, with its want of depth, its tinsel, its sham, and its immorality. But let us leave the theatre—though the charming, light, natural acting, which we heavier Americans cannot imitate, make it wonderfully attractive—in turn once more to Paris streets.
After all, life is not in the houses, or rather slices of houses, which people call apartments, but in the streets. At this season, one does not feel astonished at it; every body, even the rheumatic old bachelor, feels tempted to leave the smoky chimney—why do French chimneys always smoke?—and wander up and down peering into all the shop windows, with their wealth of beautiful things, tempting one to buy a Christmas or New Year's gift for every body under the sun. We must acknowledge that our cousins of France have a most wonderful art of displaying their merchandise to the best advantage. Did anyone ever imagine anything more seductive than a French confectioner's? It is really dangerous to pass the establishments of Boissier and others on the Boulevard, with their beautiful display of boxes, caskets, vases, and quaintly dressed figures of grand ladies, etc., all filled with delicious bonbons. As to the toys, there is positive genius displayed in these pleasures of a moment; indeed, these shop-keepers are not only artists, they are satirists. Approach, dear ladies, look at these dolls, and sigh for fashion, if you can; these unimaginable gew-gaws, these extraordinarily long robes, which give the dear creatures the appearance of being half on the floor, and half above it, these—these ... but I lack the milliner vocabulary, or I would stun you with the etceteras; then the turn of the head, the stare through the miniature eye-glass, and the little curly dog led by a ribbon! Messieurs the shop-keepers! I bow to you, you are greater satirists even than those sharp-penned writers of a certain New York literary review.