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Title: Seeing Europe with Famous Authors, Volume 3 - France and the Netherlands, Part 1
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Language: English
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  Selected and Edited, with Introductions, etc., by


  Editor of "Great Epochs in American History"
  Associate Editor of "The World's Famous Orations"
  and of "The Best of the World's Classics," etc.



[Illustration: Paris: The Seine and Bridges]

Vol. III

Part One

Introduction to Volumes III and IV

France and the Netherlands

The tourist bound for France lands either at Cherbourg, Havre, or
Boulogne. At Cherbourg, he sees waters in which the "Kearsarge" sank
the "Alabama"; at Havre a shelter in which, long before Caesar came to
Gaul, ships, with home ports on the Seine, sought safety from the sea;
and at Boulogne may recall the invading expedition to England, planned
by Napoleon, but which never sailed.

From the Roman occupation, many Roman remains have survived in England,
but these are far inferior in numbers and in state of preservation to
the Roman remains found in France. Marseilles was not only an important
Roman seaport, but its earliest foundations date perhaps from
Phoenician times, and certainly do from the age when Greeks were
building temples at Paestum and Girgenti. Rome got her first foothold
in Marseilles as a consequence of the Punic wars; and in 125 B.C.
acquired a province (Provincia Romana) reaching from the Alps to the
Rhone, and southward to the sea, with Aix as its first capital and
Arles its second. Caesar in 58 B.C. found on the Seine a tribe of men
called Parisii, whose chief village, Lutetia, stood where now rises
Notre Dame.

Lutetia afterward became a residence of Roman emperors. Constantius
Chlorus spent some time there, guarding the empire from Germans and
Britons, while Julian the Apostate built there for himself a palace and
extensive baths, of which remains still exist in Paris. In that palace
afterward lived Pepin le Bref ("mayor of the palace"), son of Charles
Martell, and father of the great Charles. Romans built there an
amphitheater seating ten thousand people, of which remains are still

Lyons was a great Roman city. Augustus first called it into vigorous
life, his wish being to make it "a second Rome." From Lyons a system of
roads ran out to all parts of Gaul. Claudius was born there; Caligula
made it the political and intellectual capital of Provincia; its
people, under an edict of Caracalla, were made citizens of Rome. At
Nimes was born the Emperor Antoninus. In Gaul, Galba, Otho, Vitellius,
Vespasian and Domitian were made emperors. At Arles and Nîmes are Roman
amphitheaters still regularly put to use for combats between men and
wild beasts--but the wild beasts, instead of lions and tigers, are
bulls. At Orange is a Roman theater of colossal proportions, in which a
company from the Théâtre Français annually presents classical dramas.
The magnificent fortress city of Carcassonne has foundation walls that
were laid by Romans. Notre Dame of Paris occupies the site of a temple
to Jupiter.

As with modern England, so with modern France; its people are a mixture
of many races. To the southwest, in a remote age, came Iberians from
Spain, to Provence, Ligurians from Italy; to the northeast, Germanic
tribes; to the northwest, Scandinavians; to the central parts, from the
Seine to the Garonne, in the sixth century B.C., Gauls, who soon became
the dominant race, and so have remained until this day, masterful and
fundamental. When Caesar came, there had grown up in Gaul a martial
nobility, leaders of a warlike people, with chieftains whose names are
familiar in the mouths and ears of all schoolboys--Aricvistus and
Vercingetorix. When Vercingetorix was overthrown at Alesia, Gaul became
definitely Roman. For five hundred years it remained loyal to Rome.
Within its borders, was established the Pax Romana, and in 250 A.D.,
under St. Denis, Christianity. When the disintegration of the empire
set in five centuries afterward, Gaul was among the first provinces to
suffer. With the coming of the Visigoths and Huns from the Black Sea,
the Pranks and Bnrgundians from beyond the Rhine, the Roman fall was
near, but great battles were first fought in Gaul, battles which
rivaled those of Caesar five centuries before. Greatest of all these
was the one with Attila, at Chalons, in 451, where thousands perished.

When the Roman dominion ended, Rome's one great province in Gaul became
seventeen small principalities, and power drifted fast into the hands
of a warlike aristocracy. Then a strong man rose in Clovis, who, in
508, made Lutetia his capital, his successors enriching and adorning
it. From these beginnings, has been evolved, in twelve hundred years,
the great modern state--through Charlemagne and his empire-building,
Louis XI. and his work of consolidating feudal principalities into one
strong state, through a Hundred Years' War, fierce wars of religion, a
long line of Bourbon kings, with their chateaux-building in Touraine
and Versailles, the Revolution of 1789, the Napoleonic era, the
Republic. An historical land surely is this, and a beautiful land, with
her snow-capped mountains of the southeast, her broad vineyards,
unrivaled cathedrals, her Roman remains, ancient olive groves, her art,
her literature, her people.

Belgium and Holland were included in the territory known to Rome as
Gaul. Here dwelt a people called the Belgii, and another called the
Nervii--that tribal nation whom Cæsar "overcame" on a summer's day, and
the same evening, "in his tent," "put on" the mantle that was pierced
afterward by daggers in the Senate House. From these lands came the
skilled Batavian cavalry, which followed Caesar in pursuit of Pompey
and forced Pompey's flight at Pharsalia. From here afterward came other
Batavians, who served as the Imperial Guard of Rome from Caasar's time
to Vespasian's. In race, as in geographical position, the Netherlands
have belonged in part to France, in part to Germany, the interior long
remaining Gallic, the frontier Teutonic. From Caesar's time down to the
fifth century, the land was Roman. Afterward, in several periods, it
was in part, or in whole, included in the domain of France--in
Charlemagne's time and after; under Louis XI., who sought, somewhat
unsuccessfully, its complete submission; under Louis XIV., who
virtually conquered it; under the French Revolution, and during
Napoleon's ascendency. On Belgium soil Marlborough fought and won
Ramillies, and Wellington Waterloo.

Belgium and Holland were for long great centers of European
commerce--at Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, Rotterdam, Amsterdam--rivals of
English ports, Holland an ancient adversary of England and her valiant
enemy in great wars. A still fiercer struggle came with Spain. Perhaps
an even greater conflict than these two has been her never-ending war
with the sea. Holland has been called a land enclosed in a fortress
reared against the sea. For generations her people have warred with
angry waves; but, as Motley has said, they gained an education for a
struggle "with the still more savage despotism of man." Let me not
forget here Holland's great school of art--comparable only to that of
Spain, or even to that of Italy. F. W. H.

Contents of Volume III

France and the Netherlands--Part One



  The City Beautiful--By Anne Warwick
  Notre-Dame--By Victor Hugo
  The Louvre--By Grant Allen
  The Madeline and Champs Elysées--By Nathaniel Hawthorne
  The Hotel des Invalides and Napoleon's Tomb--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  The Palais de Justice and Sainte Chapelle--By Grant Allen
  The Hotel de Ville and the Conciergerie--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  Père la Chaise--By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  The Musée de Cluny--By Grant Allen
  The Place de la Bastille--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  The Pantheon and St. Etienne du Mont--By Grant Allen
  St. Roch--By Augustus J. C. Hare

II--The Environs of Paris

  Versailles--By William Makepeace Thackeray
  Versailles in 1739--By Thomas Gray
  Fontainebleau--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  St. Denis--By Grant Allen
  Marly-Le-Roi--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  The Village of Auteuil--By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  The Two Trianons--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  Malmaison--By Augustus J. C. Hare
  St. Germain--By Leitch Ritchie
  St. Cloud--By Augustus J. C. Hare

III--Old Provence

  The Papal Palace at Avignon--By Charles Dickens
  The Building of the Great Palace--By Thomas Okey
  The Walls of Avignon--By Thomas Okey
  Villeneuve and the Broken Bridge--By Thomas Okey
  Orange--By Henry James
  Vaucluse--By Bayard Taylor
  The Pont du Guard,--Aigues-Mortes--Nîmes--By Henry James
  Arles and Les Baux--By Henry James

IV--Cathedrals and Chateaux

  Amiens--By Nathaniel Hawthorne
  Rouen--By Thomas Frognall Dibdin
  Chartres--By Epiphanius Wilson
  Rheims--By Epiphanius Wilson

(_Cathedrals and Chateaux continued in Vol. IV_)

List of Illustrations

Volume III

  Paris: The Seine and Bridges

  Notre Dame, Paris
  Portion of the Louvre, Paris
  Church of the Madeleine, Paris
  Napoleon's Sarcophagus, Paris
  The Burial Place of Napoleon, Paris
  Column and Place Vendóme, Paris
  Column of July, Paris
  The Pantheon, Paris
  The House of the Chamber of Deputies, Paris
  The Bourse, Paris
  Interior of the Grand Opera House, Paris
  Front of the Grand Opera House, Paris
  The Arc de Triomphe, Paris
  Arch Erected by Napoleon Near the Louvre, Paris
  The Church of St. Vincent de Paul, Paris
  The Church of St. Sulpice, Paris
  The Picture Gallery of Versailles
  The Bed-Room of Louis XIV., Versailles
  The Grand Trianon at Versailles
  The Little Trianon at Versailles
  The Bed-Room of Catherine de Medici at Chaumont
  Marie Antoinette's Dairy at Versailles
  Saint Denis
  The Bridge at St. Cloud

[Illustration: Notre Dame, Paris]

[Illustration: Church of the Madeleine]

[Illustration: Portion of the Louvre]

[Illustration: Paris: Column and Place Vendome]

[Illustration: Burial Place of Napoleon]

[Illustration: Napoleon's Sarcophagus]

[Illustration: Paris: Column of July in the Place de la Bastille]

[Illustration: Pantheon, Paris]

[Illustration: House of the Chamber of Deputies]

[Illustration: Bourse, Paris]



The City Beautiful

By Anne Warwick

[Footnote: From "The Meccas of the World." By permission of the
publisher, John Lane. Copyright, 1913.]

The most prejudiced will not deny that Paris is beautiful; or that
there is about her streets and broad, tree-lined avenues a graciousness
at once dignified and gay. Stand, as the ordinary tourist does on his
first day, in the flowering square before the Louvre; in the foreground
are the fountains and bright tulip-bordered paths of the
Tuileries--here a glint of gold, there a soft flash of marble statuary,
shining through the trees; in the center the round lake where the
children sail their boats. Beyond spreads the wide sweep of the Place
de la Concorde, with its obelisk of terrible significance, its larger
fountains throwing brilliant jets of spray; and then the trailing,
upward vista of the Champs Elysées to the great triumphal arch; yes,
even to the most indifferent, Paris is beautiful.

To the subtler of appreciation, she is more than beautiful; she is
impressive. For behind the studied elegance of architecture, the
elaborate simplicity of garden, the carefully lavish use of sculpture
and delicate spray, is visible the imagination of a race of passionate
creators--the imagination, throughout, of the great artist. One meets
it at every turn and corner, down dim passageways, up steep hills,
across bridges, along sinuous quays; the masterhand and its "infinite
capacity for taking pains." And so marvelously do its manifestations of
many periods through many ages combine to enhance one another that one
is convinced that the genius of Paris has been perennial; that St.
Genevieve, her godmother, bestowed it as an immortal gift when the city
was born.

From earliest days every man seems to have caught the spirit of the man
who came before, and to have perpetuated it; by adding his own
distinctive yet always harmonious contribution to the gradual
development of the whole. One built a stately avenue; another erected a
church at the end; a third added a garden on the other side of the
church, and terraces leading up to it; a fourth and fifth cut streets
that should give from the remaining two sides into other flowery
squares with their fine edifices. And so from every viewpoint, and from
every part of the entire city, to-day we have an unbroken series of
vistas--each one different and more charming than the last.

History has lent its hand to the process, too; and romance--it is not
an insipid chain of flowerbeds we have to follow, but the holy warriors
of Saint Louis, the roistering braves of Henry the Great, the gallant
Bourbons, the ill-starred Bonapartes. These as they passed have left
their monuments; it may be only in a crumbling old chapel or ruined
tower, but there they are, eloquent of days that are dead, of a spirit
that lives forever staunch in the heart of the fervent French people.

It comes over one overwhelmingly sometimes, in the midst of the
careless gaiety of the modern city, the old, ever-burning spirit of
rebellion and savage strife that underlies it all, and that can spring
to the surface now on certain memorable days, with a vehemence that is
terrifying. Look across the Pont Alexandre, at the serene gold dome of
the Invalides, surrounded by its sleepy barracks. Suddenly you are in
the fires and awful slaughter of Napoleon's wars. The flower of France
is being pitilessly cut down for the lust of one man's ambition; and
when that is spent, and the wail of the widowed country pierces heaven
with its desolation, a costly asylum is built for the handful of
soldiers who are left--and the great Emperor has done his duty!

Or you are walking through the Cité, past the court of the Palais de
Justice. You glance in, carelessly--memory rushes upon you--and the
court flows with blood, "so that men waded through it, up to the
knees!" In the tiny stone-walled room yonder, Marie Antoinette sits
disdainfully composed before her keepers; tho her face is white with
the sounds she hears, as her friends and followers are led out to swell
that hideous river of blood.

A pretty, artificial city, Paris; good for shopping, and naughty
amusements, now and then. History? Oh yes, of course; but all that's so
dry and uninspiring, and besides it happened so long ago.

Did it? In your stroll along the Rue Royale, among the jewellers' and
milliners' shops and Maxim's, glance up at the Madeleine, down at the
obelisk in the Place de la Concorde. Little over a hundred years ago,
this was the brief distance between life and death for those who one
minute were dancing in the "Temple of Victory," the next were laying
their heads upon the block of the guillotine.


By Victor Hugo

[Footnote: From Hugo's "Notre-Dame de Paris." Translated by A.L. Alger.
By permission of Dana, Estes & Co. Copyright, 1888.]

The church of Notre-Dame at Paris is doubtless still a sublime and
majestic building. But, much beauty as it may retain in its old age, it
is not easy to repress a sigh, to restrain our anger, when we mark the
countless defacements and mutilations to which men and time have
subjected that venerable monument, without respect for Charlemagne, who
laid its first stone, or Philip Augustus, who laid its last....

Upon the face of this aged queen of French cathedrals, beside every
wrinkle we find a scar. "Tempus edax, homo edacior;" which I would fain
translate thus: "Time is blind, but man is stupid." Had we leisure to
study with the reader, one by one, the various marks of destruction
graven upon the ancient church, the work of Time would be the lesser,
the worse that of Men, especially of "men of art," since there are
persons who have styled themselves architects during the last two

And first of all, to cite but a few glaring instances, there are
assuredly few finer pages in the history of architecture than that
facade where the three receding portals with their pointed arches, the
carved and denticulated plinth with its twenty-eight royal niches, the
huge central rose-window flanked by its two lateral windows as is the
priest by his deacon and subdeacon, the lofty airy gallery of
trifoliated arcades supporting a heavy platform upon its slender
columns, and lastly the two dark and massive towers with their
pent-house roofs of slate, harmonious parts of a magnificent whole, one
above the other, five gigantic stages, unfold themselves to the eye,
clearly and as a whole, with their countless details of sculpture,
statuary, and carving, powerfully contributing to the calm grandeur of
the whole; as it were, a vast symphony in stone; the colossal work of
one man and one nation, one and yet complex, like the Iliad and the old
Romance epics, to which it is akin; the tremendous sum of the joint
contributions of all the force of an entire epoch, in which every stone
reveals, in a hundred forms, the fancy of the workman disciplined by
the genius of the artist--a sort of human creation, in brief, powerful
and prolific as the Divine creation, whose double characteristics,
variety and eternity, it seems to have acquired.

And what we say of the façades, we must also say of the whole church;
and what we say of the cathedral church of Paris must be said of all
the Christian churches of the Middle Ages. Everything is harmonious
which springs from spontaneous, logical, and well-proportioned art. To
measure a toe, is to measure the giant.

Let us return to the façade of Notre-Dame as we see it at the present
day, when we make a pious pilgrimage to admire the solemn and mighty
cathedral, which, as its chroniclers declare, inspires terror. This
façade now lacks three important things: first, the eleven steps which
formerly raised it above the level of the ground; next, the lower
series of statues which filled the niches over the doors; and lastly,
the upper row of the twenty-eight most ancient kings of France, which
adorned the gallery of the first story, from Childebert down to Philip
Augustus, each holding in his hand "the imperial globe."

The stairs were destroyed by Time, which, with slow and irresistible
progress, raised the level of the city's soil; but while this
flood-tide of the pavements of Paris swallowed one by one the eleven
steps which added to the majestic height of the edifice, Time has
perhaps given to the church more than it took away, for it is Time
which has painted the front with that sober hue of centuries which
makes the antiquity of churches their greatest beauty.

But who pulled down the two rows of statues? Who left those empty
niches? Who carved that new and bastard pointed arch in the very center
of the middle door? Who dared to insert that clumsy, tasteless, wooden
door, carved in the style of Louis XV., side by side with the
arabesques of Biscornette? Who but men, architects, the artists of our

And if we step into the interior of the edifice, who overthrew that
colossal figure of Saint Christopher, proverbial among statues by the
same right as the great hall of the palace among halls, as the spire of
Strasburg among steeples? And those myriad statues which peopled every
space between the columns of the choir and the nave, kneeling,
standing, on horseback, men, women, children, kings, bishops,
men-at-arms--of stone, of marble, of gold, of silver, of copper, nay
even of wax--who brutally swept them away? It was not the hand of Time.

And who replaced the old Gothic altar, with its splendid burden of
shrines and reliquaries, by that heavy marble sarcophagus adorned with
clouds and cherubs, looking like a poor copy of the Val-de-Grâce or the
Hôtel des Invalides? Who was stupid enough to fasten that clumsy stone
anachronism into the Carlovingian pavement of Hercandus? Was it not
Louis XIV., fulfilling the vow of Louis XIII.?

And who set cold white panes in place of that stained glass of gorgeous
hue, which led the wondering gaze of our fathers to roam uncertain
'twixt the rose-window of the great door and the ogives of the chancel?
And what would a precentor of the sixteenth century say if he could see
the fine coat of yellow wash with which our Vandal archbishops have
smeared their cathedral? He would remember that this was the color with
which the executioner formerly painted those buildings judged
"infamous;" he would recall the hotel of the Petit-Bourbon, bedaubed
with yellow in memory of the Constable's treason; "a yellow of so fine
a temper," says Sauval, "and so well laid on, that more than a hundred
years have failed to wash out its color." He would fancy that the
sacred spot had become accursed, and would turn and flee.

And if we climb higher in the cathedral, without pausing to note a
thousand barbarous acts of every kind, what has become of that
delightful little steeple which rested upon the point of intersection
of the transept, and which, no less fragile and no less daring than its
neighbor, the spire of the Sainte-Chapelle, (also destroyed), rose yet
nearer heaven than the towers, slender, sharp, sonorous, and daintily

An architect of good taste (1787) amputated it, and thought it quite
enough to cover the wound with that large leaden plaster which looks
like the lid of a stewpan. Thus was the marvelous art of the Middle
Ages treated in almost every land, but particularly in France. We find
three sorts of injury upon its ruins, these three marring it to
different depths; first, Time, which has made insensible breaches here
and there, mildewed and rusted the surface everywhere; then, political
and religious revolutions, which, blind and fierce by nature, fell
furiously upon it, rent its rich array of sculpture and carving,
shivered its rose-windows, shattered its necklaces of arabesques and
quaint figures, tore down its statues--sometimes because of their
crown; lastly, changing fashion, even more grotesque and absurd, from
the anarchic and splendid deviations of the Renaissance down to the
necessary decline of architecture.

Fashion did more than revolutions. Fashion cut into the living flesh,
attacked the very skeleton and framework of art; it chopped and hewed,
dismembered, slew the edifice, in its form as well as in its symbolism,
in its logic no less than in its beauty. But fashion restored, a thing
which neither time nor revolution ever pretended to do. Fashion, on the
plea of "good taste," impudently adapted to the wounds of Gothic
architecture the paltry gewgaws of a day,--marble ribbons, metallic
plumes, a veritable leprosy of egg-shaped moldings, of volutes,
wreaths, draperies, spirals, fringes, stone flames, bronze clouds,
lusty cupids, and bloated cherubs, which began to ravage the face of
art in the oratory of Catherine de Medici, and destroyed it, two
centuries later, tortured and distorted, in the Dubarry's boudoir.

There are thus, to sum up the points to which we have alluded, three
sorts of scars now disfiguring Gothic architecture; wrinkles and warts
upon the epidermis--these are the work of time; wounds, brutal
injuries, bruises, and fractures--these are the work of revolution,
from Luther to Mirabeau; mutilations, amputations, dislocations of the
frame, "restorations,"--these are the Greek, Roman barbaric work of
professors according to Vitruvius and Vignole. Academies have murdered
the magnificent art which the Vandals produced. To centuries, to
revolutions which at least laid waste with impartiality and grandeur,
are conjoined the host of scholastic architects, licensed and sworn,
degrading all they touch with the discernment and selection of bad
taste, substituting the tinsel of Louis XV. for Gothic lace-work, for
the greater glory of the Parthenon. This is the donkey's kick at the
dying lion. It is the old oak, decaying at the crown, pierced, bitten
and devoured by caterpillars.

How different from the time when Robert Cenalis, comparing Notre Dame
at Paris to the famous temple of Diana at Ephesus; "so loudly boasted
by the ancient pagans," which immortalized Herostratus, held the
cathedral of the Gauls to be "more excellent in length, breadth,
height, and structure!"

Notre Dame at Paris is not, however, what can be called a complete,
definite monument, belonging to a class. It is neither a Roman nor a
Gothic church. The edifice is not a typical one. It has not, like the
abbey at Tournus, the sober massive breadth, the round expansive arch,
the icy bareness, the majestic simplicity of those buildings based on
the semicircular arch. It is not, like the cathedral at Bourges, the
magnificent, airy, multiform, bushy, sturdy, efflorescent product of
the pointed arch.

It is impossible to class it with that antique order of dark,
mysterious, low-studded churches, apparently crusht by the semicircular
arch--almost Egyptian, save for the ceiling; all hieroglyphic, all
sacerdotal, all symbolic, more loaded in their ornamentation with
lozenges and zigzags than with flowers, with flowers than with animals,
with animals than with men; less the work of the architect than of the
bishop; the first transformation of the art, bearing the deep impress
of theocratic and military discipline, taking root in the Lower Empire,
and ceasing with William the Conqueror. It is impossible to place our
cathedral in that other family of lofty, aerial churches, rich in
stained glass and sculpture; of pointed forms and daring attitudes;
belonging to the commoners and plain, citizens, as political symbols;
free, capricious, lawless, as works of art; the second transformation
of architecture, no longer hieroglyphic, unchangeable, sacerdotal, but
artistic, progressive, and popular, beginning with the close of the
Crusades and ending with Louis XI. Notre Dame at Paris is not of purely
Roman race like the former, nor of purely Arab breed like the latter.

It is a building of the transition period. The Saxon architect had just
reared the pillars of the nave, when the pointed arch, brought back
from the Crusades, planted itself as conqueror upon those broad Roman
capitals which were never meant to support anything but semicircular
arches. The pointed arch, thenceforth supreme, built the rest of the
church. And still, inexperienced and shy at first, it swelled, it
widened, it restrained itself, and dared not yet shoot up into spires
and lancets, as it did later on in so many marvelous cathedrals. It
seemed sensible of the close vicinity of the heavy Roman columns.

