The other day, having reached the upper part of the Boulevard, near the Porte St. Dennis, I could not but stop and gaze down that long stream of human life which lay before me; not a particle of the pavement was to be seen, nothing but a living mass of bustling, pushing, quarreling humanity. All classes, all ages, almost all countries, were there. Men in blouses. and men in broad-cloth; beggars and nobles; innocent children, and men with the inevitable marks of an ill-spent life on care-worn faces; silk attired dames, and white-capped bonnes; loud-voiced ladies with unimaginable boots, and the shortest possible walking dresses; anxious mothers trying in vain to keep their excited little ones from running against portly gentlemen, or loaded commissionaires. Fancy all this, with a Babel of German, Italian, Spanish, and much more frequent English, with the noise of street organists and Italian harpists, the screaming of itinerant merchants, the dashing of carriages, the swearing of drivers, and you will have some idea of the scene. As I stood in a sheltered nook observing, I could not but think of Kribble Krabble, Hans Andersen's philosopher, who showed his friend what seemed to be a city full of fighting, devouring monsters, in a drop of water. I wonder if from those quiet stars, so calm and pure, this busy scene does not also appear like that drop of ditch water; whether some beings gifted with a penetrating vision denied to us, do not see into the true natures of this elbowing host, and weep over the monsters of cruelty, of cunning, of hypocrisy, of degradation disclosed—inevitable adjuncts of a large city. Let us look again; we, less gifted, see only beings one much like the other, all seemingly busy in enjoying the gay scene around them, eagerly prying into the glittering shops, or passing quickly by the thousand booths that during Christmas week transform the street into a real Vanity Fair. They laugh, chat, seem happy, and surely to be happy one must be innocent! Let us believe them so; let us pass on, brushing by yon gaudily dressed woman, yon sinister-eyed man, and thank heaven that we are not cursed with the magical glass of Kribble Krabble. After all, do not those slashing satirists do more harm than good, in bringing so vividly to the light of day things that might as well be kept in the background? Is it not better philosophy to shut one's eyes to much that passes around one, at this season especially, for it is Christmas time, when there should be peace on earth?
Speaking of Christmas, reminds me to speak of the churches, which I have as yet neglected. Paintings, engravings, and photographs have already made the outside of these churches familiar to you, therefore I will not dwell on that branch of the subject. Notre Dame, grand old Gothic Notre Dame, is on an island in the Seine. It seems to look down, in its grandeur, on both old and new Paris. On one side it seems sadly to recall the bloody memories of years gone by; the rise and downfall of dynasties; the rise and downfall of families still sheltered in the old streets of the old St. Germain quarter; the death of the old régime, the breaking of hearts. On the other hand, it seems to frown on gorgeous new Paris; on the beautiful panorama of buildings along the bank of the river, the Tuileries, the Louvre, the Hotel de Ville, etc., and beyond these, scores of new white buildings, and the ruins of others, comparatively new, which are to give place to still finer ones. The old church, with its quaintly carved monsters and old towers, seems to stand as a warning of the time that is to come, when all these great works of man shall be but vanity, and as chaff. This is a solemn church, as it should be, and gloom seems to dwell in its lofty arches.
It is the Madeleine, the beautiful, bright Madeleine, which seems to be the favorite church of the Parisians. It was here that, with great difficulty, I found a seat on Christmas morning. As I entered the services had begun, and a beautifully clear boy's voice was holding a high note, while a full orchestral band was playing the accompaniment. The church was crowded, and I noticed that a great many Protestants, both English and American, were present. I have heard much and read much of the impropriety and want of respect evinced by these in sacred places, but, except for a little more staring, and perhaps some little more whispering, their conduct, as far as I could observe, did not differ essentially from that of their Catholic neighbors. In these large churches there is always an amount of bustle, and a want of reverence, which, to an American Catholic, is, I confess, very shocking. The constant coming in and going out is occasioned, in some degree, by the fact that often, during high mass, several low masses are going on at the side altars; but still the want of reverence evinced by numbers and numbers of these French Catholics, is a fact too apparent to be denied. I do not mean to say that I have not observed many who seemed to realize what was going on before them, but most of these had "old régime" written on their faces. With young France it is the fashion to doubt, to scoff, or to be utterly indifferent, and who dares to disobey fashion? But let us return to the ceremony.
The altar of this famed church has often been described. The marble group above it is singularly beautiful, it represents Mary Magdalen, supported by angels; the figures are of heroic size, and of the purest white marble. At this altar ministered a large number of golden-robed priests, surrounded by a bevy of boys in scarlet and white. Had I, too, been a Protestant, ignorant of the deep and holy meaning hidden under these symbols, and seeing in them but the glitter of gold and rich colors, I dare say I should, like them, have pronounced it but a gorgeous show, a theatrical display; as it was, my thoughts flew eagerly back to a certain well remembered chapel across the Atlantic, where I had often assisted at the same ceremony performed with a simplicity and devotion which contrasted pleasingly with this grand high mass at the Madeleine. Persecution and poverty are wonderful safeguards to the virtue of man; they are, perhaps, also necessary to the perfection of churches. Religion—faith—must always remain pure, but the professors thereof may easily be influenced by the accidents of wealth and splendor. While making these reflections, and indoctrinating myself with charity toward our Protestant brethren, the mass went on, and the really beautiful music filled the lofty church. But there was something discordant to my ears in the harmony of the violins and brass instruments; to my mind the organ alone, that most holy of instruments, is worthy of ministering to the service of God. Still, the music was beautiful, and after all true music is always sacred; and when at the elevation the loud instruments held their breath, and a rich barytone voice alone was heard, I had to confess that, whatever its surroundings, religion and religious spirit are always to be found by him who really seeks them.