Moreover, these buildings of the transition from Roman to Gothic are no
less valuable studies than the pure types. They express a gradation of
the art which would otherwise be lost. They represent the ingrafting of
the pointed arch upon the semicircular.

Notre Dame at Paris, in particular, is a curious example of this
variety. Every face, every stone of the venerable monument is a page
not only of the history of the country, but also of the history of
science and art. Thus, to allude only to leading details, while the
little Porte Rouge attains the almost extreme limit of the Gothic
refinement of the fifteenth century, the pillars of the nave, in their
size and gravity of style, go back to the Carlovingian Abbey of
Saint-Germain des Prés. One would say that there was an interval of six
centuries between that door and those pillars. Even the Hermetics find
among the symbols of the great door a satisfactory epitome of their
science, of which the Church of St. Jacques de la Boucherie formed so
complete a hieroglyph.

Thus, the Roman abbey, the philosopher's church, Gothic art, Saxon art,
the clumsy round pillar, which recalls Gregory VII., the hermetic
symbolism by which Nicholas Flamel paved the way for Luther, papal
unity, schism, Saint-Germain des Prés, Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie,
are all confounded, combined and blended in Notre Dame. This central
and generative church is a kind of chimera among the old churches of
Paris; it has the head of one, the limbs of another, the trunk of a
third, something of all.

Considering here Christian European architecture only, that younger
sister of the grand piles of the Orient, we may say that it strikes the
eye as a vast formation divided into three very distinct zones or
layers, one resting upon the other; the Roman zone, (the same which is
also known according to place, climate, and species, as Lombard, Saxon,
and Byzantine. There are the four sister forms of architecture, each
having its peculiar character, but all springing from the same
principle, the semicircular arch,) the Gothic zone, the zone of the
Renaissance, which may be called the Greco-Roman. The Roman stratum,
which is the oldest and the lowest, is occupied by the semicircular
arch, which reappears, together with the Greek column, in the modern
and uppermost stratum of the Renaissance. The painted arch is between
the two. The buildings belonging to any one of these three strata are
perfectly distinct, uniform, and complete. Such are the Abbey of
Jumieges, the Cathedral of Rheims, the Church of the Holy Cross at
Orleans. But the three zones are blended and mingled at the edges, like
the colors in the solar spectrum.

Hence, we have certain complex structures, buildings of gradation and
transition, which may be Roman at the base, Gothic in the middle, and
Greco-Roman at the top. This is caused by the fact that it took six
hundred years to build such a fabric. This variety is rare. The
donjon-keep at Étampes is a specimen. But monuments of two formations
are more frequent. Such is Notre-Dame at Paris, a structure of the
pointed arch, its earliest columns leading directly to that Roman zone,
of which the portals of Saint-Denis and the nave of Saint-Germain des
Prés are perfect specimens. Such is the charming semi-Gothic
chapter-house of Boucherville, where the Roman layer reaches midway.
Such is the cathedral of Rouen, which would be wholly Gothic if the tip
of its central spire did not dip into the zone of the Renaissance.
[Footnote: This part of the spire, which was of timber, happens to be
the very part which was burned by lightning in 1823.]

However, all these gradations and differences affect the surface only
of an edifice. Art has but changed its skin. The construction itself of
the Christian church is not affected by them. The interior arrangement,
the logical order of the parts, is still the same. Whatever may be the
carved and nicely-wrought exterior of a cathedral, we always find
beneath it, if only in a rudimentary and dormant state, the Roman
basilica. It rises forever from the ground in harmony with the same law.

There are invariably two naves intersecting each other in the form of a
cross, the upper end being rounded into a chancel or choir; there are
always side aisles, for the processions and for chapels, a sort of
lateral galleries or walks, into which the principal nave opens by
means of the spaces between the columns. This settled, the number of
chapels, doors, steeples, and spires may be modified indefinitely,
according to the fancy of the century, the people, and the art. The
performance of divine service once provided for and assured,
architecture acts its own pleasure. Statues, stained glass,
rose-windows, arabesques, denticulations, capitals, and
bas-reliefs,--it combines all these flowers of the fancy according to
the logarithm that suits it best. Hence the immense variety in the
exteriors of those structures within which dwell such unity and order.
The trunk of the tree is fixt; the foliage is variable.

The Louvre

By Grant Allen

[Footnote: From "Paris."]

The Louvre is the noblest monument of the French Renaissance. From the
time of St. Louis onward, the French kings began to live more and more
in the northern suburb, the town of the merchants, which now assumed
the name of La Ville, in contradistinction to the Cité and the
Université. Two of their chief residences here were the Bastille and
the Hôtel St. Paul, both now demolished--one, on the Place so called;
the other, between the Rue St. Antoine and the Quai des Célestins. But
from a very early period they also possest a château on the site of the
Louvre, and known by the same name, which guarded the point where the
wall of Philippe Auguste abutted on the river. François I. decided to
pull down this picturesque turreted medieval castle, erected by
Philippe Auguste and altered by Charles V. He began the construction in
its place of a magnificent Renaissance palace, which has ever since
been in course of erection.

Its subsequent growth, however, is best explained opposite the building
itself, where attention can be duly called to the succession of its
salient features. But a visit to the exterior fabric of the Louvre
should be preceded by one to St. Germain l'Auxerrois, the parish
church, and practically the chapel, of the old Louvre, to which it
stood in somewhat the same relation as the Ste. Chapelle to the home of
St. Louis. Note, however, that the church was situated just within the
ancient wall, while the château lay outside it. The visitor will
doubtless be tolerably familiar by this time with some parts at least
of the exterior of the Louvre; but he will do well to visit it now
systematically, in the order here suggested, so as to gain a clear
general idea of its history and meaning....

Begin by understanding distinctly that this court is the real and
original Louvre; the rest is mere excresence, intended to unite the
main building with the Tuileries, which lay some hundreds of yards to
the west of it. Notice, first, that the Palace as a whole, seen from
the point where you now stand, is constructed on the old principle of
relatively blank external walls, like a castle, with an interior
courtyard, on which all the apartments open, and almost all the
decoration is lavished. Reminiscences of defense lurk about the Louvre.
It can best be understood by comparison with such ornate, yet
fortress-like, Italian palaces as the Strozzi at Florence. Notice the
four opposite portals, facing the cardinal points, which can be readily
shut by means of great doors; while the actual doorways of the various
suites of apartments open only into the protected courtyard. This is
the origin of the familiar French porte-cochère.

Again, the portion of the building that directly faces you as you enter
the court from St. Germain is the oldest part, and represents the early
Renaissance spirit. It is the most primitive Louvre. Note in particular
the central elevated portion, known as a Pavilion, and graced with
elegant Caryatides. These Pavilions are lingering reminiscences of the
medieval towers. You will find them in the corners and centers of other
blocks in the Louvre. They form a peculiarly French Renaissance
characteristic. The Palace is here growing out of the Castle. The other
three sides of the square are, on the whole, more classical and later.

Now across the square directly to the Pavilion de l'Horloge, as it is
called, from the clock which adorns it. To your left, on the floor of
the court, are two circular white lines, enclosed in a square. These
mark the site of the original Château of the Louvre, with its keep, or
donjon. François I., who began the existing building, originally
intended that his palace should cover the same area. It was he who
erected the left wing, which now faces you, marked by the crown and H
on its central round gable, placed there by his successor, Henry II.,
under whom it was completed. To the same king are also due the
monograms of H and D (for Diane de Poitiers, his mistress), between the
columns of the ground floor. The whole of the Pavilion de l'Horloge,
and of this west wing, should be carefully examined in detail as the
finest remaining specimen of highly decorated French Renaissance
architecture. (But the upper story of the Pavilion, with the
Caryatides, is an age later.) Observe even the decoration lavished on
the beautiful chimneys. Pierre Lescot was the architect of this
earliest wing; the exquisite sculpture is by Jean Goujon, a Frenchman,
and the Italian, Paolo Ponzio. Examine much of it. The crossed K's of
certain panels stand for Catherine de Médici.

The right wing, beyond the Pavilion, was added, in the same style,
under Louis XIII., who decided to double the plan of his predecessors,
and form the existing Cour du Louvre.

The other three sides, in a more classic style, with pediments
replacing the Pavilions, and square porticos instead of rounded gables,
are for the most part later. The south side, however, as far as the
central door, is also by Pierre Lescot. It forms one of the two fronts
of the original square first contemplated. The attic story of these
three sides was added under Louis XIV., to whom, in the main, is due
this Cour du Louvre. A considerable part of Louis XIV.'s decorations
bear reference to his representation as "le roi soleil."

Now, pass through the Pavilion de l'Horloge (called on its west side
Pavilion Sully) into the second of the three courts of the Louvre. To
understand this portion of the building, again, you must remember that
shortly after the erection of the Old Louvre, Catherine de Médici began
to build her palace of the Tuileries, now destroyed, to the west of it.
She (and subsequent rulers) designed to unite the Old Louvre with the
Tuileries by a gallery which should run along the bank of the river. Of
that gallery, Catherine de Médici herself erected a considerable
portion, to be described later, and Henri IV., almost completed it.
Later on, Napoleon I. conceived the idea of extending a similar gallery
along his new Rue de Rivoli, on the north side, so as to enclose the
whole space between the Louvre and the Tuileries in one gigantic double
courtyard. Napoleon III. carried out his idea. The second court in
which you now stand is entirely flanked by buildings of this epoch--the
Second Empire. Examine it cursorily as far as the modern statue of

Stand or take a seat by the railing of the garden opposite the Pavilion
Sully. The part that now faces you forms a portion of the building of
François I, and Louis XIII., redecorated in part by Napoleon I. The
portions to your right and left are entirely of the age of Napoleon
III., built so as to conceal the want of parallelism of the outer
portions. Observe their characteristic Pavilions, each bearing its own
name inscribed upon it. This recent square, tho quite modern in the
character of its sculpture and decoration, is Renaissance in its
general architecture, and, when looked back upon from the gardens of
the Tuileries, affords a most excellent idea of that stately style, as
developed in France under François I. The whole of this splendid plan,
however, has been rendered futile by the destruction of the Tuileries,
without which the enclosure becomes wholly meaningless.

Now, continue westward, pass the Monument of Gambetta, and take a seat
on the steps at the base, near the fine figure of Truth. In front of
you opens the third square of the Louvre, known as the Place du
Carrousel, and formerly enclosed on its west side by the Palace of the
Tuileries, which was unfortunately burned down in 1871, during the
conflict between the Municipal and National authorities. Its place is
now occupied by a garden terrace, the view from which in all directions
is magnificent. Fronting you, as you sit, is the Arc de Triomphe du
Carrousel, erected under Napoleon I., by Percier and Fontaine, in
imitation of the Arch of Septimius Severus at Rome, and once crowned by
the famous bronze Roman horses from St. Mark's at Venice. The arch,
designed as an approach to the Tuileries during the period of the
classical mania, is too small for its present surroundings, since the
removal of the Palace. The north wing, visible to your right, is purely
modern, of the age of the First and Second Empire and the Third
Republic. The meretricious character of the reliefs in its extreme west
portion, erected under the Emperor Napoleon III., and restored after
the Commune, is redolent of the spirit of that gaudy period. The south
wing, to your left, forms part of the connecting gallery erected by
Henri IV., but its architecture is largely obscured by considerable
alterations under Napoleon III. Its west pavilion-known as the Pavilion
de Flore--is well worth notice.

Having thus gained a first idea of the courtyard fronts of the
building, continue your walk, still westward, along the south wing as
far as the Pavilion de Flore, a remaining portion of the corner edifice
which ran into one line with the Palace of the Tuileries. Turn round
the corner of the Pavilion to examine the south or river front of the
connecting gallery--one of the finest parts of the whole building, but
far less known to ordinary visitors than the cold and uninteresting
northern line along the Rue de Rivoli. The first portion, as far as the
gateways, belongs originally to the age of Henry IV., but it was
entirely reconstructed under Napoleon III., whose obtrusive N appears
in many places on the gateways and elsewhere.

Nevertheless, it still preserves, on the whole, some reminiscence of
its graceful Renaissance architecture. Beyond the main gateway (with
modern bronze Charioteer of the Sun), flanked by the Pavilions de la
Trémoille and de Lesdiguières, we come upon the long Southern Gallery
erected by Catherine de Médici, which still preserves almost intact its
splendid early French Renaissance decoration. This is one of the
noblest portions of the entire building. The N here gives place to H's,
and the Renaissance scroll-work and reliefs almost equal those in that
portion of the old Louvre which was erected under François I. Sit on a
seat on the Quay and examine the sculpture.

Notice particularly the splendid Porte Jean Goujon, conspicuous from
afar by its gilded balcony. Its crowned H's and coats-of-arms are
specially interesting examples of the decorative work of the period.
Note also the skill with which this almost flat range is relieved by
sculpture and decoration so as to make us oblivious of the want of that
variety usually given by jutting portions. The end of this long gallery
is formed by two handsome windows with balconies. We there come to the
connecting Galérie d'Apollon, of which these windows are the
termination, and finally reach once more a portion of Perrault's
façade, with its double LL's, erected under Louis XIV., and closely
resembling the interior façade of the Cour du Louvre....

The Collections in the Louvre have no such necessary organic connection
with Paris itself as Notre Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle, or even those
in the rooms at Cluny. They may, therefore, be examined by the visitor
at any period of his visit that he chooses. I would advise him,
however, whenever he takes them up, to begin with the paintings and
then to go on to the Classical and Renaissance Sculpture. The
last-named, at least, he should only examine in connection with the
rest of Renaissance Paris. Also, while it is unimportant whether he
takes first Painting or Sculpture, it is very doubtful that he should
take each separately in the chronological order.

At least six days--far more, if possible--should be devoted to the
Louvre Collections--by far the most important objects to be seen in
Paris. Of these, four should be assigned to the Paintings, and one each
to the Classical and Renaissance Sculpture. If this is impossible, do
not try to see all; see a little thoroughly. Confine yourself, for
Painting, to the Salon Carré and Gallery VII., and for Sculpture to the
Classical Gallery and to the three Western rooms of the Renaissance

The Madeleine and Champs Elysées

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

[Footnote From "French and Italian Note-Books." By special arrangement
with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne's works,
Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1871, 1883, 1899.]

Approaching the Madeleine, we found it a most beautiful church, that
might have been adapted from Heathenism to Catholicism; for on each
side there is a range of magnificent pillars, unequalled, except by
those of the Parthenon. A mourning coach, arrayed in black and silver,
was drawn up at the steps, and the front of the church was hung with
black cloth, which covered the whole entrance. However, seeing the
people going in, we entered along with them. Glorious and gorgeous is
the Madeleine. The entrance to the nave is beneath a most stately arch;
and three arches of equal height open from the nave to the side aisles;
and at the end of the nave is another great arch, rising, with a
vaulted half-dome, over the high altar. The pillars supporting these
arches are Corinthian, with richly sculptured capitals; and wherever
gilding might adorn the church, it is lavished like sunshine; and
within the sweeps of the arches there are fresco paintings of sacred
subjects, and a beautiful picture covers the hollow of the vault over
the altar; all this, besides much sculpture; and especially a group
above and around the high altar, representing the Magdalen smiling down
upon angels and archangels, some of whom are kneeling, and shadowing
themselves with their heavy marble wings.

There is no such thing as making my page glow with the most distant
idea of the magnificence of this church, in its details and in its
whole. It was founded a hundred or two hundred years ago; then
Bonaparte contemplated transforming it into a Temple of Victory, or
building it anew as one. The restored Bourbon remade it into a church;
but it still has a heathenish look, and will never lose it.

When we entered we saw a crowd of people, all pressing forward toward
the high altar, before which burned a hundred wax lights, some of which
were six or seven feet high; and, altogether, they shone like a galaxy
of stars. In the middle of the nave, moreover, there was another galaxy
of wax candles burning around an immense pall of black velvet,
embroidered with silver, which seemed to cover, not only a coffin, but
a sarcophagus, or something still more huge.

The organ was rumbling forth a deep, lugubrious bass, accompanied with
heavy chanting of priests, out of which sometimes rose the clear, young
voices of choristers, like light flashing out of the gloom. The church,
between the arches, along the nave, and round the altar, was hung with
broad expanses of black cloth; and all the priests had their sacred
vestments covered with black. They looked exceedingly well; I never saw
anything half so well got up on the stage. Some of these ecclesiastical
figures were very stately and noble, and knelt and bowed, and bore
aloft the cross, and swung the censers in a way that I liked to see.

The ceremonies of the Catholic Church were a superb work of art, or
perhaps a true growth of man's religious nature; and so long as men
felt their original meaning, they must have been full of awe and glory.
Being of another parish, I looked on coldly, but not irreverently, and
was glad to see the funeral service so well performed, and very glad
when it was over. What struck me as singular, the person who performed
the part usually performed by a verger, keeping order among the
audience, wore a gold-embroidered scarf, a cocked hat, and, I believe,
a sword, and had the air of a military man....

When we left the Madeleine we took our way to the Place de la Concorde,
and thence through the Elysian Fields (which, I suppose, are the French
idea of heaven) to Bonaparte's triumphal arch. The Champs Elysées may
look pretty in summer; tho I suspect they must be somewhat dry and
artificial at whatever season.--the trees being slender and scraggy,
and requiring to be renewed every few years. The soil is not genial to
them. The strangest peculiarity of this place, however, to eyes fresh
from moist and verdant England, is, that there is not one blade of
grass in all the Elysian Fields, nothing but hard clay, now covered
with white dust. It gives the whole scene the air of being a
contrivance of man, in which Nature has either not been invited to take
any part, or has declined to do so.

There were merry-go-rounds, wooden horses, and other provision for
children's amusements among the trees; and booths, and tables of cakes,
and candy-women; and restaurants on the borders of the wood; but very
few people there; and doubtless we can form no idea of what the scene
might become when alive with French gayety and vivacity.

As we walked onward the Triumphal Arch began to loom up in the
distance, looking huge and massive, tho still a long way off. It was
not, however, till we stood almost beneath it that we really felt the
grandeur of this great arch, including so large a space of the blue sky
in its airy sweep. At a distance, it impresses the spectator with its
solidity; nearer, with the lofty vacancy beneath it. There is a spiral
staircase within one of its immense limbs; and, climbing steadily
upward, lighted by a lantern which the door-keeper's wife gave us, we
had a bird's eye view of Paris, much obscured by smoke or mist. Several
interminable avenues shoot with painful directness right toward it.

On our way homeward we visited the Place Vendôme, in the center of
which is a tall column, sculptured from top to bottom, all over the
pedestal, and all over the shaft, and with Napoleon himself on the
summit. The shaft is wreathed round and round about with
representations of what, as far as I could distinguish, seemed to be
the Emperor's victories. It has a very rich effect. At the foot of the
column we saw wreaths of artificial flowers, suspended there, no doubt,
by some admirer of Napoleon, still ardent enough to expend a franc or
two in this way.

The Hôtel des Invalides and Napoleon's Tomb

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Walks In Paris." By arrangement with the publisher,
David McKay. Copyright, 1880.]

We emerge from the Rue de Grenelle opposite the gardens to the north of
the magnificent Hôtel des Invalides, planned by Henri IV., and begun by
Louis XIV. in 1671, as a refuge for old soldiers, who, before it was
built, had to beg their bread on the streets.

The institution is under the management of the Minister of War, and
nothing can be more comfortable than the life of its inmates. The
number of these is now small; in the time of Napoleon I., when the
institution was called the "Temple of Mars," it was enormous.

On the terrace in front of the building are a number of cannon,
trophies taken in different campaigns. Standing before the hotel is the
statue of Prince Eugène. On either side of the entrance are statues of
Mars and Minerva by Coustou the younger. In the tympanum of the
semicircle over the center of the façade is Louis XIV. on horseback.
Behind the façade is a vast courtyard surrounded by open corridors
lined with frescoes of the history of France; those of the early
history on the left by Bénédict Masson, 1865, have much interest. In
the center of the façade opposite the entrance is the statue of
Napoleon I. Beneath this is the approach to the Church of St. Louis,
built 1671-79, from designs of Libéral Bruant, and in which many
banners of victory give an effect of color to an otherwise colorless

The Tomb of Napoleon, under the magnificent dome of the Invalides,
which was added to the original church by Jules Hardouin Mansart, and
is treated as a separate building, is entered from the Place Vauban at
the back, or by the left cloister and a court beyond.

On entering the vast interior, a huge circular space is seen to open,
beneath the cupola painted by Charles de Lafosse and Jouvenet, and, in
it, surrounded by caryatides and groups of moldering banners, the huge
tomb of Finland granite, given by the Emperor Nicholas. Hither the
remains of the great Emperor were brought back from St. Helena by the
Prince de Joinville, in 1841, tho Louis Philippe, while adopting this
popular measure as regarded the dead, renewed the sentence of exile
against the living members of the Bonaparte family.

Four smaller cupolas encircle the great dome. In the first, on the
right, is the tomb of Joseph Bonaparte. On the left are the tombs of
Jerome Bonaparte, with a statue, and of his eldest son and the Princess
Catherine of Wurtemberg. The other two cupolas are still empty.

Descending the steps behind the splendid baldacchino, we find
black-marble tombs of Marshals Duroc and Bertrand guarding the approach
to that of Napoleon I. His own words, taken from his will, appear in
large letters over the entrance: "I desire my ashes to lie on the
shores of the Seine among the people of France whom I loved so deeply."

The sentiment, the tomb, and the dome have a unique splendor. A
white-marble statue of Napoleon I. by Stuart is in a black-marble
chapel. His Austerlitz sword, the crown voted by Cherbourg, and colors
taken in his different battles, were formerly shown in a "chapelle

The Palais de Justice and the Sainte Chapelle

By Grant Allen

[Footnote: From "Paris."]

Go along the Rue de Rivoli as far as the Square of the Tour St.
Jacques. If driving, alight here. Turn down the Place du Châtelet to
your right. In front is the pretty modern fountain of the Châtelet;
right, the Thèâtre du Châtelet; left, the Opéra Comique. The bridge
which faces you is the Pont-au-Change, so-called from the
money-changers' and jewelers' booths which once flanked its wooden
predecessor (the oldest in Paris), as they still do the Rialto at
Venice, and the Ponte Vecchio at Florence.

Stand by the right-hand corner of the bridge before crossing it. In
front is the Ile de la Cité. The square, dome-crowned building opposite
you to the left is the modern Tribunal de Commerce; beyond it leftward
lie the Marché-aux-Fleurs and the long line of the Hôtel-Dieu, above
which rise the towers and spire of Notre Dame. In front, to the right,
the vast block of buildings broken by towers forms part of the Palais
de Justice, the ancient Palace of the French kings, begun by Hugh
Capet. The square tower to the left in this block is the Tour de
l'Horloge. Next, to the right, come the two round towers of the
Conciergerie, known respectively as the Tour de César and the Tour de
Montgomery. The one beyond them, with battlements, is the Tour
d'Argent. It was in the Conciergerie that Marie Antoinette,
Robespierre, and many other victims of the Revolution were imprisoned.

These medieval towers, much altered and modernized, are now almost all
that remains of the old Palace, which, till after the reign of Louis
IX. (St. Louis), formed the residence of the Kings of France. Charles
VII. gave it in 1431 to the Parlement or Supreme Court. Ruined by fires
and re-building, it now consists for the most part of masses of
irregular recent edifices. The main modern façade fronts the Boulevard
du Palais.

Cross the bridge. The Tour de l'Horloge on your right, at the corner of
the Boulevard du Palais, contains the oldest public clock in France
(1370). The figures of Justice and Pity by its side were originally
designed by Germain Pilon, but are now replaced by copies. Walk round
the Palais by the quay along the north branch of the Seine till you
come to the Rue de Harlay. Turn there to your left, toward the handsome
and imposing modern façade of this side of the Palais de Justice. The
interior is unworthy a visit. The Rue de Harlay forms the westernmost
end of the original Ile de la Cité. The prow-shaped extremity of the
modern island has been artificially produced by embanking the sites of
two or three minor islets. The Palace Dauphine, which occupies the
greater part of this modern extension, was built in 1608; it still
affords a characteristic example of the domestic Paris of the period
before Baron Haussmann.

Continue along the quay as far as the Pont-Neuf, so as to gain an idea
of the extent of the Ile de la Cité in this direction. The center of
the Pont-Neuf is occupied by an equestrian statue of Henri IV., first
of the Bourbon kings. Its predecessor was erected in 1635, and was
destroyed to make cannon during the great Revolution. Louis XVIII.
re-erected it. From this point you can gain a clear idea of the two
branches of the Seine as they unite at the lower end of the Ile de la
Cité. To your right, looking westward, you also obtain a fine view of
the Colonnade of the Old Louvre, with the southwestern gallery, and the
more modern buildings of the Museum behind it.

Now, walk along the southern quay of the island, round the remainder of
the Palais de Justice, as far as the Boulevard du Palais. There turn to
your left, and go in at the first door of the Palace on the left
(undeterred by sentries) into the court of the Sainte Chapelle, the
only important relic now remaining of the home of Saint Louis. You may
safely neglect the remainder of the building.

The thirteenth century was a period of profound religious enthusiasm
throughout Europe. Conspicuous among its devout soldiers was Louis IX.,
afterward canonized as St. Louis. The saintly king purchased from
Baldwin, Emperor of Constantinople, the veritable Crown of Thorns, and
a fragment of the True Cross--paying for these relics an immense sum of
money. Having become possest of such invaluable and sacred objects,
Louis desired to have them housed with suitable magnificence. He
therefore entrusted Pierre de Montereau with the task of building a
splendid chapel (within the precincts of his palace), begun in 1245,
and finished three years later, immediately after which the king set
out on his Crusade. The monument breathes throughout the ecstatic piety
of the mystic king; it was consecrated in 1248, in the name of the Holy
Crown and the Holy Cross, by Eudes de Châteauroux, Bishop of Tusculum
and papal legate.

Three things should be noted about the Sainte Chapelle. (1) It is a
chapel, not a church; therefore it consists (practically) of a choir
alone, without nave or transepts. (2) It is the domestic Chapel of the
Royal Palace. (3) It is, above all things, the Shrine of the Crown of
Thorns. These three points must be constantly borne in mind in
examining the building.

Erected later than Notre-Dame, it represents the pointed style of the
middle of the thirteenth century, and is singularly pure and uniform
throughout. Secularized at the Revolution, it fell somewhat into decay;
but was judiciously restored by Viollet-le-Duc and others. The "Messe
Rouge," or "Messe du St. Esprit," is still celebrated here once yearly,
on the re-opening of the courts after the autumn vacation, but no other
religious services take place in the building. The Crown of Thorns and
the piece of the True Cross are now preserved in the Treasury at Notre

Examine the exterior in detail from the court on the south side. More
even than most Gothic buildings, the Sainte Chapelle is supported
entirely by its massive piers, the wall being merely used for
enclosure, and consisting for the most part of lofty windows. As in
most French Gothic buildings, the choir terminates in a round apse,
whereas English cathedrals have usually a square end. The beautiful
light flêche or spire in the center has been restored. Observe the
graceful leaden angel, holding a cross, on the summit of the chevet or
round apse. To see the facade, stand well back opposite it, where you
can observe that the chapel is built in four main stories--those,
namely, of the Lower Church or crypt, of the Upper Church, of the great
rose window (with later flamboyant tracery), and of the gable-end,
partially masked by an open parapet studded with the royal
fleurs-de-lis of France. The Crown of Thorns surrounds the two
pinnacles which flank the fourth story.

The chapel consists of a lower and an upper church. The Lower Church is
a mere crypt, which was employed for the servants of the royal family.
Its portal has in its tympanum (or triangular space in the summit of
the arch) the Coronation of the Virgin, and on its center pillar a good
figure of the Madonna and Child. Enter the Lower Church. It is low, and
has pillars supporting the floor above. In the polychromatic decoration
of the walls and pillars, notice the frequent repetition of the royal
lilies of France, combined with the three castles of Castille, in honor
of Blanche of Castille, the Mother of St. Louis.

Mount to the Upper Chapel (or Sainte Chapelle proper) by the small
spiral staircase in the corner. This soaring pile was the oratory where
the royal family and court attended service; its gorgeousness bespeaks
its origin and nature. It glows like a jewel. First go out of the door
and examine the exterior and doorway of the chapel. Its platform was
directly approached in early times from the Palace. The center pillar
bears a fine figure of Christ. In the tympanum (as over the principal
doorway of almost every important church in Paris and in the district)
is a relief of the Last Judgment. Below stands St. Michael with his
scales, weighing the souls; on either side is depicted the
Resurrection, with the Angels of the Last Trump. Above, in the second
tier, is Christ, holding up His hands with the marks of the nails, as a
sign of mercy to the redeemed: to right and left of Him angels display
the Crown of Thorns and the True Cross, to contain which sacred relics
the chapel was built.

On the extreme left kneels the Blessed Virgin; on the extreme right,
Sainte Geneviève. This scene of the Last Judgment was adapted with a
few alterations from that above the central west door of Notre Dame,
the Crown of Thorns in particular being here significantly substituted
for the three nails and spear. The small lozenge reliefs to right and
left of the portal are also interesting. Those to the left represent in
a very naïve manner God the Father creating the world, sun and moon,
light, plants, animals, man, etc. Those to the right give the story of
Genesis, Cain and Abel, the Flood, the Ark, Noah's Sacrifice, Noah's
Vine, etc., the subjects of all which the visitor can easily recognize,
and is strongly recommended to identify for himself.

The interior consists almost entirely of large and lofty windows, with
magnificent stained glass, in large part ancient. The piers which
divide the windows and alone support the graceful vault of the roof,
are provided with statues of the twelve apostles, a few of them
original. Each bears his well-known symbol. Spell them out if possible.
Beneath the windows, in the quatrefoils of the arcade, are enamelled
glass mosaics representing the martyrdoms of the saints--followers of
Christ, each wearing his own crown of thorns: a pretty conceit wholly
in accord with St. Louis's ecstatic type of piety. Conspicuous among
them are St. Denis carrying his head, St. Sebastian pierced with
arrows, St. Stephen stoned, St. Lawrence on his gridiron, etc. The apse
(formerly separated from the body of the building by a rood-screen, now
destroyed), contains the vacant base of the high altar, behind which
stands an arcaded tabernacle, now empty, in whose shrine were once
preserved the Crown of Thorns, the fragment of the True Cross, and
other relics.

Among them in the later times was included the skull of St. Louis
himself in a golden reliquary. Two angels at the summit of the large
center arch of the arcade bear a representation of the Crown of Thorns
in their hands. Above the tabernacle rises a canopy or baldacchino,
approached by two spiral staircases; from its platform St. Louis and
his successors, the kings of France, were in the habit of exhibiting
with their own hands the actual relics themselves once a year to the
faithful. The golden reliquary in which the sacred objects were
contained was melted down in the Revolution. The small window with bars
to your right, as you face the high altar, was placed there by the
superstitious and timid Louis XI., in order that he might behold the
elevation of the Host and the sacred relics without being exposed to
the danger of assassination. The visitor should also notice the inlaid
stone pavement, with its frequent repetition of the fleur-de-lis and
the three castles. The whole breathes the mysticism of St. Louis; the
lightness of the architecture, the height of the apparently unsupported
roof, and the magnificence of the decoration, render this the most
perfect ecclesiastical building in Paris.

In returning from the chapel, notice on the outside, from the court to
the south, the apparently empty and useless porch, supporting a small
room, which is the one through whose grated window Louis XI. used to
watch the elevation.

The Hotel de Ville and the Conciergerie

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Walks In Paris." By arrangement with the publisher,
David McKay. Copyright, 1880.]

It was Etienne Marcel, Mayor of Paris, who first established the
municipal council at the Place de Grève, at that time the only large
square in Paris. In July, 1357, he purchased as a Hostel de Ville the
Maison aux Piliers, which had been inhabited by Clémence d'Hongrie,
widow of Louis le Hutin, and which afterward took the name of Maison du
Dauphin from her nephew and heir, Guy, Dauphin de Viennois.

In 1532 a new Hôtel de Ville was begun and finished by the architect
Marin de la Vallée in the reign of Henri IV. This was so much altered
by successive restorations and revolutions that only a staircase, two
monumental chimney-pieces in the Salle du Trône, and some sculptured
doorways and other details remained from the interior decorations in
the old building at the time of its destruction.

Till the time of Louis XVI. the history of the Hôtel de Ville was
entirely local; after that it became the history of France. It was
there that Louis XVI. received the tri-colored cockade from Bailly,
Mayor of Paris, July 17, 1789; and there, in the chamber called, from
its hangings, Le Cabinet Vert, that Robespierre was arrested, in the
name of the Convention, during one of the meetings of the Commune, July
27, 1794. After the fall of Robespierre it was seriously proposed to
pull down the Hôtel de Ville, because it had been his last asylum--"Le
Louvre de Robespierre." It was only saved by the common-sense of
Leonard Bourdon.

But most of all, in the popular recollection, is the Hôtel de Ville
connected with public fêtes--with those on the second marriage of
Napoleon I. (1810), on the entry of Louis XVIII. (1814), on the
coronation of Charles X. (1825), on the marriage of the Duke of Orleans
(1837), on the visits of different foreign potentates to Napoleon III.
Here also was the Republic proclaimed, September 4, 1870.

It was in one of the windows of the Hôtel de Ville that Louis Philippe
embraced Lafayette (August, 1830) in sight of the people, to evince the
union of the July monarchy with the bourgeoisie. On the steps of the
building Louis Blanc proclaimed the Republic, February 24,1848. From
September 4, 1870, to February 28, 1871, the hôtel was the seat of the
"government of the national defense," and from March 19 to May 22,
1871, that of the pretended "Committee of public safety" of the
Communists. On May 24 it was burned by its savage defenders, many of
whom happily perished in the flames.

The Place de l'Hôtel de Ville is so modernized that it retains nothing
of the Place de Grève but its terrible historic associations. Among the
many fearful executions here, it is only necessary to recall that of
Jean Hardi, torn to pieces by four horses (March 30, 1473) on an
accusation of trying to poison Louis XI.; that of the Comte de St. Pol
(December 19, 1475), long commemorated by a pillar; those of a long
list of Protestants, opened by the auto-de-fé of Jacques de Povanes,
student of the University, in 1525; that of Nicholas de Salcède, Sieur
d'Auvillers, torn to pieces by four horses in the presence of the king
and queens, for conspiracy to murder the Duc d'Anjou, youngest son of
Catherine de Medici. More terrible still was the execution of Ravaillac
(May 27, 1610) murderer of Henri IV.

"The executioner cut off his hand with an ax, and threw it and the
murderous knife into the fire. His breasts, his arms and his legs were
torn with pincers, and boiling oil and melted lead poured into the open
wounds. He was then dismembered by four strong horses, which pulled for
no less than an entire hour. They dismembered only a corpse. He
expired," says L'Estoile, "at the second or third pull." When the
executioner had to throw the limbs into the fire that the ashes,
according to the sentence, might be flung to the winds, the whole crowd
rushed on to claim them. "But," adds the same chronicler, "the people
rushed on so impetuously that every mother's son had a piece, even the
children, who made fires of them at the corners of the streets."

After the capture of the Bastille its brave governor, M. de Launay, was
beheaded on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville, and his major, M. de
Losme-Salbray, was massacred under the Arcade St. Jean. These were the
first victims of the Revolution. Foulon, Intendant du Commerce,
suffered here soon afterward, hung from the cords by which a lamp was
suspended, whence the expression, which soon resounded in many a
popular refrain, of "put the aristocrats to the lantern."

     *    *    *    *    *

Two parasite buildings, the Conciergerie, and the Prefecture of Police,
are now annexed to the Palais de Justice. The Conciergerie takes its
name from the house of the concierge in the time of the royal residence
here, who had a right to two chickens a day and to the cinders and
ashes of the king's chimney.

It has always been a prison, and it was here that the Comte d'Armagnac
was murdered, June 12, 1418. Here was made, below the level of the
Seine, the prison called La Souricière, from the rats which had the
reputation of eating the prisoners alive. The present Conciergerie
occupies the lower story of the right wing of the existing Palais de
Justice, and extends along the Quai de l'Horloge, as far as the towers
of Montgomery and César. It has an entrance on the quay, before which
the guillotine-carts received the victims of the Reign of Terror, and
another to the right of the great staircase in the Cour d'Honneur.

All other associations of the Conciergerie are lost in those which were
attached to it by the great Revolution. The cell in which Marie
Antoinette suffered her seventy-five days' agony--from August 2 till
October 15, when she was condemned--was turned into a chapel of
expiation in 1816. The lamp still exists which lighted the august
prisoner and enabled her guards to watch her through the night. The
door still exists, tho changed in position, which was cut transversely
in half and the upper part fixt that the queen might be forced to bend
in going out, because she had said that whatever indignities they might
inflict upon her they could never force her to bend the head.

After her condemnation, Marie Antoinette was not brought back to this
chamber. It was a far more miserable cell which saw her write her last
touching farewell to Madame Elizabeth. But this was the room in which
the Girondins spent their last night, when, as Riouffe, himself in the
prison at the time, says, "all during this frightful night their songs
sounded and if they stopt singing it was but to talk about their
country." The adjoining cell, now used as a sacristy, was the prison of

Père la Chaise

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[Footnote: From "Outre Mer." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.]

The cemetery of Père la Chaise is the Westminster Abbey of Paris. Both
are the dwellings of the dead; but in one they repose in green alleys
and beneath the open sky--in the other their resting-place is in the
shadowy aisle, and beneath the dim arches of an ancient abbey. One is a
temple of nature; the other a temple of art. In one, the soft
melancholy of the scene is rendered still more touching by the warble
of birds and the shade of trees, and the grave receives the gentle
visit of the sunshine and the shower; in the other, no sound but the
passing footfall breaks the silence of the place; the twilight steals
in through high and dusky windows; and the damps of the gloomy vault
lie heavy on the heart, and leave their stain upon the moldering
tracery of the tomb.

Père la Chaise stands just beyond the Barrière d'Aulney, on a
hill-side, looking toward the city. Numerous gravel-walks, winding
through shady avenues and between marble monuments, lead up from the
principal entrance to a chapel on the summit. There is hardly a grave
that has not its little inclosure planted with shrubbery; and a thick
mass of foliage half conceals each funeral stone. The sighing of the
wind, as the branches rise and fall upon it,--the occasional note of a
bird among the trees, and the shifting of light and shade upon the
tombs beneath, have a soothing effect upon the mind; and I doubt
whether any one can enter that inclosure, where repose the dust and
ashes of so many great and good men, without feeling the religion of
the place steal over him, and seeing something of the dark and gloomy
expression pass off from the stern countenance of death.

It was near the close of a bright summer afternoon that I visited this
celebrated spot for the first time. The object that arrested my
attention, on entering, was a monument in the form of a small Gothic
chapel, which stands near the entrance, in the avenue leading to the
right hand. On the marble couch within are stretched two figures,
carved in stone and drest in the antique garb of the Middle Ages. It is
the tomb of Abélard and Héloïse. The history of these unfortunate
lovers is too well known to need recapitulation; but perhaps it is not
so well known how often their ashes were disturbed in the slumber of
the grave. Abélard died in the monastery of Saint Marcel, and was
buried in the vaults of the church. His body was afterward removed to
the convent of the Paraclet, at the request of Héloïse, and at her
death her body was deposited in the same tomb. Three centuries they
reposed together; after which they were separated to different sides of
the church, to calm the delicate scruples of the lady-abbess of the
convent. More than a century afterward, they were again united in the
same tomb; and when at length the Paraclet was destroyed, their
moldering remains were transported to the church of Nogent-sur-Seine.
They were next deposited in an ancient cloister at Paris; and now
repose near the gateway of the cemetery of Père la Chaise. What a
singular destiny was theirs! that, after a life of such passionate and
disastrous love,--such sorrows, and tears, and penitence--their very
dust should not be suffered to rest quietly in the grave!--that their
death should so much resemble their life in its changes and
vicissitudes, its partings and its meetings, its inquietudes and its
persecutions!--that mistaken zeal should follow them down to the very
tomb--as if earthly passion could glimmer, like a funeral lamp, amid
the damps of the charnel-house, and "even in their ashes bum their
wonted fires!"....

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I took a pathway to the left,
which conducted me up the hill-side. I soon found myself in the deep
shade of heavy foliage, where the branches of the yew and willow
mingled, interwoven with the tendrils and blossoms of the honeysuckle.
I now stood in the most populous part of this city of tombs. Every step
awakened a new train of thrilling recollections; for at every step my
eye caught the name of some one whose glory had exalted the character
of his native land, and resounded across the waters of the Atlantic.
Philosophers, historians, musicians, warriors, and poets slept side by
side around me; some beneath the gorgeous monument, and some beneath
the simple headstone. But the political intrigue, the dream of science,
the historical research, the ravishing harmony of sound, the tried
courage, the inspiration of the lyre--where are they? With the living,
and not with the dead! The right hand has lost its cunning in the
grave; but the soul, whose high volitions it obeyed, still lives to
reproduce itself in ages yet to come.

Among these graves of genius I observed here and there a splendid
monument, which had been raised by the pride of family over the dust of
men who could lay no claim either to the gratitude or remembrances of
posterity. Their presence seemed like an intrusion into the sanctuary
of genius. What had wealth to do there? Why should it crowd the dust of
the great? That was no thoroughfare of business--no mart of gain! There
were no costly banquets there; no silken garments, nor gaudy liveries,
nor obsequious attendants!....

I continued my walk through the numerous winding paths, as chance or
curiosity directed me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow,
overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and then came out upon an
elevation, from which, through an opening in the trees, the eye caught
glimpses of the city, and the little esplanade, at the foot of the
hill, where the poor lie buried. There poverty hires its grave, and
takes but a short lease of the narrow house. At the end of a few
months, or at most of a few years, the tenant is dislodged to give
place to another, and he in turn to a third. "Who," says Sir Thomas
Browne, "knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is to be buried?
Who hath the oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be scattered?"

Yet, even in that neglected corner, the hand of affection had been busy
in decorating the hired house. Most of the graves were surrounded with
a slight wooden paling, to secure them from the passing footstep; there
was hardly one so deserted as not to be marked with its little wooden
cross, and decorated with a garland of flowers; and here and there I
could perceive a solitary mourner, clothed in black, stooping to plant
a shrub on the grave, or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it....

After rambling leisurely about for some time, reading the iscriptions
on the various monuments which attracted my curiosity, and giving way
to the different reflections they suggested, I sat down to rest myself
on a sunken tombstone. A winding gravel-walk, overshaded by an avenue
of trees, and lined on both sides with richly sculptured monuments, had
gradually conducted me to the summit of the hill, upon whose slope the
cemetery stands. Beneath me in the distance, and dim-discovered through
the misty and smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the countless roofs and
spires of the city. Beyond, throwing his level rays athwart the dusky
landscape, sank the broad red sun. The distant murmur of the city rose
upon my ear; and the toll of the evening bell came up, mingled with the
rattle of the paved street and the confused sounds of labor. What an
hour for meditation! What a contrast between the metropolis of the
living and the metropolis of the dead!....

Before I left the graveyard the shades of evening had fallen, and the
objects around me grown dim and indistinct. As I passed the gateway, I
turned to take a parting look. I could distinguish only the chapel on
the summit of the hill, and here and there a lofty obelisk of
snow-white marble, rising from the black and heavy mass of foliage
around, and pointing upward to the gleam of the departed sun, that
still lingered in the sky, and mingled with the soft starlight of a
summer evening.

The Musée de Cluny

By Grant Allen

[Footnote: From "Paris."]

The primitive nucleus of the suburb on the South Side consists of the
Roman fortress palace, the "tête du pont" of the Left Bank, now known
as the Thermes, owing to the fact that its principal existing remains
include only the ruins of the bath or therma. This colossal building,
probably erected by Constantius Chlorus, the father of Constantine,
covered an enormous area south of the river. After the Frankish
conquest, it still remained the residence of the Merwing and Karling
kings on the rare occasions when they visited Paris; and it does not
seem to have fallen into utter decay till a comparatively late date in
the Middle Ages.

With the Norman irruptions, however, and the rise of the real French
monarchs under Eudes and the Capets, the new sovereigns found it safest
to transfer their seat to the Palace on the Island (now the Palais de
Justice), and the Roman fortress was gradually dismantled. In 1340 the
gigantic ruins came into the hands of the powerful Benedictine Abbey of
Cluny, near Mâcon, in Burgundy; and about 1480, the abbots began to
erect on the spot a town mansion for themselves, which still bears the
name of the Hôtel de Cluny. The letter K, the mark of Charles VIII.
(1483-1498), occurs on many parts of the existing building, and fixes
its epoch. The house was mostly built by Jaques d'Amboise, abbot, in
1490. The style is late Gothic, with Renaissance features.

The abbots, however, seldom visited Paris, and they frequently placed
their town house accordingly at the disposition of the kings of France.
Mary of England, sister of Henry VIII., and widow of Louis XII.,
occupied it thus in 1515, soon after its completion. It was usual for
the queens of France to wear white as mourning; hence her apartment is
still known as the "Chambre de la reine blanche."

At the Revolution, when the property of the monasteries was
confiscated, the Hôtel de Cluny was sold, and passed at last, in 1833,
into the hands of M. du Sommerard, a zealous antiquary, who began the
priceless collection of works of art which it contains. He died in
1842, and the Government then bought the house and museum, and united
it with the Roman ruin at its back under the title of Musée des Thermes
et de l'Hôtel de Cluny. Since that time many further objects have been
added to the collection.

At Cluny the actual building forms one of the most interesting parts of
the sight, and is in itself a museum. It is a charming specimen of a
late medieval French mansion; and the works of art it contains are of
the highest artistic value.... At least two whole days should be
devoted to Cluny--one to the lower and one to the upper floor. Much
more, if possible.

The Place de la Bastille

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Walks in Paris." By arrangement with the publisher,
David McKay. Copyright, 1880.]

The south end of the Rue des Tournelles falls into the Place de la
Bastille, containing Le Colonne de Juillet, surmounted by a statue of
Liberty, and erected 1831-1840. This marks the site of the famous
castle-prison of the Bastille, which for four centuries and a half
terrified Paris, and which has left a name to the quarter it frowned
upon. Hugues Ambriot, Mayor of Paris, built it under Charles V. to
defend the suburb which contained the royal palace of St. Paul.
Unpopular from the excess of his devotion to his royal master, Aubriot
was the first prisoner in his own prison.