Remember, also, that I have been talking of the Madeleine, which is essentially the worldly church of Paris. At St. Roch, situated in Rue St. Honoré, and from whose steps the blood-thirsty crowd jeered at Marie Antoinette as she was being led to the Place de la Concorde, where stood the awful guillotine; at Notre Dame de Lorette, and many others, there is less glitter, less parade, and apparently more devotion. At St. Roch, the beautifully trained choir of boys, and the good music given, attract many Protestants; still the feeling of the church is more Catholic than that of the Madeleine. Here, as elsewhere, I was struck by the vast number of priests in the sanctuary. I thought of our own overworked, faithful priests, and could not help wondering whether a little of their hard work would not be good for those before me.
As I look over what I have written I find that there is no small amount of grumbling and fault-finding in the foregoing pages; I smile to myself as I discover that I have fallen into the little peculiarity which I have so often noticed in my countrymen and countrywomen in Paris: that of finding fault. No American, or Englishman either, whom you may question, will utter ten words on the subject, without abusing the French. "There's no trust to be put in them; they are a lying, mean set," are among the mildest accusations poured forth; and there certainly is some truth in the charges. Americans, with the people at large, are a flock of rich fools, sent over by their lucky stars, on purpose to be fleeced; consequently all the tradespeople you employ, your servants and their ally the concierge, invariably ask you about double as much as they would ask a Frenchman, and laugh at you while pocketing your gold. The art of cheapening things, so well understood by the people here, is a new experience to you. You do not like to walk into a handsome shop and offer half the price asked for an article, you are not accustomed to it, feel awkward; all of which the wily shopman sees well enough, and, of course, you end by giving the price required. But that French lady next to you, so handsomely dressed, does not hesitate an instant; you think she at least would have disdained that art of the bourgeoisie; not a bit of it; she insists, the clerk, bowing much more respectfully than he did to you, wraps up the article, and the lady sails out in triumph.
But for all this, Americans seem to find wondrous charms in this city, and prolong their stay for one month to two, then to six, and not unfrequently rush back to New York, settle up their affairs, and return to live here permanently, despising the French more and more every year, of course! At this present moment, if all our countrymen and countrywomen, now residing here, were suddenly transplanted to the western prairies, they would form quite a respectable sized city, which would, according to the invariable western custom, begin to defy its sister cities to show a bigger figure when the census came to be taken. But I fancy very few of these Americans, if the question were put to them, would be willing thus to be transported for the good of their country. We are undoubtedly a very patriotic people; but we believe, most devoutly, that charity begins at home. Among these same countrymen of ours I notice the names of a number of well-known artists, who, I understand are well thought of in the artistic world. It is pleasant to hear them praised by our cousins of France, but I cannot help thinking that America, still so young in art, can ill spare her gifted children.
Talking of artists, let me tell you of a sad little incident that came under my own observation. We are all dimly conscious that poverty, sometimes in its direst aspect, harasses the beginning or nearly all artist lives. We have heard that N., whose beautiful picture drew crowds at the last exhibition, and who cannot fulfil all the commissions that pour in upon him—that the same man, not many years ago, might have starved but for the aid of his fellow students; we know this, but, surrounded by comforts and luxuries, it is the hardest thing in the world to realize poverty. We walk the streets, brush by numbers of ragged women, throw a copper to a bare-footed little beggar, but how often do we in our thoughts follow those poor creatures to the hovels or garrets or cellars which serve them as homes? how little we can imagine the cold and damp which chill their bones, or the hunger which gnaws them! Still less do we realize, I think, that beings with the education and feelings of gentlemen, should have to endure these same horrors. I have before my mind, as I write, the face of a young man, an enthusiast in his art, who, while engaged on a long dreamt-of, cherished work, found that in consequence of the war in America, the supplies on which he had calculated gave out. What to do? abandon his work, his career perhaps? return beggared to his native western town, without the promised work which was to show that his time had not been wasted? Never, better starve! and starve he actually would have done, but for the help of a student friend, almost as poor as himself, who shared his daily loaf with him; and so the young man finished his picture, took it over to America, where artists who saw it, seeing that it showed more than ordinary talent, bestirred themselves, and making up a sufficient sum, sent the young man back to his studies, feeling sure that the world would hear of him some day. But I am wondering, let us return to Paris, and to the incident which I was about to relate.
Some few weeks ago I was invited to dinner by some friends settled here for the winter. The meeting was a pleasant one, and I left the brilliantly lighted, handsome rooms with a pleasing glow over me, a reflection perhaps from the good cheer which both mind and body had enjoyed. As I was passing the inevitable concierge lodge, the Cerberus kennel of every French house, I was stopped by the sound of plaintive voice, and looking around I saw a little girl, a child of some ten years, pleading evidently for some great favor with the gruff concierge himself, who, notwithstanding all his decided negative shakes of the head, seemed to be struggling with a certain degree of pity. The child was wretchedly dressed, and her little hands were blue with cold, but in her upturned, pitifully old child's face, there was a certain look of refinement that struck me. I approached and asked what the matter was.