Perhaps the most celebrated of the long list of after captives were the
Connétable de St. Pol and Jacques d'Armagnac, Due de Nemours, taken
thence for execution to the Place de Grève under Louis XI., Charles de
Gontaut, Due de Biron, executed within the walls of the fortress under
Henri IV., and the "Man with the Iron Mask," brought hither
mysteriously, September 18, 1698, and who died in the Bastille,
November 19, 1703.

A thousand engravings show us the Bastille as it was--as a
"fort-bastide"--built on the line of the city walls just to the south
of the Porte St. Antoine, surrounded by its own moat. It consisted of
eight round towers, each bearing a characteristic name, connected by
massive walls, ten feet thick, pierced with narrow slits by which the
cells were lighted. In the early times it had entrances on three sides,
but after 1580 only one, with a drawbridge over the moat on the side
toward the river, which led to outer courts and a second drawbridge,
and wound by a defended passage to an outer entrance opposite the Rue
des Tournelles.

Close beside the Bastille, to the north, rose the Porte St. Antoine,
approached over the city fosse by its own bridge, at the outer end of
which was a triumphal arch built on the return of Henri II. from Poland
in 1573. Both gate and arch were restored for the triumphal entry of
Louis XIV. in 1667; but the gate (before which Etienne Marcel was
killed, July, 1358), was pulled down in 1674.

The Bastille was taken by the people, July 14, 1789, and the National
Assembly decreed its demolition.... The massive circular pedestal upon
which the Colonne de Juillet now rests was intended by Napoleon I. to
support a gigantic fountain in the form of an elephant, instead of the
column which, after the destruction of the Bastille, the "tiers état"
of Paris had asked to erect "à Louis XVI., restaurateur de la liberté
publique." It is characteristic of the Parisians that on the very same
spot the throne of Louis Philippe was publicly burned, February 24,
1848. The model for the intended elephant existed here till the middle
of the reign of Louis Philippe, and is depicted by Victor Hugo as the
lodging of "Le petit Gavroche."

The Panthéon and St. Etienne-Du-Mont

By Grant Allen

[Footnote: From "Paris."]

The medieval church of Ste. Geneviève, having fallen into decay in the
middle of the eighteenth century, Louis XV. determined to replace it by
a sumptuous domed edifice in the style of the period. This building,
designed by Soufflot, was not completed till the Revolution, when it
was immediately secularized as the Panthéon, under circumstances to be
mentioned later. The remains of Ste. Geneviève, which had lain
temporarily meanwhile in a sumptuous chapel of St. Étienne-du-Mont (the
subsidiary church of the monastery) were taken out by the
Revolutionists; the medieval shrine, or reliquary (which replaced St.
Éloy's), was ruthlessly broken up; and the body of the patroness and
preserver of Paris was publicly burned in the Place de Grève.

This, however, strange to say, was not quite the end of Ste. Geneviève.
A few of her relics were said to have been preserved: some bones,
together with a lock of the holy shepherdess's hair, were afterward
recovered, and replaced in the sarcophagus they had once occupied. Such
at least is the official story; and these relics, now once more
enclosed in a costly shrine, still attract thousands of votaries to the
chapel of the saint in St. Étienne-du-Mont.

The Panthéon, standing in front of the original church, is now a
secular burial-place for the great men of France. The remains of Ste.
Geneviève still repose at St. Étienne. Thus it is impossible to
dissociate the two buildings, which should be visited together; and
thus too it happens that the patroness of Paris has now no church in
her own city. Local saints are always the most important; this hill and
Montmartre are still the holiest places in Paris.

Proceed, as far as the garden of the Thermes, as on the excursion to
Cluny. Then continue straight up the Boulevard St. Michel. The large
edifice visible on the right of the Rue des Écoles to your left, is the
new building of the Sorbonne, or University. Further up, at the Place
du Sorbonne, the domed church of the same name stands before you. It is
the University church, and is noticeable as the earliest true dome
erected in Paris. The next corner shows one, right, the Luxembourg
garden, and left, the Rue Soufflot, leading up to the Panthéon.

The colossal domed temple which replaces the ancient church of Ste.
Geneviève was begun by Soufflot, under Louis XV., in imitation of St.
Peter's, at Rome. Like all architects of his time, Soufflot sought
merely to produce an effect of pagan or "classical" grandeur,
peculiarly out of place in the shrine of the shepherdess of Nanterre.
Secularized almost immediately on its completion, during the
Revolution, the building was destined as the national monument to the
great men of France, and the inscription, "Aux Grands Hommes la Patrie
Reconnaissante," which it still bears, was then first placed under the
sculptures of the pediment.

Restored to worship by the Restoration, it was again secularized under
the Third Republic in order to admit the burial of Victor Hugo. The
building itself, a vast bare barn of the pseudo-classical type, very
cold and formal, is worthy of notice merely on account of its immense
size and its historic position; but it may be visited to this day with
pleasure, not only for some noble modern paintings, but also for the
sake of the reminiscences of Ste. Geneviève which it still contains.
The tympanum has a group by David d'Angers, representing France
distributing wreaths to soldiers, politicians, men of letters, men of
science, and artists.

The interior is in the shape of a Greek cross (with equal arms). Follow
round the walls, beginning from the right. In the right aisle are
paintings (modern) looking like frescoes, and representing the
preaching of St. Denis, by Galand; and the history of Ste.
Geneviève--her childhood, recognition by St. Germain l'Auxerrois,
miracles, etc., delicate and elusive works, by Puvis de Chavannes. The
paintings of the South Transept represent episodes in the early history
of France. Chronologically speaking, they begin from the east central
corner. Choir, Death of Ste. Geneviève, and Miracles before her Shrine,
by Laurens. Apse of the tribune, fine modern (archaic) mosaic, by
Hébert, representing Christ with the Guardian Angel of France, the
Madonna, Jean d'Arc, and Ste. Geneviève. Stand under the dome to
observe the proportions of the huge, bare, unimpressive building. Left,
or Northern Transept, east side, the history of Jeanne d'Arc; she hears
the voices; leads the assault at Orleans; assists at the coronation of
Charles VII. at Rheims; and is burned at Rouen. West side, St. Louis as
a child instructed by Blanche of Castille; administering justice in the
Palace; and a captive among the Saracens. North aisle, history of Ste.
Geneviève and St. Denis. The building is thus at once the apotheosis of
patriotism, and the lasting memorial of the part borne by Christianity
in French, and especially Parisian, history.

As you descend the steps of the Panthéon, the building that faces you
to the left is the Mairie of the 5th Arrondissement; that to the right,
the École de Droit. Turn to the right along the north side of the
Panthéon. The long, low building which faces you is the Bibliotheque
Ste. Geneviève. Nothing now remains of the Abbey of Ste. Geneviève
except the tall early Gothic tower seen to the right near the end of
the Panthéon, and rising above the modern buildings of the Lycée Henri
IV. The singularly picturesque and strangely-mingled church across the
little square is St. Étienne-du-Mont, which we now proceed to visit.

Stand in the left-hand corner of the Place to examine the facade. The
church was begun (1517) as late Gothic; but before it was finished, the
Renaissance style had come into fashion, and the architects accordingly
jumbled the two in the most charming manner. The incongruity here only
adds to the beauty. The quaintly original Renaissance portal bears a
dedication to St. Stephen the Protomartyr, beneath which is a relief of
his martyrdom, with a Latin inscription, "Stone destroyed the temple of
the Lord," i.e., Stephen, "Stone rebuilds it." Right and left of the
portal are statues of Sts. Stephen and Geneviève, whose monograms also
appear on the doors. In the pediment is the usual representation of the
Resurrection and Last Judgment. Above it, the rose window, on either
side of which, in accordance with Italian rather than with French
custom (showing Italian Renaissance influence) are the Angel of the
Annunciation and the Madonna receiving his message. In the third story,
a gable-end. Singular tower to the left, with an additional round
turret, a relic of the earlier Gothic building. The whole façade (17th
century) represents rather late Renaissance than transitional

The interior is the most singular, and in some ways the most
picturesque, in Paris--a Gothic church, tricked out in Renaissance
finery. The nave is flanked by aisles, which are divided from it by
round pillars, capped by a singular balustrade or gallery with low,
flat arches, simulating a triforium. The upper arches are round, and
the decorations Renaissance; but the vaulting, both of nave and aisles,
with its pendant keystones, recalls the Gothic style, as do also most
of the windows. Stand near the entrance, in the center of the nave, and
look up the church.

The most striking feature is the beautiful Renaissance jubé or
rood-loft (the only one now left in Paris) which divides the Choir from
the body of the building. This rood-loft still bears a crucifix, for
the reception of which it was originally intended. On the arch below
are two charmingly sculptured Renaissance angels. The rood-loft is
flanked by two spiral staircases, which are wholly unique architectural
features. Notice also the exquisite pendentive of the roof at the point
of intersection of the nave and short false transepts.

Now walk up the right aisle. The first chapel is the Baptistery,
containing the font and a modern statue of the boy Baptist. Third
chapel, St. Antony of Padua. The fourth chapel contains a curious Holy
Sepulcher, with quaint life-size terra-cotta figures of the 16th
century. Fifth chapel, a gilt châsse. Notice the transepts, reduced to
short arms, scarcely, if at all, projecting beyond the chapels. From
this point examine the exquisite Renaissance tracery of the rood-screen
and staircases. Then pass under the fine Renaissance door, with lovely
decorative work, into the ambulatory. The Choir is in large part
Gothic, with late flamboyant tracery. The apparent triforium is
continued round the ambulatory.

The splendid gilded shrine in the second choir-chapel contains the
remains of Ste. Geneviève, or what is left of them. Candles burn
perpetually around it. Hundreds of votaries here pay their devotions
daily to the Patroness of Paris. The shrine, containing what is alleged
to be the original sarcophagus of the Saint (more probably of the 13th
century) stands under a richly-gilt Gothic tabernacle, adorned with
figures legibly named on their pedestals. The stained-glass window
behind it has a representation of a processional function with the body
of the Saint, showing this church, together with a view of the original
church of Ste. Geneviève, the remaining tower, and adjacent houses,
historically most interesting. The window beyond the shrine also
contains the history of Ste. Geneviève--her childhood, first communion,
miracles, distribution of bread during the siege of Paris, conversion
of Clovis, death, etc.

Indeed the long sojourn of the body of Ste. Geneviève in this church
has almost overshadowed its dedication to St. Stephen, several
memorials of whom may, however, be recognized by the attentive
visitor--among them, a picture of his martyrdom (by Abel de Pujol) near
the entrance to the choir. The Protomartyr also stands, with his
deacon's robe and palm, in a niche near the door of the sacristy, where
left and right are frescoes of his Disputation with the Doctors, and
his Martyrdom. The chapel immediately behind the high altar is, as
usual, the Lady Chapel. The next contains a good modern window of the
Marriage of the Virgin.

Examine in detail all the windows; one of the mystic wine-press is very
interesting. Votive offerings of the city of Paris to Ste. Geneviève
also exist in the ambulatory. Curious frescoes of the martyrdom of the
10,000 Christians on Mount Ararat on the north side. The best view of
the choir is obtained from the north side of the ambulatory, opposite
the shrine of Ste. Geneviève. In the north aisle notice St. Louis with
the Crown of Thorns. Stand again in the center of the nave, near the
entrance, and observe the curious inclination of the choir and high
altar to one side--here particularly noticeable, and said in every case
to represent the droop of the Redeemer's head on the cross.

As you emerge from the door, observe the cold and bare side of the
Panthéon, contrasted with the internal richness of St. Êtienne. Curious
view of the late Gothic portion of the church from the little Place on
the north side. Return by the Rue Cujas and Rue St. Jacques, passing
the Lycée Ste. Barbe, Lycée Louis-le-Grand, University, and other
scholastic buildings, which give a good idea of the character of the

St. Roch

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Walks in Paris." By arrangement with the publisher,
David McKay. Copyright, 1880.]

Englishmen are often specially imprest with Paris as a city of
contrasts, because one side of the principal line of hotels frequented
by our countrymen looks down upon the broad, luxurious Rue de Rivoli,
all modern gaiety and radiance, while the other side of their
courtyards open upon the busy working Rue St. Honoré, lined by the
tall, many-windowed houses which have witnessed so many revolutions.
They have all the picturesqueness of innumerable balconies, high,
slated roofs, with dormer windows, window-boxes full of carnations and
bright with crimson flowers through the summer, and they overlook an
ever-changing crowd, in great part composed of men in blouses and women
in white aprons and caps.

Ever since the fourteenth century the Rue St. Honoré has been one of
the busiest streets in Paris. It was the gate leading into this street
which was attacked by Jeanne d'Arc in 1429. It was the fact that the
Cardinal de Bourbon and the Due de Guise had been seen walking together
at the Porte St. Honoré that was said to have turned half the moustache
of Henri of Navarre suddenly white, from a presentiment of the crime
which has become known as the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Here, in
1648, the barricade was raised which gave the signal for all the
troubles of the Fronde. It was at No 3--then called L'Auberge des Trois
Pigeons--that Ravaillac was lodging when he was waiting to murder Henry
IV.; here the first gun was fired in the Revolution of July, 1830,
which overturned Charles X.; and here, in the Revolution of 1848, a
bloody combat took place between the insurgents and the military.
Throughout this street, as Marie Antoinette was first entering Paris,
the poissardes brought her bouquets, singing:

  "La rose est la reine des fleurs.
  Antoinette est la reine des coeurs."

("The rose is the queen of flowers, Antoinette is the queen of hearts")
and here, as she was being taken to the scaffold, they crowded round
her execution-cart and shouted:

  "Madame Veto avait promis
  De faire égorger tout Paris,
  Mais son coup a manqué
  Grâce à nos canonniers;
  Dansons la carmagnole
      Au bruit du son
      Du canon!"

("Madame Veto had promised to have the throat cut of all Paris, but her
attempt failed, thanks to our gunners. Let us dance the carmagnole to
the music of the cannon's roar!")

     *    *    *    *    *

Turning east toward Old Paris, we pass, on the right of the Rue St.
Honoré, the Church of St. Roch, of which Louis XIV. laid the
foundation-stone in 1633, replacing a chapel built on the site of the
Hôtel Gaillon. The church was only finished, from designs of Robert de
Cotte, in 1740. The flight of steps which leads to the entrance has
many associations.

"Before St. Roch," says De Goncourt, "the tumbrel in which was Marie
Antoinette, stopt in the midst of howling and hooting. A thousand
insults were hurled from the steps of the church as it were with one
voice, saluting with filth their queen about to die. She, however,
serene and majestic, pardoned the insults by disregarding them." It was
from these steps, in front of which an open space then extended to the
Tuileries gardens, that Bonaparte ordered the first cannon to be fired
upon the royalists who rose against the National Convention, and thus
prevented a counter-revolution. Traces of this cannonade of 13
Vendémiaire are still to be seen at the angle of the church and the Rue
Neuve St. Roch.




By William Makepeace Thackeray

[Footnote: From "The Paris Sketch Book."]

You pass from the railroad station through a long, lonely suburb, with
dusty rows of stunted trees on either side, and some few miserable
beggars, idle boys, and ragged old women under them. Behind the trees
are gaunt, moldy houses; palaces once, where (in the days of the
unbought grace of life) the cheap defense of nations gambled, ogled,
swindled, intrigued; whence high-born duchesses used to issue, in old
times, to act as chambermaids to lovely Du Barri; and mighty princes
rolled away, in gilt caroches, hot for the honor of lighting his
Majesty to bed, or of presenting his stockings when he rose, or of
holding his napkin when he dined.

Tailors, chandlers, tinmen, wretched hucksters, and greengrocers, are
now established in the mansions of the old peers; small children are
yelling at the doors, with mouths besmeared with bread and treacle;
damp rags are hanging out of every one of the windows, steaming in the
sun; oyster-shells, cabbage-stalks, broken crockery, old papers, lie
basking in the same cheerful light. A solitary water-cart goes jingling
down the wide pavement, and spirts a feeble refreshment over the dusty,
thirty stones.

After pacing for some time through such dismal streets, we déboucher on
the grande place; and before us lies the palace dedicated to all the
glories of France. In the midst of the great lonely plain this famous
residence of King Louis looks low and mean--Honored pile! Time was when
tall musketeers and gilded body-guards allowed none to pass the gate.
Fifty years ago, ten thousand drunken women from Paris broke through
the charm; and now a tattered commissioner will conduct you through it
for a penny, and lead you up to the sacred entrance of the palace.

We will not examine all the glories of France, as here they are
portrayed in pictures and marble; catalogs are written about these
miles of canvas, representing all the revolutionary battles, from Valmy
to Waterloo--all the triumphs of Louis XIV.--all the mistresses of his
successor--and all the great men who have flourished since the French
empire began. Military heroes are most of these--fierce constables in
shining steel, marshals in voluminous wigs, and brave grenadiers in
bearskin caps; some dozens of whom gained crowns, principalities,
dukedoms; some hundreds, plunder and epaulets; some millions, death in
African sands, or in icy Russian plains, under the guidance, and for
the good, of that arch-hero, Napoleon.

By far the greater part of "all the glories" of France (as of most
other countries) is made up of these military men: and a fine satire it
is on the cowardice of mankind, that they pay such an extraordinary
homage to the virtue called courage; filling their history-books with
tales about it, and nothing but it.

Let them disguise the place, however, as they will, and plaster the
walls with bad pictures as they please, it will be hard to think of any
family but one, as one traverses this vast gloomy edifice. It has been
humbled to the ground, as a certain palace of Babel was of yore; but it
is a monument of fallen pride, not less awful, and would afford matter
for a whole library of sermons.

The cheap defense of nations expended a thousand millions in the
erection of this magnificent dwelling-place. Armies were employed, in
the intervals of their warlike labors, to level hills, or pile them up;
to turn rivers, and to build aqueducts, and transplant woods, and
construct smooth terraces, and long canals. A vast garden grew up in a
wilderness, and a stupendous palace in the garden, and a stately city
round the palace: the city was peopled with parasites, who daily came
to do worship before the creator of these wonders--the Great King.

"Only God is great," said courtly Massillon; but next to him, as the
prelate thought, was certainly Louis, his vicegerent here upon
earth--God's lieutenant-governor of the world--before whom courtiers
used to fall on their knees, and shade their eyes, as if the light of
his countenance, like the sun, which shone supreme in heaven, the type
of him, was too dazzling to bear.

Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in such a palace?--or,
rather, did such a king ever shine upon the sun? When Majesty came out
of his chamber, in the midst of his super-human splendors, viz., in his
cinnamon-colored coat, embroidered with diamonds; his pyramon of a wig;
his red-heeled shoes, that lifted him four inches from the ground,
"that he scarcely seemed to touch;" when he came out, blazing upon the
dukes and duchesses that waited his rising--what could the latter do
but cover their eyes, and wink, and tremble? And did he not himself
believe, as he stood there, on his high heels, under his ambrosial
periwig, that there was something in him more than man--something above

This, doubtless, was he fain to believe; and if, on very fine days,
from his terrace before his gloomy palace of St. Germains, he could
catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a certain white spire of St.
Denis, where his race lay buried, he would say to his courtiers, with a
sublime condescension, "Gentlemen, you must remember that I, too, am

Surely the lords in waiting could hardly think him serious, and vowed
that his Majesty always loved a joke. However, mortal or not, the sight
of that sharp spire wounded his Majesty's eyes; and is said, by the
legend, to have caused the building of the palace of Babel-Versailles.

In the year 1681, then, the great king, with bag and baggage--with
guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses, Jesuits, gentlemen, lackeys,
Fénelons, Molières, Lauzuns, Bossuets, Villars, Villeroys, Louvois,
Colberts--transported himself to his new palace: the old one being left
for James of England and Jaquette his wife, when their time should
come. And when the time did come, and James sought his brother's
kingdom, it is on record that Louis hastened to receive and console
him, and promised to restore, incontinently, those islands from which
the canaille had turned him.

Between brothers such a gift was a trifle; and the courtiers said to
one another reverently, "The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my
right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool." There was no
blasphemy in the speech; on the contrary, it was gravely said, by a
faithful believing man, who thought it no shame to the latter to
compare his Majesty with God Almighty.

Indeed, the books of the time will give one a strong idea how general
was this Louis-worship. I have just been looking at one which was
written by an honest Jesuit and protégé of Père la Chaise, who
dedicates it to the august Infants of France, which does, indeed, go
almost as far in print. He calls our famous monarch "Louis le Grand: 1,
l'invincible; 2, le sage; 3, le conquérant; 4, la merveille de son
siècle; 5, la terreur de ses ennemis; 6, l'amour de ses peuples; 7,
l'arbitre de la paix et de la guerre; 8, l'admiration de l'univers; 9,
et digne d'en être le maître; 10, le modèle d'un héros achevè; 11,
digne de l'immortalité, et de la vénération de tous les siècles!"

A pretty Jesuit declaration, truly, and a good, honest judgment upon
the great king! In 30 years more: 1. The invincible had been beaten a
vast number of times. 2. The sage was the puppet of an artful old
woman, who was the puppet of more artful priests. 3. The conqueror had
quite forgotten his early knack of conquering. 5. The terror of his
enemies (for 4, the marvel of his age, we pretermit, it being a loose
term, that may apply to any person or thing) was now terrified by his
enemies in turn. 6. The love of his people was as heartily detested by
them as scarcely any other monarch, not even his great-grandson, has
been, before or since. 7. The arbiter of peace and war was fain to send
superb ambassadors to kick their heels in Dutch shopkeepers'
antechambers. 8. Is again a general term. 9. The man fit to be master
of the universe was scarcely master of his own kingdom. 10. The
finished hero was all but finished, in a very commonplace and vulgar
way. And, 11, the man worthy of immortality was just at the point of
death, without a friend to soothe or deplore him; only withered old
Maintenon to utter prayers at his bedside, and croaking Jesuit to
prepare him, with heavens knows what wretched tricks and mummeries, for
his appearance in that Great Republic that lies on the other side of
the grave. In the course of his fourscore splendid miserable years, he
never had but one friend, and he ruined and left her. Poor La Vallière,
what a sad tale is yours!...

While La Vallière's heart is breaking, the model of a finished hero is
yawning; as, on such paltry occasions, a finished hero should. Let her
heart break: a plague upon her tears and repentance; what right has she
to repent? Away with her to her convent! She goes, and the finished
hero never sheds a tear. What a noble pitch of stoicism to have
reached! Our Louis was so great, that the little woes of mean people
were beyond him; his friends died, his mistresses left him; his
children, one by one, were cut off before his eyes, and great Louis is
not moved in the slightest degree! As how, indeed, should a god be

Out of the window the king's august head was one day thrust, when old
Condé was painfully toiling up the steps of the court below. "Don't
hurry yourself, my cousin," cries Magnanimity; "one who has to carry so
many laurels can not walk fast." At which all the courtiers, lackeys,
mistresses, chamberlains, Jesuits, and scullions, clasp their hands and
burst into tears. Men are affected by the tale to this very day. For a
century and three-quarters have not all the books that speak of
Versailles, or Louis Quatorze, told the story?

"Don't hurry yourself, my cousin!" O admirable king and Christian! what
a pitch of condescension is here, that the greatest king of all the
world should go for to say anything so kind, and really tell a
tottering old gentleman, worn out with gout, age, and wounds, not to
walk too fast!

What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the composition of
mankind, that histories like these, should be found to interest and awe
them. Till the world's end, most likely, this story will have its place
in the history-books, and unborn generations will read it, and tenderly
be moved by it.

I am sure that Magnanimity went to bed that night, pleased and happy,
intimately convinced that he had done an action of sublime virtue, and
had easy slumbers and sweet dreams--especially if he had taken a light
supper, and not too vehemently attacked his "en cas de nuit." ...

The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so much
occasion for moralizing; perhaps the neigbhboring Parc aux Cerfs would
afford better illustrations of his reign. The life of his great
grandsire, the Grand Llama of France, seems to have frightened Louis
the well-beloved; who understood that loneliness is one of the
necessary conditions of divinity, and, being of a jovial, companionable
turn, aspired not beyond manhood.

Only in the matter of ladies did he surpass his predecessor, as Solomon
did David. War he eschewed, as his grandfather bade him; and his simple
taste found little in this world to enjoy beyond the mulling of
chocolate and the frying of pancakes. Look, here is the room called
Laboratoire du Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his mistress's
breakfast; here is the little door through which, from her apartments
in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came stealing down to the arms
of the weary, feeble, gloomy old man.

But of women he was tired long since, and even pancake-frying had
palled upon him. What had he to do, after forty years of reign; after
having exhausted everything? Every pleasure that Dubois could invent
for his hot youth, or cunning Lebel could minister to his old age, was
flat and stale; used up to the very dregs; every shilling in the
national purse had been squeezed out, by Pompadour and Du Barri and
such brilliant ministers of state. He had found out the vanity of
pleasure, as his ancestor had discovered the vanity of glory: indeed,
it was high time that he should die. And die he did; and round his
tomb, as round that of his grandfather before him, the starving people
sang a dreadful chorus of curses, which were the only epitaphs for good
or for evil that were raised to his memory....

On the 10th of May, 1774, the whole court had assembled at the château;
the Oeil de Boeuf was full. The Dauphin had determined to depart as
soon as the king had breathed his last. And it was agreed by the people
of the stables, with those who watched in the king's room, that a
lighted candle should be placed in a window, and should be extinguished
as soon as he had ceased to live.

The candle was put out. At that signal, guards, pages, and squires,
mounted on horseback, and everything was made ready for departure. The
Dauphin was with the Dauphiness, waiting together for the news of the
king's demise. An immense noise, as of thunder, was heard in the next
room; it was the crowd of courtiers, who were deserting the dead king's
apartment, in order to pay their court to the new power of Louis XVI.

Madame de Noailles entered, and was the first to salute the queen by
her title of Queen of France, and begged their Majesties to quit their
apartments, to receive the princes and great lords of the court
desirous to pay their homage to the new sovereigns. Leaning on her
husband's arm, a handkerchief to her eyes, in the most touching
attitude, Marie Antoinette received these first visits.

On quitting the chamber where the dead king lay, the Due de Villequier
bade Mr. Anderville, first surgeon of the king, to open and embalm the
body: it would have been certain death to the surgeon.

"I am ready, sir," says he; "but while I am operating, you must hold
the head of the corpse; your charge demands it."

The Duke went away without a word, and the body was neither opened nor
embalmed. A few humble domestics and poor workmen watched by the
remains, and performed the last offices to their master. The surgeons
ordered spirits of wine to be poured into the coffin.

They huddled the king's body into a postchaise; and in this deplorable
equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis, the Well-beloved,
was carried, in the dead of night, from Versailles to Saint-Denis, and
then thrown into the tombs of the kings of France!

If any man is curious, and can get permission, he may mount to the roof
of the palace, and see where Louis XVI. used royally to amuse himself
by gazing upon the doings of all the towns-people below with a
telescope. Behold that balcony, where, one morning, he, his queen, and
the little Dauphin stood, with Cromwell Grandison Lafayette by their
side, who kissed her Majesty's hand, and protected her; and then,
lovingly surrounded by his people, the king got into a coach and came
to Paris: nor did his Majesty ride much in coaches after that....

He is said to have been such a smart journeyman blacksmith that he
might, if Fate had not perversely placed a crown on his head, have
earned a couple of louis every week by the making of locks and keys.
Those who will may see the workshop where he employed many useful
hours: Madame Elizabeth was at prayers meanwhile; the queen was making
pleasant parties with her ladies; Monsieur the Count d'Artois was
learning to dance on the tightrope; and Monsieur de Provence was
cultivating l'éloquence du billet and studying his favorite Horace.

It is said that each member of the august family succeeded remarkably
well in his or her pursuits; big Monsieur's little notes are still
cited. At a minuet or sillabub, poor Antoinette was unrivaled; and
Charles, on the tightrope, was so graceful and so gentil that Madame
Saqui might envy him. The time only was out of joint. Oh, curst spite,
that ever such harmless creatures as these were bidden to right it!

A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral; no doubt the
reader has seen the pretty, fantastical gardens which environ it; the
groves and temples; the streams and caverns (whither, as the guide
tells you, during the heat of summer, it was the custom of Marie
Antoinette to retire with her favorite, Madame de Lamballe): the lake
and Swiss village are pretty little toys, moreover; and the cicerone of
the place does not fail to point out the different cottages which
surround the piece of water, and tell the names of the royal
masqueraders who inhabited each.

In the long cottage, close upon the lake, dwelt the Seigneur du
Village, no less a personage than Louis XV.; Louis XVI., the Dauphin,
was the Pailli; near his cottage is that of Monseigneur the Count
d'Artois, who was the Miller; opposite lived the Prince de Condé, who
enacted the part of Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other role, for it does
not signify much); near him was the Prince de Rohan, who was the
Aumonier; and yonder is the pretty little dairy, which was under the
charge of the fair Marie Antoinette herself.

I forget whether Monsieur the fat Count of Provence took any share of
this royal masquerading; but look at the names of the other six actors
of the comedy, and it will be hard to find any person for whom Fate had
such dreadful visitations in store. Fancy the party, in the days of
their prosperity, here gathered at Trianon, and seated under the tall
poplars by the lake, discoursing familiarly together: suppose, of a
sudden, some conjuring Cagliostro of the time is introduced among them,
and foretells to them the woes that are about to come.

"You, Monsieur l'Aumonier, the descendant of a long line of princes,
the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits by your side, shall
be the cause of her ruin and your own, [Footnote: In the
diamond-necklace affair.] and shall die in disgrace and exile. You, son
of the Condés, shall live long enough to see your royal race
overthrown, and shall die by the hands of a hangman. [Footnote: He was
found hanging in his own bed-room.] You, oldest son of St. Louis, shall
perish by the executioner's ax; that beautiful head, O Antoinette, the
same ruthless blade shall sever."

"They shall kill me first," says Lamballe, at the queen's side.

"Yes, truly," says the soothsayer, "for Fate prescribes ruin for your
mistress and all who love her."

[Footnote: Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the Queen, poor
Fersen is the most remarkable. He seems to have entertained for her a
high and perfectly pure devotion. He was the chief agent in the
luckless escape to Varennes; was lurking in Paris during the time of
her captivity; and was concerned in the many fruitless plots that were
made for her rescue. Fersen lived to be an old man, but died a dreadful
and violent death. He was dragged from his carriage by the mob. In
Stockholm, and murdered by them.--Author's note.]

"And," cries Monsieur d'Artois, "do I not love my sister, too? I pray
you not to omit me in your prophecies."

To whom Monsieur Cagliostro says, scornfully, "You may look forward to
fifty years of life, after most of these are laid in the grave. You
shall be a king, but not die one; and shall leave the crown only; not
the worthless head that shall wear it. Thrice shall you go into exile;
you shall fly from the people, first, who would have no more of you and
your race; and you shall return home over half a million of human
corpses, that have been made for the sake of you, and of a tyrant as
great as the greatest of your family. Again driven away, your bitterest
enemy shall bring you back. But the strong limbs of France are not to
be chained by such a paltry yoke as you can put on her: you shall be a
tyrant, but in will only; and shall have a scepter, but to see it
robbed from your hand."

"And pray, Sir Conjurer, who shall be the robber?" asked Monsieur the
Count d'Artois.

This I can not say, for here my dream ended. The fact is, I had fallen
asleep on one of the stone benches in the Avenue de Paris, and at this
instant was awakened by a whirling of carriages and a great clattering
of national guards, lancers, and outriders, in red. His Majesty, Louis
Philippe, was going to pay a visit to the palace; which contains
several pictures of his own glorious actions, and which has been
dedicated, by him, to all the glories of France.

Versailles in 1739

By Thomas Gray

[Footnote: From a letter to his friend West.]

What a huge heap of littleness! It is composed, as it were, of three
courts, all open to the eye at once, and gradually diminishing till you
come to the royal apartments, which on this side present but half a
dozen windows and a balcony. This last is all that can be called a
front, for the rest is only great wings. The hue of all this mass is
black, dirty red, and yellow; the first proceeding from stone changed
by age; the second, from a mixture of brick; and the last, from a
profusion of tarnished gilding. You can not see a more disagreeable
tout ensemble; and, to finish the matter, it is all stuck over in many
places with small busts of a tawny hue between every two windows.

We pass through this to go into the garden, and here the case is indeed
altered; nothing can be vaster and more magnificent than the back
front; before it a very spacious terrace spreads itself, adorned with
two large basons; these are bordered and lined (as most of the others)
with white marble, with handsome statues of bronze reclined on their
edges. From hence you descend a huge flight of steps into a semi-circle
formed by woods, that are cut all around into niches, which are filled
with beautiful copies of all the famous antique statues in white
marble. Just in the midst is the bason of Latona; she and her children
are standing on the top of a rock in the middle, on the sides of which
are the peasants, some half, some totally changed into frogs, all which
throw out water at her in great plenty.

From this place runs on the great alley, which brings you into a
complete round, where is the bason of Apollo, the biggest in the
gardens. He is rising in his car out of the water, surrounded by nymphs
and tritons, all in bronze, and finely executed, and these, as they
play, raise a perfect storm about him; beyond this is the great canal,
a prodigious long piece of water, that terminates the whole. All this
you have at one coup d'oeil in entering the garden, which is truly

I can not say as much of the general taste of the place: everything you
behold savors too much of art; all is forced, all is constrained about
you; statues and vases sowed everywhere without distinction; sugar
loaves and minced pies of yew; scrawl work of box, and little squirting
jets-d'eau, besides a great sameness in the walks, can not help
striking one at first sight, not to mention the silliest of labyrinths,
and all Aesop's fables in water; since these were designed "in usum
Delphini" only.

Here, then, we walk by moonlight, and hear the ladies and the
nightingales sing. Next morning, being Whitsunday, make ready to go to
the installation of nine Knights du Saint Esprit. Cambis is one: high
mass celebrated with music, great crowd, much incense, King, Queen,
Dauphin, Mesdames, Cardinals, and Court: Knights arrayed by his
Majesty; reverences before the altar, not bows, but curtsies; stiff
hams; much tittering among the ladies; trumpets, kettledrums, and fifes.


By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Days Near Paris."]

The golden age of Fontainebleau came with the Renaissance and Francis
I., who wished to make Fontainebleau the most glorious palace in the
world. "The Escurial!" says Brantôme, "what of that? See how long it
was of building? Good workmen like to be quick finished. With our king
it was otherwise. Take Fontainebleau and Chambord. When they were
projected, when once the plumb-line, and the compass, and the square,
and the hammer were on the spot, then in a few years we saw the Court
in residence there."

Il Rosso was first (1531) employed to carry out the ideas of François
I. as to painting, and then Sebastian Serlio was summoned from Bologna
in 1541 to fill the place of "surintendant des bastiments et architecte
de Fontainebleau." Il Rosso-Giovambattista had been a Florentine pupil
of Michelangelo, but refused to follow any master, having, as Vasari
says, "a certain inkling of his own." François I. was delighted with
him at first, and made him head of all the Italian colony at
Fontainebleau, where he was known as "Maitre Roux." But in two years
the king was longing to patronize some other genius, and implored
Giulio Romano, then engaged on the Palazzo del Té at Mantua, to come to
him. The great master refused to come himself, but in his place sent
the Bolognese Primaticcio, who became known in France as Le Primatice.

The new-comer excited the furious jealousy of Il Rosso, whom he
supplanted in favor and popularity, and who, after growing daily more
morose, took poison in 1541. Then Primaticcio, who, to humor his rival
had been sent into honorable exile (on plea of collecting antiquities
at Rome), was summoned back, and destroyed most of Il Rosso's frescoes,
replacing them by his own. Those that remain are now painted over, and
no works of Il Rosso are still in existence (unless in engravings)
except some of his frescoes at Florence.

With the Italian style of buildings and decorations, the Italian system
of a Court adorned by ladies was first introduced here under François
I., and soon became a necessity.... Under François I., his beautiful
mistress, the Duchesse d'Étampes--"la plus belle des savantes, et la
plus savante des belles," directed all the fêtes. In this she was
succeeded, under Henry II., by Diane de Poitiers, whose monogram,
interwoven with that of the king, appears in all the buildings of this
time, and who is represented as a goddess (Diana) in the paintings of

Under François II., in 1560, by the advice of the queen-mother, an
assembly of notables was summoned at Fontainebleau; and here,
accompanied by her 150 beautiful maids of honor, Catherine de Medici
received the embassy of the Catholic sovereigns sent to demand the
execution of the articles of the Council of Trent, and calling for
fresh persecution of the reformers.

Much as his predecessors had accomplished, Henri IV. did more for the
embellishment of Fontainebleau, where the monogram of his mistress,
Gabrielle d'Estrées, is frequently seen mingled with that of his wife,
Marie de Medici. All the Bourbon kings had a passion for hunting, for
which Fontainebleau afforded especial facilities.

It was at Fontainebleau that Louis XIII. was born, and that the
Maréchal de Biron was arrested. Louis XIII. only lived here
occasionally. In the early reign of Louis XIV., the palace was lent to
Christina, of Sweden, who had abdicated her throne.

It was in one of the private apartments, occupying the site of the
ancient Galerie des Cerfs, now destroyed, that she ordered the
execution of her chief equerry, Monaldeschi, whom she had convicted of
treason. She listened patiently to his excuses, but was utterly unmoved
by them and his entreaties for mercy. She provided a priest to confess
him, after which he was slowly butchered by blows with a sword on the
head and face, as he dragged himself along the floor, his body being
defended by a coat of mail....

Even after the creation of the palaces of Versailles and Marly, Louis
XIV. continued to make an annual "voyage de Fontainebleau." He
compelled his whole court to follow him; if any of his family were ill,
and unable to travel by road, he made them come by water; for himself,
he slept on the way, either at the house of the Duc d'Antin (son of
Mme. de Montespan) or of the Maréchal de Villeroy.

It was here that the Grand Dauphin was born, in 1661. Here, also, it
was that Mme. de Maintenon first appeared at the councils, and that the
king publicly asked her advice as to whether he should accept the
throne of Spain for the Duc d' Anjou. Here, also, in 1685, he signed
the revocation of the edict of Nantes. The great Condé died in the
palace. Louis XV. was married here to Marie Leczinska in 1725; and here
the Dauphin, his son, died in 1765. Louis XIV. delighted in
Fontainebleau for its hunting facilities.

After the Revolution, Napoleon I. restored the château and prepared it
for Pius VII. who came to France to crown him, and was here (January
25, 1813) induced to sign the famous Concordat de Fontainebleau, by
which he abjured his temporal sovereignty. The chateau which witnessed
the abdication of the Pope, also saw that of Napoleon I., who made his
touching farewell to the soldiers of the Vielle-Garde in the Cour du
Cheval-Blanc, before setting off for Elba.... The Cour du Cheval-Blanc,
the largest of the five courts of the palace, took its name from a
plaster copy of the horse of Marcus Aurelius at Rome, destroyed 1626.
Recently it has been called the Cour des Adieux, on account of the
farewell of Napoleon I. in 1814. It was once surrounded by buildings on
all sides; one was removed in 1810, and replaced by a grille.

The principal façade is composed of five pavilions with high roofs,
united by buildings two stories high. The beautiful twisted staircase
in front of the central pavilion was executed by Lemercier for Louis
XIII., and replaces a staircase by Philbert Delorme. Facing this
pavilion, the mass of buildings on the right is the Aile Neuve of Louis
XV., built on the site of the Galerie d'Ulysse, to the destruction of
the precious works of Primaticcio and Niccolo dell' Abbate, with which
it was adorned. Below the last pavilion, near the grille, was the
Grotte du Jardin-des-pins, where James V. of Scotland, coming over to
marry Magdalen of France, daughter of François I., watched her bathing
with her ladies, by the aid of a mirror....

To the west of the Cour du Cheval-Blanc, and communicating with it, is
the Cour de la Fontaine, the main front of which is formed by the
Galerie de François I. This faces the great tank, into which Gaston d'
Orleans, at eight years old, caused one of the courtiers to be thrown,
whom he considered to have spoken to him disrespectfully. One side of
the Cour de la Fontaine, that toward the Jardin Anglais, is terminated
by a pavilion of the time of Louis XV.; the other, formerly decorated
with statues is attributed to Serlio. The fountain from which the court
takes its name has been often changed; a poor work by Petitot now
replaces the grand designs of the time of François I. and Henri IV.
Beyond this court we find, on the left, the Porte Dorée, which faces
the Chaussée de Maintenon, between the Etang and Parterre; it was built
under François I., and decorated by Primaticcio with paintings,
restored in 1835. It was by this entrance that Charles V. arrived at
the palace in 1539....

A staircase now leads to the first floor, and we enter the apartments
of Napoleon I., all furnished in the style of the First Empire. The
cabinet de l'Abdication is the place where he resigned his power. His
bedroom (containing the bed of Napoleon I., the cradle of the King of
Rome, and a cabinet of Marie Louise) leads to the Salle du Conseil,
which was the Salon de Famille under Louis Philippe. Its decorations
are by Boucher, and are the best of the period. It was in leaving this
room that the Maréchal de Biron was arrested under Henri IV., in a
cabinet which is now thrown into the adjoining Salle du Trône,
(previously the bedroom of the Bourbon kings), dating from Charles IV.,
but decorated under Louis XIII. A fine portrait by Phillipe de
Champaigne represents Louis XIII. It is accompanied by his device in
allusion to his vehemence in the extermination of heresy.

The adjoining boudoir de Marie Antoinette is a beautiful little room,
painted by Barthelemy. The metal work of the windows is said to have
been wrought by Louis XVI. himself, who had his workshop here, as at
Versailles. The richly decorated Chambre à Coucher de la Reine was
inhabited by Marie de Medici, Marie Thérese, Marie Antoinette, Marie
Louise, and Marie Amelie. The silk hangings were given by the town of
Lyons to Marie Antoinette on her marriage. The Salon de Musique was the
Salon du jeu de la Reine, under Marie Antoinette. The ancient Salon de
Clorinde, or des Dames d' Honneur, is named from its paintings by
Dubois and from the "Gerusalemme Liberata."

The Galerie de Diane, built by Napoleon I. and Louis XVIII., replaces
the famous frescoed gallery of Henri IV. It is now turned into a
library for the use of the town. In the center is a picture of Henri
IV. on horseback, by Mauzaise. The Salles des Chasses contain pictures
of hunting scenes under Louis XV. We now reach the glorious Galerie d'
Henri II. (or Salle des Fêtes), built by François I., and decorated by
Henri II. The walnut-wood ceiling and the paneling of the walls are of
marvelous richness. Over the chimney is a gigantic H, and the initials
of Henri II. are constantly seen interlaced with those of Diane de
Poitiers.... The sixty paintings on the walls, including eight large
compositions, were executed by Niccolo Dell' Abbate, and are probably
the finest decorations of the kind existing in France.

The rooms usually shown last are those formerly inhabited by Catherine
de Medici and Anne of Austria, and which, under the First Empire, were
used by Pius VII., under Louis Philippe, by the Duke and Duchess of
Orleans. The most interesting of these are the Chambre à Coucher, which
bears the oft-repeated A L (the chiffre of Louis XIII. and Anne of
Austria), and in which Pius VII. daily said mass, and the Salon, with
its fine tapestry after Giulio Romano. The Galerie des Assiettes,
adorned with Sévres china, only dates from Louis Philippe. Hence, by a
gallery in the Aile Neuve, hung with indifferent pictures, we may visit
the Salle du Theâtre, retaining its arrangements for the emperor,
empress, and court.

The Gardens, as seen now, are mostly as they were rearranged by Lenôtre
for Louis XIV. The most frequented garden is the Parterre, entered from
the Place du Cheval-Blanc. In the center of the Jardin Anglais (entered
through the Cour de la Fontaine) was the Fontaine Bleau, which is
supposed by some to have given a name to the palace. The Etang has a
pavilion in the center, where the Czar Peter got drunk. The carp in the
pool, overfed with bread by visitors, are said to be, some of them, of
immense age. John Evelyn mentions the carp of Fontainebleau, "that come
familiarly to hand." The Jardin de l' Orangerie, on the north of the
palace, called Jardin des Buis under Francois I., contains a good
renaissance portal. To the east of the parterre and the town is the
park, which has no beauty, but harmonizes well with the château.

Visitors should not fail to drive in the Forest, 80 kilometers in
circuit, and, if they return late, may look out for its black
huntsman--"le grand veneur." ... The forest was a favorite
hunting-ground of the kings of France to a late period. It was here
that the Marquis de Tourzel, Grand Provost of France, husband of the
governess of the royal children, fractured his skull, his horse bolting
against a tree, when hunting with Louis XVI., in November, 1786. The
forest is the especial land of French artists, who overrun and possess
it in the summer. There are innumerable direction-posts, in which all
the red marks--put up by Napoleon III., because so few peasants could
read--point to town.

St. Denis

By Grant Allen

[Footnote: From "Paris."]

About six miles north of the original Paris stands the great Basilica
of St. Denis--the only church in Paris, and I think in France, called
by that ancient name, which carries us back at once to the days of the
Roman Empire, and in itself bears evidence to the antiquity of the spot
as a place of worship. Around it, a squalid modern industrial town has
slowly grown up; but the nucleus of the whole place, as the name itself
shows, is the body and shrine of the martyred bishop, St. Denis. Among
the numerous variants of his legend, the most accepted is that in which
the apostle of Paris carries his head to this spot from Montmartre.
Others say he was beheaded in Paris and walked to Montmartre, his body
being afterward translated to the Abbey; while there are some who see
in this legend a survival of the Dionysiac festival and sacrifice of
the vine-growers round Paris--Denis--Dionysius--Dionysus.

However that may be, a chapel was erected in 275 above the grave of St.
Denis, on the spot now occupied by the great Basilica; and later, Ste.
Geneviève was instrumental in restoring it. Dagobert I., one of the few
Frankish kings who lived much in Paris, built a "basilica" in place of
the chapel (630), and instituted by its side a Benedictine Abbey. The
church and monastery which possest the actual body of the first bishop
and great martyr of Paris formed naturally the holiest site in the
neighborhood of the city; and even before Paris became the capital of a
kingdom, the abbots were persons of great importance in the Frankish

The desire to repose close to the grave of a saint was habitual in
early times, and even (with the obvious alteration of words) ante-dated
Christianity--every wealthy Egyptian desiring in the same way to "sleep
with Osiris." Dagobert himself was buried in the church he founded,
beside the holy martyr; and in later times this very sacred spot became
for the same reason the recognized burial place of the French kings.
Dagobert's fane was actually consecrated by the Redeemer Himself, who
descended for the purpose by night, with a great multitude of saints
and angels.

The existing Basilica, tho of far later date, is the oldest church of
any importance in the neighborhood of Paris. It was begun by Suger,
abbot of the monastery, and sagacious minister of Louis VI. and VII.,
in 1121. As yet, Paris itself had no great church, Notre-Dame having
been commenced some 50 years later. The earliest part of Suger's
building is in the Romanesque style; it still retains the round Roman
arch and many other Roman constructive features. During the course of
the 50 years occupied in building the Basilica, however, the Gothic
style was developed; the existing church therefore exhibits both
Romanesque and Gothic work, with transitional features between the two,
which add to its interest. Architecturally, then, bear in mind, it is
in part Romanesque, passing into Gothic. The interior is mostly pure
Early Gothic.

The neighborhood to Paris, the supremacy of the great saint, and the
fact that St. Denis was especially the Royal Abbey, all combined to
give it great importance. Under Suger's influence, Louis VI. adopted
the oriflamme or standard of St. Denis as the royal banner of France.
The Merovingian and Carlovingian kings, to be sure--Germans rather than
French--had naturally been buried elsewhere, as at Aix-la-Chapelle,
Rheims, and Soissons (tho even of them a few were interred beside the
great bishop martyr). But as soon as the Parisian dynasty of the Capets
came to the throne, they were almost without exception buried at St.
Denis. Hence the abbey came to be regarded at last mainly as the
mausoleum of French royalty, and is still too often so regarded by

But tho the exquisite Renaissance tombs of the House of Valois would
well deserve a visit on their own account, they are, at St. Denis, but
accessories to the great Basilica. Besides the actual tombs, too, many
monuments were erected here, in the 13th century (by St. Louis) and
afterward, to earlier kings buried elsewhere, some relic of whom,
however, the abbey possest and thus honored. Hence several of the
existing tombs are of far later date than the kings they commemorate;
those of the Valois almost alone are truly contemporary.

At the Revolution, the Basilica suffered irreparable losses. The very
sacred reliquary containing the severed head of St. Denis was
destroyed, and the remains of the martyr and his companions desecrated.
The royal bones and bodies were also disinterred and flung into
trenches indiscriminately. The tombs of the kings were condemned to
destruction, and many (chiefly in metal) were destroyed or melted down,
but not a few were saved with difficulty by the exertions of
antiquaries, and were placed in the Museum of Monuments at Paris (now
the École des Beaux-Arts), of which Alexandre Lenoir was curator. Here,
they were greatly hacked about and mutilated, in order to fit them to
their new situations.

At the Restoration, however, they were sent back to St. Denis, together
with many other monuments which had no real place there; but, being
housed in the crypt, they were further clipt to suit their fresh
surroundings. Finally, when the Basilica was restored under
Viollet-le-Duc, the tombs were replaced as nearly as possible in their
old positions; but several intruders from elsewhere are still
interspersed among them. Louis XVIII. brought back the mingled bones of
his ancestors from the common trench and interred them in the crypt. As
regards the tombs, again, bear in mind these facts. All the oldest have
perished; there are none here that go back much further than the age of
St. Louis, tho they often represent personages of earlier periods or
dynasties. The best are those of the Renaissance period. These are
greatly influenced by the magnificent tomb of Giangaleazzo Visconti at
the Certosa di Pavia, near Milan. Especially is this the case with the
noble monument of Louis XII., which closely imitates the Italian work.
Now, you must remember that Charles VIII. and Louis XII. fought much in
Italy, and were masters of Milan; hence this tomb was familiar to them;
and their Italian experiences had much to do with the French
Renaissance. The Cardinal d'Amboise, Louis's minister, built the
Château de Gaillon, and much of the artistic impulse of the time was
due to these two. Henceforth recollect that tho François I. is the
prince of the Renaissance, Louis XII. and his minister were no mean

The interior is most beautiful. The first portion of the church which
we enter is a vestibule or Galilee under the side towers and end of the
Nave. Compare Durham. It is of the age of Abbot Suger, but already
exhibits pointed arches in the upper part. The architecture is solid
and massive, but somewhat gloomy.

Descend a few steps into the Nave, which is surrounded by single
aisles, whose vaulting should be noticed. The architecture of this
part, now pure Early Gothic, is extremely lovely. The triforium is
delicate and graceful. The windows in the clerestory above it,
representing kings and queens, are almost all modern. Notice the great
height of the Nave, and the unusual extent to which the triforium and
clerestory project above the noble vaulting of the aisles. Note that
the triforium itself opens directly to the air, and is supplied with
stained-glass windows, seen through its arches. Sit awhile in this
light and lofty Nave, in order to take in the beautiful view up the
church toward the choir and chevet. Then walk up to the Barrier near
the Transepts, where sit again, in order to observe the Choir and
Transepts with the staircase which leads to the raised Ambulatory.
Observe that the transepts are simple. The ugly stained glass in the
windows of their clerestory contains illustrations of the reign of
Louis Philippe, with extremely unpicturesque costumes of the period.
The architecture of the Nave and Choir, with its light and airy arches
and pillars, is of the later 13th century.

The reason for this is that Suger's building was thoroughly restored
from 1230 onward, in the pure pointed style of that best period. The
upper part of the Choir, and the whole of the Nave and Transepts was
then rebuilt--which accounts for the gracefulness and airiness of its
architecture when contrasted with the dark and heavy vestibule of the
age of Suger.

Note from this point the arrangement of the Choir, which, to those who
do not know Italy, will be quite unfamiliar. As at San Zeno in Verona,
San Miniato in Florence, and many other Romanesque churches, the Choir
is raised by some steps above the Nave and Transepts; while the Crypt
is slightly deprest beneath them. In the Crypt, in such cases, are the
actual bodies of the saints buried there; while the Altar stands
directly over their tombs in the Choir above it.


By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Days Near Paris."]

The tram stops close to the Abreuvoir, a large artificial tank,
surrounded by masonry for receiving the surplus water from the
fountains in the palace gardens, of which it is now the only remnant.
Ascending the avenue on the right, we shall find a road at the top
which will lead us, to the left, through delightful woods to the site
of the palace. Nothing remains but the walls supporting the wooded

It is difficult to realize the place as it was, for the quincunces of
limes which stood between the pavilions on either side of the steep
avenue leading to the royal residence, formerly dipt and kept close,
are now huge trees, marking still the design of the grounds, but
obscuring the views, and, by their great growth, making the main avenue
very narrow. St. Simon exaggerates the extravagance of Louis XIV. at
Marly, who spent there four and a half million francs between 1679 and
1690, and probably as much or more between 1690 and 1715, perhaps in
all ten or twelve millions, which would represent fifty million francs
at the present time. Nevertheless the expense of the amusements of
Louis XIV. greatly exceeded the whole revenue of Henri IV., and those
of the early years of Louis XIII.

From the central pavilion in which the flattery of Mansart placed him
as the sun, Louis XIV. emerged every morning to visit the occupiers of
the twelve smaller pavilions, Les Pavilions des Seigneurs, the
constellations, his courtiers, who came out to meet him and swelled his
train. These pavilions, arranged on each side of the gardens, stood in
double avenues of clipt lime-trees looking upon the garden and its
fountains, and leading up to the palace.

The device of the sun was carried out in the palace itself, where all
the smaller apartments circled round the grand salon, the king and
queen having apartments to the back, the dauphin and dauphine to the
front, each apartment consisting of an anteroom, bedroom, and
sitting-room, and each set being connected with one of the four square
saloons, which opened upon the great octagonal hall, of which four
faces were occupied by chimney-pieces and four by the doors of the
smaller saloons. The central hall occupied the whole height of the
edifice, and was lighted from the upper story.

The great ambition of every courtier was to be of the Marly circle, and
all curried favor with the king by asking to accompany him on his
weekly journey to Marly. The Court used to arrive at Marly on a
Wednesday and leave it on a Saturday; this was an invariable rule. The
king always passed his Sundays at Versailles, which was his parish. ...
The leading figure at Marly was Mme. de Maintenon, who occupied the
apartments intended for Queen Marie Thérèse, but who led the simplest
of lives, bored almost to extinction. She used to compare the carp
languishing in the tanks of Marly to herself--"Like me they regret
their native mud." ... At first Mme. de Maintenon dined, in the midst
of the other ladies in the square salon which separated her apartment
from that of the king; but soon she had a special table, to which a
very few other ladies, her intimates, came by invitation.

Marly was the scene of several of the most tragic events in the life of
Louis XIV. "Everything is dead here, there's no life in any thing,"
wrote the Comtesse de Caylus, niece of Mme. de Maintenon, from Marly to
the Princess des Ursins, after the death of the Duchesse de Bourgogne.
And, in a few days afterward, Marly was the scene of the sudden death
of the Dauphin, Duc de Bourgogne, the beloved pupil of Fénelon. Early
in the morning after the death of his wife, he was persuaded, "ill and
anguished with the most intimate and bitterest of sorrows," to follow
the king to Marly, where he entered his own room by a window on the
ground floor.

It was also at Marly--"ill-omened Marly"--that the Duc de Berry, the
younger grandson of Louis XIV., and husband of the profligate daughter
of the Duc d' Orleans--afterward Regent, died, with great suspicion of
poison, in 1714. The MS. memorials of Mary Beatrice by a sister of
Chaillot, describe how, when Louis XIV. was mourning his beloved
grandchildren, and that queen, whom he had always liked and respected,
had lost her darling daughter Louisa, she went to visit him at Marly
where "they laid aside all Court etiquette, weeping together in their
common grief, because, as the Queen said, 'We saw that the aged were
left, and that death had swept away the young.'" St. Simon depicts the
last walk of the king in the gardens at Marly on August 10, 1715. He
went away that evening to Versailles, where he died on September 1.

Marly was abandoned during the whole time of the Regency, and was only
saved from total destruction in 1717, when the Régent Philippe
d'Orléans had ordered its demolition, by the spirited remonstrance of
St. Simon.... The great pavilion itself only contained, as we have
seen, a very small number of chambers. The querulous Smollett, who
visited Marly in 1763, speaks of it as "No more than a pigeon-house in
respect to a palace." But it was only intended as the residence of the

During the repairs necessary in the reign of Louis XV., who built
Choisy and never lived at Marly, the cascade which fell behind the
great pavilion was removed. Mme. Campan describes the later Marly of
Louis XVI., under whom the "Marly journey" had become one of the great
burdens and expenses of royal life. The Court of Louis XVI. was here
for the last time on June 11, 1789, but in the latter years of Louis
XVI., M. de Noailles, governor of St. Germain, was permitted to lend
the smaller pavilions furnished to his friends for the summer months.
Marly perished with the monarchy, and was sold at the Revolution, when
the statues of its gardens were removed to the Tuileries. A cotton mill
was for a time established in the royal pavilion; then all the
buildings were pulled down and the gardens sold in lots!

Still the site is worth visiting. The Grille Royale, now a simple
wooden gate between two pillars with vases, opens on the road from St.
Germain to Versailles, at the extremity of the Aqueduct of Marly.
Passing this, one finds oneself in an immense circular enclosure, the
walls of which surround the forest on every side.

The Village of Auteuil

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

[Footnote: From "Outre-Mer." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.]

The sultry heat of summer always brings with it, to the idler and the
man of leisure, a longing for the leafy shade and the green luxuriance
of the country. It is pleasant to interchange the din of the city, the
movement of the crowd, and the gossip of society, with the silence of
the hamlet, the quiet seclusion of the grove, and the gossip of a
woodland brook.

It was a feeling of this kind that prompted me, during my residence in
the North of France, to pass one of the summer months at Auteuil, the
pleasantest of the many little villages that lie in the immediate
vicinity of the metropolis. It is situated on the outskirts of the Bois
de Boulogne, a wood of some extent, in whose green alleys the dusty
city enjoys the luxury of an evening drive, and gentlemen meet in the
morning to give each other satisfaction in the usual way. A cross-road,
skirted with green hedge-rows, and overshadowed by tall poplars, leads
you from the noisy highway of St. Cloud and Versailles to the still
retirement of this suburban hamlet. On either side the eye discovers
old châteaux amid the trees, and green parks, whose pleasant shades
recall a thousand images of La Fontaine, Racine, and Molière; and on an
eminence, overlooking the windings of the Seine, and giving a beautiful
tho distant view of the domes and gardens of Paris, rises the village
of Passy, long the residence of our countrymen Franklin and Count

It was to the Bois de Boulogne that I looked for my principal
recreation. There I took my solitary walk, morning and evening; or,
mounted on a little mouse-colored donkey, paced demurely along the
woodland pathway. I had a favorite seat beneath the shadow of a
venerable oak, one of the few hoary patriarchs of the wood which had
survived the bivouacs of the allied armies. It stood upon the brink of
a little glassy pool, whose tranquil bosom was the image of a quiet and
secluded life, and stretched its parental arms over a rustic bench,
that had been constructed beneath it for the accommodation of the
foot-traveler, or, perchance, some idle dreamer like myself. It seemed
to look round with a lordly air upon its old hereditary domain, whose
stillness was no longer broken by the tap of the martial drum, nor the
discordant clang of arms; and, as the breeze whispered among its
branches, it seemed to be holding friendly colloquies with a few of its
venerable contemporaries, who stooped from the opposite bank of the
pool, nodding gravely now and then, and gazing at themselves with a
sigh in the mirror below....

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into all the rural sports and
merrimakes of the village. The holidays were so many little eras of
mirth and good feeling; for the French have that happy and sunshine
temperament--that merry-go-mad character--which renders all their
social meetings scenes of enjoyment and hilarity. I made it a point
never to miss any of the fêtes champêtres, or rural dances, at the wood
of Boulogne; tho I confess it sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness
to see my rustic throne beneath the oak usurped by a noisy group of
girls, the silence and decorum of my imaginary realm broken by music
and laughter, and, in a word, my whole kingdom turned topsy-turvy with
romping, fiddling, and dancing. But I am naturally, and from principle,
too, a lover of all those innocent amusements which cheer the laborer's
toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to the wheel of life, and
help the poor man along with his load of cares. Hence I saw with no
small delight the rustic swain astride the wooden horse of the
carrousel, and the village maiden whirling round and round in its dizzy
car; or took my stand on the rising ground that overlooked the dance,
an idle spectator in a busy throng. It was just where the village
touched the outward border of the wood. There a little area had been
leveled beneath the trees, surrounded by a painted rail, with a row of
benches inside. The music was placed in a slight balcony, built around
the trunk of a large tree in the center; and the lamps, hanging from
the branches above, gave a gay, fantastic, and fairy look to the scene.
How often in such moments did I recall the lines of Goldsmith,
describing those "kinder skies" beneath which "France displays her
bright domain," and feel how true and masterly the sketch--

  "Alike all ages; dames of ancient days
  Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
  And the gray grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
  Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore."

Nor must I forget to mention the fête patronale--a kind of annual fair,
which is held at midsummer, in honor of the patron saint of Auteuil.
Then the principal street of the village is filled with booths of every
description; strolling players, and rope-dancers, and jugglers, and
giants, and dwarfs, and wild beasts, and all kinds of wonderful shows,
excite the gaping curiosity of the throng; and in dust, crowds, and
confusion, the village rivals the capital itself. Then the goodly dames
of Passy descend into the village of Auteuil; then the brewers of
Billancourt and the tanners of Sèvres dance lustily under the greenwood
tree; and then, too, the sturdy fishmongers of Brétigny and Saint-Yon
regale their fat wives with an airing in a swing, and their customers
with eels and crawfish....

I found another source of amusement in observing the various personages
that daily passed and repassed beneath my window. The character which
most of all arrested my attention was a poor blind fiddler, whom I
first saw chanting a doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern near
the gate of the village. He wore a brown coat, out at elbows, the
fragment of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight nankeens, so short
as hardly to reach below his calves. A little foraging cap, that had
long since seen its best days, set off an open, good-humored
countenance, bronzed by sun and wind. He was led about by a brisk,
middle-aged woman, in straw hat and wooden shoes; and a little
barefooted boy, with clear, blue eyes and flaxen hair, held a tattered
hat in his hand, in which he collected eleëmosynary sous. The old
fellow had a favorite song, which he used to sing with great glee to a
merry, joyous air, the burden of which ran "Chantons l'amour et le
plaisir!" I often thought it would have been a good lesson for the
crabbed and discontented rich man to have heard this remnant of
humanity--poor, blind, and in rags, and dependent upon casual charity
for his daily bread, singing in so cheerful a voice the charms of
existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away to a merry tune.

I was one morning called to my window by the sound of rustic music. I
looked out and beheld a procession of villagers advancing along the
road, attired in gay dresses, and marching merrily on in the direction
of the church. I soon perceived that it was a marriage-festival. The
procession was led by a long orang-outang of a man, in a straw hat and
white dimity bobcoat, playing on an asthmatic clarionet, from which he
contrived to blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at
right angles from his tune, and winding up with a grand flourish on the
guttural notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, came the blind
fiddler, his honest features glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic
bridal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he
made all crack again. Then came the happy bridegroom, drest in his
Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button-hole; and close
beside him his blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe
and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses in her hair. The
friends and relatives brought up the procession; and a troop of village
urchins came shouting along in the rear, scrambling among themselves
for the largess of sous and sugar-plums that now and then issued in
large handfuls from the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to
officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on the
procession till it was out of sight; and when the last wheeze of the
clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking how happy were
they who were thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their
native village, far from the gilded misery and the pestilential vices
of the town.

On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, enjoying
the freshness of the air and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when
I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at
first so faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose
mournfully on the hush of evening--died gradually away--then ceased.
Then, it rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral
procession appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led
by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two
boys, holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of
priests in their surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax
taper in the other, chanting the funeral dirge at intervals--now
pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden of their
lamentation, accompanied by others, who played upon a rude kind of
bassoon, with a dismal and wailing sound. Then followed various symbols
of the church, and the bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The
coffin was covered with a velvet pall, and a chaplet of white flowers
lay upon it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. A few of the
villagers came behind, clad in mourning robes, and bearing lighted
tapers. The procession passed slowly along the same street that in the
morning had been thronged by the gay bridal company. A melancholy train
of thought forced itself home upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of
this world are so strikingly mingled! Our mirth and grief are brought
so mournfully in contact! We laugh while others weep--and others
rejoice when we are sad! The light heart and the heavy walk side by
side and go about together! Beneath the same roof are spread the
wedding-feast and the funeral-pall! The bridal-song mingles with the
burial-hymn! One goes to the marriage-bed, another to the grave; and
all is mutable, uncertain, and transitory.

It is with sensations of pure delight that I recur to the brief period
of my existence which was passed in the peaceful shades of Auteuil.
There is one kind of wisdom which we learn from the world, and another
kind which can be acquired in solitude only. In cities we study those
around us; but in the retirement of the country we learn to know

[Illustration: Paris: Interior of the Grand Opera House]

[Illustration: Paris Front of the Grand Opera House]

[Illustration: Arc de Triomphe]

[Illustration: Arch Erected by Napoleon, Near the Louvre]

[Illustration: Paris: Church of St. Vincent de Paul]

[Illustration: Paris: Church of St. Sulpice]

[Illustration: Picture Gallery at Versailles]

[Illustration: Versailles: Bed-Room of Louis XIV]

[Illustration: The Grand Trianon at Versailles]

[Illustration: The Little Trianon at Versailles]

[Illustration: Bed-Room of Catherine de Medici at Chaumont]

[Illustration: Marie Antoinette's Dairy at Versailles]

[Illustration: Tours From Turner's "Rivers of France"]

[Illustration: Saint Denis From Turner's "Rivers of France"]

[Illustration: Havre From Turner's "Rivers of France"]

[Illustration: The Bridge of St. Cloud From Turner's "Rivers of France"]

The Two Trianons

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Days Near Paris."]

The Trianons may be reached in half an hour from the railway station,
but the distance is considerable, and a carriage very desirable,
considering all the walking inside of the palaces to be accomplished.
Carriages take the straight avenue from Bassin de Neptune. The
pleasantest way for foot-passengers is to follow the gardens of
Versailles as far as the Bassin d'Apollon, and then turn to the right.
At the end of the right branch of the grand canal, staircases lead to
the park of the Grand Trianon; but these staircases are railed in, and
it is necessary to make a détour to the Grille de la Grande Entrée,
whence an avenue leads directly to the Grand Trianon, while the Petit
Trianon lies immediately to the right, behind the buildings of the
Concierge and Corps de Garde.

The original palace of the Grand Trianon was a little château built by
Louis XIV., in 1670, as a refuge from the fatigues of the Court, on
land bought from the monks of St. Genevieve, and belonging to the
parish of Trianon. But in 1687 the humble château was pulled down, and
the present palace erected by Mansart in its place.

Louis XIV. constantly visited the Grand Trianon, with which for many
years he was much delighted. But, after 1700, he never slept at
Trianon, and, weary of his plaything here, turned all his attention to
Marly. Under Louis XV., however, the palace was again frequently

Being entirely on one floor, the Grand Trianon continued to be a most
uncomfortable residence, till subterranean passages for service were
added under Louis Philippe, who made great use of the palace. The
buildings are without character or distinction. Visitors have to wait
in the vestibule till a large party is formed, and are then hurried
full speed round the rooms, without being allowed to linger for an

The Petit Trianon was built by Gabriel for Louis XV. in the botanical
garden which Louis XIV. had formed at the instigation of the Duc
d'Ayen. It was intended as a miniature of the Grand Trianon, as that
palace had been a miniature of Versailles. The palace was often used by
Louis XV., who was here first attacked by the smallpox, of which he
died. Louis XVI. gave it to Marie Antoinette, who made its gardens, and
whose happiest days were spent here.

The Petit Trianon is a very small and very unassuming country house.
Mme. de Maintenon describes it in June as "a palace enchanted and
perfumed." Its pretty simple rooms are only interesting from their
associations. The furniture is mostly of the times of Louis XVI. The
stone stair has a handsome iron balustrade; the salons are paneled in

Here Marie Antoinette st to Mme. Lebrun for the picture in which she is
represented with her children. In the dining-room is a secretaire given
to Louis XVI. by the States of Burgundy, and portraits of the King and
Marie Antoinette. The Cabinet de Travail of the queen was a cabinet
given to her on her marriage by the town of Paris; in the Salle de
Réception are four pictures by Watteau; the Boudoir has a Sévres bust
of the queen; in the Chambre-á-coucher is the queen's bed, and a
portrait of the Dauphin by Lebrun. These simple rooms are a standing
defense of the queen from the false accusations brought against her at
the Revolution as to her extravagance in the furnishing of the Petit
Trianon. Speaking of her happy domestic life, Mme. Lebrun says: "I do
not believe Queen Marie Antoinette ever allowed an occasion to pass by
without saying an agreeable thing to those who had the honor of being
near her."


By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Days Near Paris."]

The station is opposite a short avenue, at the end of which on the
right, is the principal entrance to Malmaison. A little higher up the
road at the right is a gate leading to the park and gardens, freely
open to the public, and being sold (1887) in lots by the Stat. There is
a melancholy charm in the old house of many recollections--grim, empty,
and desolate; approached on this side by a bridge over the dry moat. A
short distance off, rather to the left, as you look from the house, is
a very pretty little temple--the Temple of Love--with a front of
columns of red Givet marble brought from the chateau of Richelieu, and
a clear stream bursting from the rocks beneath it.

Malmaison is supposed to derive its name from having been inhabited in
the XI century by the Norman brigand Odon, and afterward by evil
spirits, exorcised by the monks of St. Denis. Josephine bought the
villa with its gardens, which had been much praised by Delille, from M.
Lecouteulx de Canteleu for 160,000 francs.... Josephine retired to
Malmaison at the time of her divorce, and seldom left it afterward....
In 1814, the unhappy Josephine, whose heart was always with Napoleon,
was forced to receive a visit from the allied sovereigns at Malmaison,
and died of a chill which she caught in doing the honors of her grounds
to the Emperor Alexander on May 26, by a water excursion on the pool of
Cucufa. After his return from Elba, Napoleon revisited the place....

After the loss of the battle of Waterloo, Napoleon once more retired to
Malmaison, then the property of the children of Josephine, Eugene and
Hortense. There he passed June 25, 1815, a day of terrible agitation.
That evening at five o'clock he put on a brown suit of civilian
clothes, tenderly embraced Queen Hortense and the other persons
present, gave a long lingering look at the house and gardens connected
with his happiest hours, and left them for ever.

After the second Restoration Prince Eugène sold Malmaison, removing its
gallery of pictures to Munich. There is now nothing remarkable in the
desolate rooms, tho the Salle des Maréchaux, the bedroom of Josephine,
and the grand salon, with a chimney-piece given by the Pope are pointed
out. In later years the house was for some time inhabited by Queen
Christina of Spain. It will be a source of European regret if at least
the building connected with so many historic souvenirs, and the
immediate grounds are not preserved.

St. Germain

By Leitch Ritchie

[Footnote: From "The Rivers of France." Pictures by J. M. W. Turner,
R.A. Text by Leitch Ritchie.]

The view from the terrace of Saint Germain is one of the finest in
France. This view, and a shady walk in the forest behind, are the only
attractions of Saint Germain; for the old palace of the kings of France
presents the appearance of nothing more than a huge, irregular,
unsightly brick building. It is true, a great portion of the walls is
of cut stone; but this is the idea which the whole conveys to the
spectator. The edifice stands on the site of a chateau built by
Louis-le-Gros, which, having been burned down by the English, was thus
raised anew from its ruins. Charles V., François II., Henry IV., Louis
XIII., and Louis XIV., all exercised their taste upon it, and all added
to its general deformity.

Near this Henri Quatre built another château, which fell into ruins
forty or fifty years ago. These ruins were altogether effaced by
Charles X., who had formed the project of raising another structure
upon the spot, entirely his own. The project, however, failed, like
that of the coup d'etat, but this is of no consequence. The new château
exists in various books of travel, written by eye-witnesses, quite as
palpably as the enormous bulk of the ancient château. It is a true
"castle in Spain." Among the sights to be seen in the palace is the
chamber of Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and the trap-door by which she
was visited by Louis Quatorze. There are also the chamber and oratory
of our James II., who died at Saint Germain, on the 16th September,

The forest of Saint Germain is seven leagues in circumference, pierced
in every direction by roads and paths, and containing various edifices
that were used as hunting-lodges. This vast wood affords no view,
except along the seemingly interminable path in which the spectator
stands, the vista of which, carried on with mathematical regularity,
terminates in a point. This is the case with all the great forests of
France except that of Fontainebleau, where nature is sometimes seen in
her most picturesque form. In the more remote and unfrequented parts of
Saint Germain, the wild boar still makes his savage lair; and still the
loiterer, in these lengthened alleys, is startled by a roebuck or a
deer springing across the path....

Independently of the noble satellites attached to the court, the
infinite number of official persons made its removal to Saint Germain,
or the other royal seats, seem like the emigration of a whole people.
Forty-nine physicians, thirty-eight surgeons, six apothecaries,
thirteen preachers, one hundred and forty maîtres d'hôtel, ninety
ladies of honor to the queen, in the sixteenth century! There were also
an usher of the kitchen, a courier de vin (who took the charge of
carrying provisions for the king when he went to the chase), a sutler
of court, a conductor of the sumpter-horse, a lackey of the chariot, a
captain of the mules, an overseer of roasts, a chair-bearer, a palmer
(to provide ananches for Easter), a valet of the firewood, a
paillassier of the Scotch guard, a yeoman of the mouth, and a hundred
more for whose offices we have no names in English.

The grand maître d'hôtel was the chief officer of the court. The royal
orders came through him; he regulated the expenses; and was, in short,
to the rest of the functionaries, what the general is to the army. The
maître des requetes was at the head of civil justice; the prevôt de
l'hôtel at the head of criminal justice....

When the courtiers presented themselves at the château, some in
chariots, some on horseback, with their wives mounted behind them (the
ladies all masked), they were subjected to the scrutiny of the captain
of the gate. The greater number he compelled to dismount; but the
princes and princesses, and a select few who had brevets of entrance,
were permitted to ride within the walls.

At court the men wore sword and dagger; but to be found with a gun or
pistol in the palace, or even in the town, subjected them to a sentence
of death. To wear a casque or cuirass was punished with imprisonment.
The laws of politeness were equally strict. If one man used insulting
words to another, the offense was construed as being given to the king;
and the offender was obliged to solicit pardon of his majesty. If one
threatened another by clapping his hand to the hilt of his sword, he
was to be assommé according to the ordinance; which may either mean
knocked down, or soundly mauled--or the two together. If two men came
to blows, they were both assommé. A still more serious breach of
politeness, however, was the importunity of petitioners.

When the king hunted he was accompanied by a hundred pages, two hundred
esquires, and often four or five hundred gentlemen; sometimes by the
queen and princesses, with their hundreds of ladies and maids of honor,
mounted on palfreys saddled with black velvet.

St. Cloud

By Augustus J. C. Hare

[Footnote: From "Days Near Paris."]

Very near the station is the Château de St. Cloud, set on fire by the
bombs of Mont-Valèrien, in the night of October 13, 1870, and now the
most melancholy of ruins. Sufficient, however, remains to indicate the
noble character of a building partly due to Jules Hardouin and Mansart.
The château is more reddened than blackened by the fire, and the
beautiful reliefs of its gables, its statues, and the wrought-iron
grilles of its balconies are still perfect. Grass, and even trees, grow
in its roofless halls, in one of which the marble pillars and
sculptured decorations are seen through the gaps where windows once
were. The view from the terrace is most beautiful.

The name of St. Cloud comes from a royal saint, who was buried in the
collegiate church, pulled down by Marie Antoinette (which stood
opposite the modern church), and to whose shrine there is an annual
pilgrimage. Clodomir, King of Orleans, son of Clovis, dying in 524, had
bequeathed his three sons to the guardianship of his mother Clotilde.
Their barbarous uncles, Childebert and Clotaire, coveting their
heritage, sent their mother a sword and a pair of scissors, asking her
whether she would prefer that they should perish by the one, or that
their royal locks should be shorn with the other, and that they should
be shut up in a convent.

"I would rather see them dead than shaven," replied Clotilde proudly.
Two of the princes were then murdered by their uncles, the third,
Clodowald, was hidden by some faithful servants, but fright made him
cut off his hair with his own hands, and he entered a monastery at a
village then called Nogent, but which derived from him the name of St.
Clodowald, corrupted into St. Cloud.

Clodowald bequeathed the lands of St. Cloud to the bishops of Paris,
who had a summer palace here, in which the body of François I. lay in
state after his death at Rambouillet. His son, Henri II., built a villa
here in the Italian style; and Henri III. came to live here in a villa
belonging to the Gondi family, while, with the King of Navarre, he was
besieging Paris in 1589. The city was never taken, for at St. Cloud
Henri was murdered by Jacques Clément, a monk of the Jacobin convent in
Paris, who fancied that an angel had urged him to the deed in a

From this time the house of the banker Jérôme Gondi, one of the Italian
adventurers who had followed the fortunes of Catherine de Medici, was
an habitual residence of the Court. It became the property of Hervard,
Controller of Finances, from whom Louis XIV. bought it for his brother
Philippe d'Orléans, enlarged the palace, and employed Lenôtre to lay
out the park. Monsieur married the beautiful Henriette d'Angleterre,
youngest daughter of Charles I., who died here, June 30, 1670, with
strong suspicion of poison. St. Simon affirms the person employed to
have confest to Louis XIV., having used it at the instigation of the
Chevalier de Lorraine (a favorite of Monsieur), whom Madame had caused
to be exiled. One of the finest sermons of Bossuet describes the
"disastrous night on which there came as a clap of thunder the
astonishing news! 'Madame is dying! Madame is dead!' At the sound of so
strange a wo people hurried to St. Cloud from all sides to find panic
over all except the heart of the princess."

In the following year Monsieur was married again, to the Princess
Palatine, when it was believed that his late wife appeared near a
fountain in the park, where a servant, sent to fetch water, died of
terror. The vision turned out to be a reality--a hideous old woman, who
amused herself in this way. "The cowards," she said, "made such
grimaces that I nearly died laughing. This evening pleasure paid me for
the toil of my hard day."

Monsieur gave magnificent fétes to the Court at St. Cloud, added to the
palace with great splendor, and caused the great cascade, which Jérôme
Gondi had made, to be enlarged and embellished by Mansart. It was at
St. Cloud that Monsieur died of an attack of apoplexy, brought on by
overeating after his return from a visit to the king at Marly.... The
chateau continued to be occupied by Madame, daughter of the Elector,
the rude, the original, and satirical Princess Palatine, in whom the
modern House of Orleans has its origin, and here she died during the
regency of her son....

The Régent d'Orléans, nephew of Louis XIV., received Peter the Great at
St. Cloud in 1717. In 1752 his grandson, Louis Philippe d'Orléans, gave
at St. Cloud one of the most magnificent fêtes ever seen in France.

In 1785 the Due d'Orleans sold St. Cloud for six million francs to
Queen Marie Antoinette, who made great alterations in the internal
arrangements of the building, where she resided during the early days
of the Revolution.

It was at St. Cloud that the coup d'état occurred which made Napoleon
first-consul. This led him to choose the palace of St. Cloud, which had
been the cradle of his power, as his principal residence, and, under
the first empire, it was customary to speak of "le cabinet de
Saint-Cloud," as previously of "le cabinet de Versailles," and
afterward of "le cabinet des Tuileries." Here, in 1805, Napoleon and
Josephine assisted at the baptism of the future Napoleon III....

It was also in the palace of St. Cloud that Napoleon I. was married to
Marie Louise, April 1, 1810. In this palace of many changes the allied
sovereigns met after the fall of the First Empire. Blucher, after his
fashion, slept booted and spurred in the bed of Napoleon; and the
capitulation of Paris was signed here July 3, 1815.

Louis XVIII. and Charles X. both lived much at St. Cloud, and added to
it considerably; but here, where Henry IV. had been recognized as King
of France and Navarre, Charles X. was forced by the will of the people
to abdicate, July 30, 1830. Two years after, Louis Philippe established
himself with his family at St. Cloud, and his daughter Clémentine was
married to Duke Augustus of Saxe-Coburg in its chapel, April 28, 1843.
Like his uncle, Napoleon III. was devoted to St. Cloud, where--"with a
light heart"--the declaration of war with Prussia was signed in the
library, July, 17, 1870, a ceremony followed by a banquet, during which
the "Marseillaise" was played. The doom of St. Cloud was then sealed.
On the 13th of the following October the besieged Parisians beheld the
volumes of flame rising behind the Bois de Boulogne, which told that
St. Cloud, recently occupied by the Prussians, and frequently bombarded
in consequence from Mont-Valérien, had been fired by French bombs.

The steamer for St. Cloud descends the Seine, passing under the Pont de
Solferino, Pont de la Concorde, Pont des Invalides, and Pont d'Alma.
Then the Champ de Mars is seen on the left, the Palais du Trocadéro on
the right. After the Pont du d'Iéna, Passy is passed on the right, and
the Ile des Cygnes on the left. Then comes the Pont de Grenelle, after
which Auteuil is passed on the right and Javel on the left. After
leaving the Pont-viaduc du Point-du-Jour, the Ile de Billancourt is
seen on the left. After the Pont de Billancourt, the steamer passes
between the Iles de Billancourt and Séguin to Bas Meudon.



The Papal Palace at Avignon

By Charles Dickens

[Footnote: From "Pictures From Italy."]

There lay before us, that same afternoon, the broken bridge of Avignon,
and all the city baking in the sun; yet with an underdone-piecrust,
battlemented wall, that never will be brown, tho it bake for centuries.

The grapes were hanging in clusters in the streets, and the brilliant
oleander was in full bloom everywhere. The streets are old and very
narrow, but tolerably clean, and shaded by awnings stretched from house
to house. Bright stuffs and handkerchiefs, curiosities, ancient frames
of carved wood, old chairs, ghostly tables, saints, virgins, angels,
and staring daubs of portraits, being exposed for sale beneath, it was
very quaint and lovely. All this was much set off, too, by the glimpses
one caught, through a rusty gate standing ajar, of quiet sleepy
court-yards, having stately old houses within, as silent as tombs. It
was all very like one of the descriptions in the Arabian Nights. The
three one-eyed Calenders might have knocked at any one of those doors
till the street rang again, and the porter who persisted in asking
questions--the man who had the delicious purchases put into his basket
in the morning--might have opened it quite naturally.

After breakfast next morning, we sallied forth to see the lions. Such a
delicious breeze was blowing in, from the north, as made the walk
delightful, tho the pavement-stones, and stones of the walls and
houses, were far too hot to have a hand laid on them comfortably.

We went, first of all, up a rocky height, to the cathedral, where Mass
was performing to an auditory very like that of Lyons, namely, several
old women, a baby, and a very self-possest dog, who had marked out for
himself a little course or platform for exercise, beginning at the
altar-rails and ending at the door, up and down which constitutional
walk he trotted, during the service, as methodically and calmly, as any
old gentleman out of doors. It is a bare old church, and the paintings
in the roof are sadly defaced by time and damp weather; but the sun was
shining in, splendidly, through the red curtains of the windows, and
glittering on the altar furniture; and it looked as bright and cheerful
as need be.

Hard by the cathedral stands the ancient Palace of the Popes, of which
one portion is now a common jail, and another a noisy barrack; while
gloomy suites of state apartments, shut up and deserted, mock their own
old state and glory, like the embalmed bodies of kings. But we neither
went there to see state rooms, nor soldiers' quarters, nor a common
jail, tho we dropt some money into a prisoners' box outside, while the
prisoners, themselves, looked through the iron bars, high, up, and
watched us eagerly. We went to see the ruins of the dreadful rooms in
which the Inquisition used to sit.

A little, old, swarthy woman, with a pair of flashing black eyes--proof
that the world hadn't conjured down the devil within her, tho it had
had between sixty and seventy years to do it in--came out of the
Barrack Cabaret, of which she was the keeper, with some large keys in
her hands, and marshaled us the way that we should go. How she told us,
on the way, that she was a Government Officer (concierge du palais
apostolique), and had been, for I don't know how many years; and how
she had shown these dungeons to princes; and how she was the best of
dungeon demonstrators; and how she had resided in the palace from an
infant--had been born there, if I recollect right--I needn't relate.

But such a fierce, little, rapid, sparkling, energetic she-devil I
never beheld. She was alight and flaming, all the time. Her action was
violent in the extreme. She never spoke, without stopping expressly for
the purpose. She stamped her feet, clutched us by the arms, flung
herself into attitudes, hammered against walls with her keys, for mere
emphasis: now whispered as if the Inquisition were there still; now
shrieked as if she were on the rack herself; and had a mysterious,
hag-like way with her forefinger, when approaching the remains of some
new horror--looking back and walking stealthily and making horrible
grimaces--that might alone have qualified her to walk up and down a
sick man's counterpane, to the exclusion of all other figures, through
a whole fever.

Passing through the courtyard, among groups of idle soldiers, we turned
off by a gate, which this She-Goblin unlocked for our admission, and
locked again behind us; and entered a narrow court, rendered narrower
by fallen stones and heaps of rubbish; part of it choking up the mouth
of a ruined subterranean passage, that once communicated (or is said to
have done so) with another castle on the opposite bank of the river.
Close to this courtyard is a dungeon--we stood within it, in another
minute--in the dismal tower of oubliettes, where Rienzi was imprisoned,
fastened by an iron chain to the very wall that stands there now, but
shut out from the sky which now looks down into it.

A few steps brought us to the Cachots, in which the prisoners of the
Inquisition were confined for forty-eight hours after their capture,
without food or drink, that their constancy might be shaken, even
before they were confronted with their gloomy judges. The day has not
got in there yet. They are still small cells, shut in by four
unyielding, close, hard walls; still profoundly dark; still massively
doored and fastened, as of old.

Goblin, looking back as I have described, went softly on, into a
vaulted chamber, now used as a store-room; once the Chapel of the Holy
Office. The place where the tribunal sat, was plain. The platform might
have been removed but yesterday. Conceive the parable of the Good
Samaritan having been painted on the wall of one of these Inquisition
chambers! But it was, and may be traced there yet.

High up in the wall, are niches where the faltering replies of the
accused were heard and noted down. Many of them had been brought out of
the very cell we had just looked into, so awfully; along the same stone
passage. We had trodden in their very footsteps.

I am gazing round me, with the horror that the place inspires, when
Goblin clutches me by the wrist, and lays, not her skinny finger, but
the handle of a key, upon her lip. She invites me, with a jerk, to
follow her. I do so. She leads me out into a room adjoining--a rugged
room, with a funnel-shaped, contracting roof, open at the top, to the
bright day, I ask her what it is. She folds her arms,, leers hideously,
and stares. I ask again. She glances round, to see that all the little
company are there; sits down upon a mound of stones; throws up her
arms, and yells out, like a fiend, "La Salle de la Question!"

The Chamber of Torture! And the roof was made of that shape to stifle
the victim's cries! Oh Goblin, Goblin, let us think of this awhile, in
silence. Peace, Goblin! Sit with your short arms crossed on your short
legs, upon that heap of stones, for only five minutes, and then flame
out again.... A cold air, with an earthy smell, falls upon the face of
Monsieur; for she has opened, while speaking, a trap-door in the wall.
Monsieur looks in. Downward to the bottom, upward to the top, of a
steep, dark lofty tower; very dismal, very dark, very cold. The
Executioner of the Inquisition, says Goblin, edging in her head to look
down also, flung those who were past all further torturing, down here.
"But look! does Monsieur see the black stains on the wall?" A glance,
over his shoulder, at Goblin's keen eye, shows Monsieur--and would
without the aid of the directing-key--where they are. "What are they?"

In October, 1791, when Revolution was at its height here, sixty
persons; men and women ("and priests," says Goblin, "priests"); were
murdered, and hurled, the dying and the dead, into this dreadful pit,
where a quantity of quicklime was tumbled down upon their bodies. Those
ghastly tokens of the massacre were soon no more; but while one stone
of the strong building in which the deed was done, remains upon
another, there they will lie in the memories of men, as plain to see as
the splashing of their blood upon the wall is now.... Goblin's finger
is lifted; and she steals out again, into the Chapel of the Holy
Office. She stops at a certain part of the flooring. Her great effect
is at hand. She waits for the rest. She darts at the brave courier, who
is explaining something; hits him a sounding rap on the hat with the
largest key; and bids him be silent. She assembles us all, round a
little trap-door in the floor, as round as grave.

"Voilà!" she darts down at the ring, and flings the door open with a
crash, in her goblin energy, tho it is no light weight. "Voilà les
oubliettes! Voilà les oubliettes! Subterranean! Frightful! Black!
Terrible! Deadly! Les oubliettes de l'Inquisition!"

My blood ran cold, as I looked from Goblin, down into the vaults, where
these forgotten creatures, with recollections of the world outside--of
wives, friends, children, brothers--starved to death, and made the
stones ring with their unavailing groans. But, the thrill I felt on
seeing the accurst wall below, decayed and broken through, and the sun
shining in through its gaping wounds, was like a sense of victory and

I felt exalted with the proud delight of living, in these degenerate
times, to see it. As if I were the hero of some high achievement! The
light in the doleful vaults was typical of the light that has streamed
in, on all persecution in God's name, but which is not yet at its noon!
It can not look more lovely to a blind man newly restored to sight,
than to a traveler who sees it, calmly and majestically, treading down
the darkness of that Infernal Well.

Goblin, having shown les oubliettes, felt that her great coup was
struck. She let the door fall with a crash, and stood upon it with her
arms a-kimbo, sniffing prodigiously.

When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, under the
outer gateway of the fortress, to buy a little history of the building.
Her cabaret, a dark low room, lighted by small windows, sunk in the
thick wall--in the softened light, and with its forge-like chimney; its
little counter by the door, with bottles, jars, and glasses on it; its
household implements are scraps of dress against the wall; and a sober
looking woman (she must have a congenial life of it, with Goblin)
knitting at the door--looked exactly like a picture by Ostade.

I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of dream, and yet
with the delightful sense of having awakened from it, of which the
light, down in the vaults, had given, me the assurance. The immense
thickness and giddy height of the walls, the enormous strength of the
massive towers, the great extent of the building, its gigantic
proportions, frowning aspect, and barbarous irregularity, awaken awe
and wonder.

The recollection of its opposite old uses; an impregnable fortress, a
luxurious palace, a horrible prison, a place of torture, the court of
the Inquisition; at one and the same time, a house of feasting,
fighting, religion, and blood, gives to every stone in its huge form a
fearful interest, and imparts new meaning to its incongruities. I could
think of little, however, then, or long afterward, but the sun in the

The palace coming down to be the lounging-place of noisy soldiers, and
being forced to echo their rough talk and common oaths, and to have
their garments fluttering from its dirty windows, was some reduction of
its state, and something to rejoice at; but the day in its cells, and
the sky for the roof of its chambers of cruelty--that was its
desolation and defeat! If I had seen it in a blaze from ditch to
rampart, I should have felt that not that light, nor all the light in
all the fire that burns, could waste it, like the sunbeams in its
secret council-chamber and its prisons.

The Building of the Great Palace

By Thomas Oakey

[Footnote: From "The Story of Avignon." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.]

It will now be convenient briefly to trace the growth of that
remarkable edifice, at once a castle and a cloister, a palace and a
prison, which constitutes the chief attraction of Avignon to-day, and
which, altho defaced by time and by modern restorers, remains in its
massive grandeur a fitting memorial of the great line of pontiffs who
have made that little city famous in the annals of Christendom.

We have seen that Pope John XXII., having allotted a piece of land to
his nephew, Arnaud de Via, for the erection of a new episcopal palace,
was content to modify and enlarge the old one for pontifical uses, and
that Benedict XII., with characteristic straightforwardness, purchased
the new fabric from Arnaud's heirs and, having handed it over to the
diocesan authorities, proceeded to transform the old building into a
stately and spacious apostolic palace for the head of Christendom.

He was moved to this purchase after mature reflection, for it was a
matter of urgent importance that the pontiff of the church of Rome
should possess a palace of his own at Avignon as long as it might be
necessary for him to remain there. The relation between Curia and
Episcopate being thus clearly defined, Benedict appointed a compatriot,
Pierre Poisson de Mirepoix, master of the works, and, since about
two-thirds of the existing palace dates from Benedict's reign, Pierre
Poisson may be regarded as its first architect.

More, probably, is known of the construction of the papal palace of
Avignon than of any other relic of medieval architecture. Thanks to the
researches of Father Ehrle, Prefect of the Vatican Library, and other
scholars, the sums paid to the contractors, their names, the estimates
of quantities, the wages of the chief workmen, and the price of
materials, are before us, and we can trace day by day and month by
month the progress of the great pile. The whole of the craftsmen, with
the exception of the later master painters from Italy and some northern
sculptors, were either Avignonais, Gascons or Provençals.

The first work undertaken by Pierre was the enlargement of the papal
chapel of John XXII. This was doubled in length, and the lavish
decorations executed by John's master painter, Friar Pierre Dupuy, were
continued on the walls of the added portion; payments for white, green,
indigo, vermilion, carmine and other pigments, and for colored tiles,
testify to the brilliancy of its interior.

Meanwhile work was proceeding on the massy new tower, the Turris Magna,
now known as the Tour des Anges, the best preserved of all the old
towers. The foundations were laid on April 3, 1335, and it was roofed
with lead on March 18, 1337. The basement formed the papal wine-cellar;
the ground floor was the treasury, or strong room, where the specie,
the jewels, the precious vessels of gold and silver and other valuables
were stored; many payments are recorded for locks and bars and bolts
for their safe-keeping within the ten-feet-thick walls of the tower.

The next great work put in hand was the east wing, which was raised on
a space left by John's demolished, or partially demolished, structure.
On November 20, 1337, two masons (lapiscidarios), Pierre Folcaud and
Jean Chapelier, and a carpenter, Jacques Beyran, all of Avignon,
contracted to carry out the plans of a new architect, Bernard Canello,
for the completion of Benedict's private apartments, and on the same
day Lambert Fabre and Martin Guinaud, housewreckers, were paid
eighty-three gold florins on account, for the demolition of the old
buildings. This wing, since wholly remodeled by the legates and the
modern corps of engineers, comprised the papal Garde Robe, the Garde
Meuble, the private kitchen and offices and, on the floor above, the
papal dining-room, study and private oratory. The walls were, of
course, embattlemented, and in 1337 the most exposed portions of the
new buildings were defended by a stout rampart....

The whole ground floor, 110 feet by 33, was occupied by a great
reception hall (Camera Paramenti), where distinguished visitors were
accorded a first welcome before being admitted to a private audience,
or accorded a solemn state reception in consistory, as the import of
their embassy demanded. The popes were also used to receive the
cardinals there, and two doorkeepers were appointed who must be
faithful, virtuous and honest men and sleep in the hall; their office
being one of great trust, was highly paid, and they were generally
laymen. It was probably in this hall that St. Catherine was received by
Clement VI. The Avignon conclaves were held there, for on December 31,
1352, four hundred and fifteen days' and nights' labor were employed in
breaking down the walls between the dining-hall and the Camera
Paramenti, clearing away the stones and making secret chambers for the
lord cardinals, in which chambers were twenty-eight cells....

On September 5, 1339, John's old belfry was pulled down and Jean Mauser
de Carnot, who asserted he had excavated 11,300 basketfuls of rubbish,
was paid at the rate of twelve deniers the hundred for the work.
Evidently these were good times for the basket makers as well as
builders. December 22, 1340, three contractors, Isnard and Raymond
Durand and Jacques Gasquet, received 1,273 florins for the completed
new tower, with its barbicans, battlements and machicoulis, which was
on the site and which retained the appellation of the Tour de la
Campane, or Bell Tower. The embattlemented and machicolated summit, but
not the chastelet, of this mighty tower has recently been restored; its
walls are nearly twelve feet thick....

Benedict's last undertaking was the erection of the Tour de Trouillas,
next the Tour des Latrines, and on April 20, 1341, sixteen rubbish
baskets were bought for the "Saracens that excavated the foundations of
the turris nova." The Tour de Trouillas, tallest and stoutest of the
keeps of the mighty fortress, is 175 feet high as compared with the 150
feet of the Tour de la Campane, and its walls fifteen feet thick as
compared with twelve feet. It should be noted, however, that the latter
tower appears the taller owing to the elevated ground whereon, it

Having bought, by private agreement or by arbitration, all the houses
adjacent to the palace on the south side, Clement next proceeded to
demolish them and on the site to raise the noblest and most beautiful
wing of the great palace. This edifice, known to contemporaries as the
great new palace, comprised a spacious Chapel and Hall of Justice; and
in August 9, 1344, contracts were made for cutting away and leveling
the rock above the present Rue Peyrolerie, whereon, by October 21,
1351, the masons had raised their beautiful building.

On that day, by order of our lord the pope, one hundred florins were
handed over by the papal chamber to Master John of Loubières to
distribute among the masters to celebrate the placing of the keystone
in the vaulting of the new chapel of the palace and the completion of
the said chapel. On All Saints' Day of that same year Clement recited
(a month before his death) the first solemn mass in his great new
chapel and preached a most eloquent sermon, praising God for the
completion of his life's work. The lower hall, most famous of judicial
chambers in Christendom and final Court of Appeal in all questions of
international and ecclesiastical law, was later in opening.

Among the amenities of the old palace were the spacious and lovely
gardens on the east, with their clipt hedges, avenues of trees,
flower-beds and covered and frescoed walls, all kept fresh and green by
channels of water. John maintained a menagerie of lions and other wild
and strange beasts; stately peacocks swept proudly along the green
swards, for the inventory of 1369 specifies seventeen peacocks, some
old and some young, whereof six were white.

     *    *    *    *    *

But we have as yet dealt chiefly with the external shell of this mass
of architecture which, tall and mighty, raises its once impregnable
walls and towers against the sky. The beauty of its interior remains
briefly to be touched upon, for the fortress palace had, as Clement
left it, some analogy with the great Moorish palace of the Alhambra in
that it stood outwardly grim and strong, while within it was a shrine
of exquisite and luxurious art.

The austere Benedict, who, his biographer tells us, left the walls of
the consistory naked, appears to have expended little on the pictorial
decorations of the halls and chambers erected during his pontificate;
but with the elevation of the luxurious and art-loving Clement VI., a
new spirit breathes over the fabric. The stern simplicity and noble
strength of his predecessor's work assume an internal vesture of
richness and beauty; the walls glow with azure and gold; a legion of
Gallic sculptors and Italian painters lavish their art on the
embellishment of the palace....

Such, in brief outline, was the progress of the mighty fabric and its
internal decoration which the great popes of Avignon raised to be their
dwelling-place, their fortress, and the ecclesiastical center of
Christendom. Tho shorn of all its pristine beauty and robbed of much of
its symmetry, it stands to-day in bulk and majesty, much as it stood at
the end of Clement VI.'s reign, when a contemporary writer describes it
as a quadrangular edifice, enclosed within high walls and towers and
constructed in most noble style, and tho it was all most beautiful to
look upon, there were three parts of transcendent beauty: the
Audientia, the Capella major, and the terraces: and these were so
admirably planned and contrived that peradventure no palace comparable
to it was to be found in the whole world. The terraces referred to were
those raised over the great chapel, and were formed of stone, bedded in
asphalt and laid on a staging of stout oak joists; the view from the
terraces was unparalleled for range and beauty.

The glowing splendor of frescoed walls was enhanced by gorgeous
hangings and tapestries and by the magnificent robes and jewels of
popes and cardinals. Crowds of goldsmiths--forty were employed at the
papal court--embroiderers and silk mercers, made Avignon famous
thoughout Europe. In 1337, 318 florins were paid for eight Paris
carpets; in 1343 Clement VI. paid 213 florins for green silk hangings,
and 254 florins for carpets adorned with roses; in 1348, 400 gold and
silver vessels turned the scales at 862 marks, 5 ounces; in the
inventory of 1369, despite the fact that the most precious had been
sent to Rome, the gold vessels were weighed out at 1,434 marks, 1
ounce; the silver at 5,525 marks 7 ounces.

A cardinal's hat cost from 15 to 40 florins, and in 1348, 150 florins
were paid for one piece of scarlet for the pope, and 75 to 100 florins
for the garniture of a riding cloak. Clement VI. spent 1,278 florins in
the purchase of cloth of gold, woven by the Saracens of Damascus; one
payment to Jacopo Malabayla of Arti for summer and winter clothing for
the papal household amounted to 6,510 florins, and the same obviously
Hebrew merchant received 10,652 florins in 1341 for cloth and ermine
and beaver; in 1347 Clement's furrier received 1,080 ermine skins,
whereof 430 were used in one cloak, 310 for a mantle, 150 for two
hoods, and 88 for nine birettas; in 1351, 2,258 florins went to Tuscany
for silk, and 385 for brocade to Venice.

The richness of the papal utensils beggars description; jeweled cups,
flagons of gold, knife handles of jasper and ivory, forks of
mother-of-pearl and gold. A goldsmith in 1382 was paid 14 florins for
repairing two of the last-named implements. The flabelli, or
processional feather fans, cost 14 florins; Benedict XIII., paid 300
florins for an enameled silver bit; the Golden Roses cost from 100 to
300 florins. Presents of jewels were costly and frequent. Gregory XI.
gave 168 pearls, value 179 francs, to the citizens of Avellino; Clement
VII. presented the Duke of Burgundy with a ring of gold, worth 335
florins; an aguière of gold and pearls, valued at 1,000 florins, and
two tables each over 200 florins. Richer gifts were lavished on
sovereign princes. Reliquaries were of prodigious value; the gold cross
containing a piece of the true cross at the Célestins weighed fifteen
pounds. In 1375 a silver arm for the image of St. Andrew cost over
2,566 florins.

The cardinals were equally munificent. The most striking example of
lavish splendor is afforded by the State banquet given to Clement V.,
by the Cardinals Arnaud de Palegrue and Pierre Taillefer in May, 1308.
Clement, as he descended from his litter, was received by his hosts and
twenty chaplains, who conducted him to a chamber hung with richest
tapestries from floor to ceiling; he trod on velvet carpet of triple
pile; his state-bed was draped with fine crimson velvet, lined with
white ermine; the sheets of silk were embroidered with silver and gold.

The table was served by four papal knights and twelve squires, who each
received silver girdles and purses filled with gold from the hosts.
Fifty cardinals' squires assisted them in serving the banquet, which
consisted of nine courses of three plates each--twenty-seven dishes in
all. The meats were built up in fantastic form: castles, gigantic
stags, boars, horses, etc. After the fourth service, the cardinal
offered his holiness a milk-white steed worth 400 florins; two gold
rings, jeweled with an enormous sapphire and a no less enormous topaz;
and a bowl, worth 100 florins; sixteen cardinal guests and twenty
prelates were given rings and jewels, and twelve young clerks of the
papal house and twenty-four sergeants-at-arms received purses filled
with florins.

After the fifth service, a great tower with a font whence gushed forth
five sorts of choicest wines was carried in; and a tourney was run
during the interval between the seventh and eighth courses. Then
followed a concert of sweetest music, and dessert was furnished by two
trees--one of silver, bearing rarest fruits of all kinds, and the other
loaded with sugared fruits of many colors. Various wines were then
served, whereupon the master cooks, with thirty assistants, executed
dances before the guests. Clement, by this time, having had enough,
retired to his chamber, where, lest he might faint for lack of
refreshment during the night, wine and spices were brought to him; the
entertainment ended with dances and distractions of many kinds.

There is no reason to believe that the Avignon popes, either in their
household expenditure or in their personal luxury, were more
extravagant than their Roman predecessors or successors. Yet amid all
this luxury, strange defects of comfort appear to the modern sense.
Windows, as we have seen, were generally covered with wax cloth or
linen, carpets were rare, and rushes were strewn on the floors of most
of the rooms. From May to November, 1349, more than 300 loads of rushes
were supplied for use in the dining-rooms and chambers of the apostolic
palace. Subsequently mats were introduced, and in 1352 Pierre de
Glotos, mat-maker to the palace of our lord and pope, was paid for 275
cannae of matting for the palace of Avignon and for the palace beyond
the Rhone and the new chapel.

The Walls of Avignon

By Thomas Oakey

[Footnote: From "The Story of Avignon." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.]

Intimately associated with the history of the palace of the Popes of
Avignon is that of the unparalleled circuit of walls and towers which
defended the city from the scourge of organized robber bands during the
fourteenth century. The earliest quadrilateral fortifications embraced
a relatively small area consisting of the Rocher des Doms and the
parishes of St. Agricol, St. Didier, and St. Pierre; these walls,
demolished and rebuilt on a more extensive scale in the twelfth
century, embraced an area easily traceable on the modern map, from the
Porte du Rhone, round the Rues du Limas, Joseph Vernet, des Lices,
Philonarde, Campane, Trois Colombes, to the Rocher.

It was these fortifications that the Cardinal St. Angelo forced the
citizens to raze in 1227. Until the acquisition of Avignon by Clement
VI., the city was an open one and only defended by a double fosse. The
origin of the papal walls has already been traced, and their subsequent
fate may now be briefly given. The assaults of the Rhone proved more
destructive than human artillery. The walls and towers having been
hastily raised, towers fell by reason of bad foundation, and the upkeep
of the fortifications was a continual drain on papal and communal

In 1362 an irresistible flood of waters overthrew the Fortes St. Michel
and Limbert, and large breaches were often made by these recurring
inundations. Moreover, the expansion of the city of old and the need of
access to the suburbs involved frequent displacement and opening of new
gates. In 1482 the whole system of the defensive works was modified to
meet the new situation caused by the introduction of gunpowder. The
gates most exposed to attack were further defended by outworks, that of
St. Lazare having been fortified during the rule of Giuliano della
Rovere by the addition of a powerful bastide, with three round towers,
a drawbridge, a new fosse which communicated with the great fosse
before the main walls. Other modifications took place during the
Huguenot wars.

Notwithstanding many repairs during the intervening centuries, the
fortifications had, under the second Empire, suffered sad degradation,
and at length Viollet-le-Duc was entrusted with their restoration. The
famous architect set to work on their southern side and had completed
about one-third of the restoration when the disastrous issue of the
Franco-Prussian war arrested all further progress until the Third
Republic feebly resumed the task. The walls along the Rhone, especially
useful in time of flood, were backed with stone, their battlements and
machicoulis renewed. The visitor, however, will need no reminder that
the present passive aspect of the ramparts conveys but a faint
impression of their former state, when a broad and deep fosse, seven
feet by twelve, washed their bases, above which they raised their once
impregnable curtains full thirty feet.

Two of the old gates have been demolished--the Porte de Limbert in
1896, and the Porte de l'Oulle in 1900--the former, many times
repaired, was the only existing example of the external aspect of a
medieval gate, the latter had been rebuilt in 1786 in the Doric style.
A new gate, the Porte Pétrarque, now the Porte de la République, was
erected by Viollet-le-Duc when the walls were pierced for the new
street; the Porte St. Dominique is also new. These noble mural
defenses, three miles in circuit, twice narrowly escaped demolition--at
the construction of the railway, when they were saved by a vigorous
protest of Prosper Mérimée, and in 1902, when, on the pretext that they
blocked the development of the city, the municipality decided to
demolish the unrestored portions. Luckily the intervention of a
public-spirited Prefect of Vaucluse proved successful, and they were
again rescued from the housewrecker's pick. No visitor to Avignon
should omit to walk or drive round the famous ramparts.

Their stones have been subjected to careful scrutiny by antiquarians
and the masons' marks (tacherons)--about 4,500--carefully examined and
reduced to about four hundred and fifty types. Opinions differ as to
the meaning of these curious signs, but there is little doubt that M.
Maire's suggestion is the correct one--the workmen were paid by the
piece, and each had his own private mark which he cut on the stones he
laid and thus enabled the foreman to check his work.

We begin at the Porte du Rhône, and skirt the older part of the walls
on the northwest with their different style of corbels and machicoulis.
M. Maire has no hesitation in assigning this portion to the time of
Clement VI., by reason of the coarser nature of the masons' marks.
Turning southwards, we pass the Porte St. Dominique, and reach the
Porte St. Roch (formerly the Porte du Chamfleury, and only opened at
plague times) and the Porte de la République. We soon note the
unrestored portions, the site of the old Porte Limbert, and turn
northward to the Porte St. Lazare.

Before we reach this gate we may fitly make a digression, and in pious
memory of a great Englishman, fare along the Avenue du Cimetière to the
grave of John Stuart Mill, who with his wife lies buried within the
cemetery under an elder-tree on the right and toward the end of Avenue
2. A plain stone slab bears the well-known inscription to Mrs. Mill's
memory--the noblest and most eloquent epitaph ever composed by man for
woman. It is pleasant to remember that Mill has left golden opinions of
his gentleness and generosity behind him at Avignon. His house, a
charming little hermitage approached by an avenue of plane trees not
far from the cemetery, was sold in 1905, and a few relics were bought
and still are cherished by the rare friends the somewhat self-centered
philosopher made in the city. The present owner has preserved the
library and study, where the "Essay on Liberty" was written, much as it
was in Mill's days.

To the peasants who met the tall, bent, spare figure, musing and
botanizing along the country lanes and fields, he was known as
"Monsieur Émile." Before he left the city on his periodical visits to
England, Mill was wont to leave 300 francs with M. Rey, pastor of the
Protestant Church in Avignon: two hundred for expenses of public
worship; one hundred for the poor, always charging M. Rey to write to
England if any further need arose.

Mill, a great Englishman of European fame, to the amazement of his
French friends, was followed to his last resting-place by no more than
five mourners. As we write news comes that the civic authorities have
decided to recall to posterity the association of the great thinker
with Avignon by giving the name of Stuart Mill to a new boulevard, and
that a bust has been unveiled to his memory near the pleasant city he
loved so well. Mill was much gratified that his pamphlet on "The
Subjection of Women" converted Mistral to the movement for their
enfranchisement, and their legal equality with men.

Villeneuve and the Broken Bridge

By Thomas Oakey

[Footnote: From "The Story of Avignon." Published by E.P. Dutton & Co.]

The royal city of Villeneuve, altho geographically and politically
sundered from Avignon and the County Venaissin, was socially and
economically bound up with the papal city. The same reason that to-day
impels the rich citizens of Avignon to dot the hills of Languedoc with
their summer villas was operative in papal times, and popes and
cardinals and prelates loved to build their summer places on the
opposite bank of the Rhone.

How silent and neglected are the streets of this once wealthy and
important city! How degraded its monuments, how faded its glory! In the
hot, dusty afternoon, as the cranky old omnibus rattles along the
narrow High Street, it appears to awaken echoes in a city of the dead.

Making our way northward, we pass the restored seventeenth-century
portal of the palace of the sainted Cardinal of Luxembourg; the
weather-worn, neglected, late Renaissance portal of the so-called Hôtel
de Conti; the ruined Gothic portal of the palace of Cardinal Pierre de
Thury, through which we pass to the old court-yard and a chapel
subsequently restored and now used as the chapel of the Grey Penitents.

We pass many another relic of departed grandeur, and beyond the Place
Neuve on our right come upon a great portal which opens on a vaulted
passage leading to one of the most bewildering and extraordinary
congeries of ruined monastic buildings in France, now inhabited by a
population of poor folk--two hundred families, it is said--who, since
the Revolution, have settled in the vast buildings of the once famous
and opulent Charterhouse of Villeneuve. Founded by Innocent VI., three
years after his elevation to the papal chair, and enriched by
subsequent endownments, the Charterhouse of the Val de Bénédiction, the
second in importance of the Order, grew in wealth and importance during
the centuries until it was sacked and sold in small lots during the
Revolution to the ancestors of the present occupants.

The circuit of its walls was a mile in extent; its artistic treasures
were prodigious. The Coronation of the Virgin came thence; the Pietá of
Villeneuve, now in the Louvre; the founder's tomb; the high altar of
Notre Dame at Villeneuve, and a few other relics, alone survive of its
vast possessions. The scene resembles nothing so much as a city ruined
by bombardment or earthquake, but how long the wreck will remain in its
present picturesque and melancholy condition is difficult to forecast.
The state is slowly buying out the owners, and doubtless ere many years
are passed the more valuable artistic remains will have been swept and
garnished and restored.

As we return from the Chartreuse we turn left along the Place Neuve,
and climb to the mighty fort of St. André, which occupies the most
venerable site in the royal new city, for on the hill where it stands
tradition relates that St. Cesarie, Bishop of Arles, was buried, and
that there, in the sixth century, the first Benedictines settled. The
primitive settlement, destroyed in the ninth century, was extensively
rebuilt in 980, and within its walls, churches were dedicated to St.
Andrew, St. Michael, and St. Martin. In the twelfth century the rich
and powerful monastery, a strongly fortified, self-sufficing community,
was held under the counts of Toulouse, and from their overlordship it
was subsequently admitted by the counts to be within the territory of
the republic of Avignon, whose consuls in 1210 compelled the abbot to
demolish his walls and promise never to rebuild them.

In 1292 Philip the Fair was permitted to settle a small community
there, to whom he accorded in 1293 valuable privileges and the same
protection he granted to his good city of Paris. Philip, to whom the
position was valuable as a frontier post, erected a castle there,
maintained a royal garrison, and the new settlement became known as the
New Town (Villeneuve). The walls and towers then raised were rebuilt in
1352 by John the Good, who exacted a toll, known as St. Andrew's penny,
for maintenance on all merchandise that passes through the Senechaussée
of Beaucaire.

Of these majestic ruins, restored in the sixteenth century and again in
recent times, the Tour des Masques at the west angle with its simple
battlements is the oldest portion, the massive machicolated towers that
frown over the main entrance having been raised by John the Good. The
ruined ravelin dates back to the seventeenth century. We enter and
stroll about the desolate interior, crowned by a tiny Romanesque chapel
of the twelfth century, that well deserves its name of Our Lady of the
Fair View (Notre Dame de Belvézét), with a graceful apse (restored).
From its summit, or from the tall old watch-tower of the monastery, a
marvelous view is obtained of the gaping ruins of the Charterhouse of
Avignon, the County Venaissin, the Cévennes, Mount Ventoux, and the
distant Alps.

In the later years of the monarchy a post of artillery was stationed in
the fort, and it was from the fire of a battery planted there that a
young captain of artillery, one Napoleon Bonaparte, in 1793, overawed
the city of Avignon, which was occupied by the Marseillais federalists
who had declared against the Convention; and it was with the cannon
seized at St. André that Bonaparte marched to Toulon and expelled the
English from its harbor.

The papal soldiery were ever objects of scorn to the royalists of
Villeneuve, who dubbed them "patachines" ("pestacchina," Ital. for
slipper), and taunted them with drilling under parasols--a pleasantry
repaid by the Italians who hurled the epithet "luzers" (lizards)
against the royalists, who were said to pass their time sunning
themselves against the hot rocks of Villeneuve.

Descending the stately stairway that leads to the foot of the Rocher
des Doms, and turning to the left, we soon reach the house of the
"gardien du pont," who will admit us to all that remains of the
miraculous pontifical structure of the twelfth century. The destructive
hand of man and the assaults of the Rhone have dealt hardly with St.
Benezet's work. Ruined during the siege of 1226, it was repaired in
1234-37, and in 1349 knit to the papal fortress at the Avignon end. In
1352, when Clement VI. rebuilt four of the arches, it is described as
of stone and wood; it was cut during the siege of Benedict XIII., and
repaired, or rebuilt, in 1418 and 1430; in 1602 three arches collapsed;
in 1633 two more fell, and in 1650 the gaps were bridged by wooden
struts and planks, which were carried away in 1670 by ice-floes.

Owing to the interminable dispute between the monarchy and the papacy
as to liability for its repair, each power claiming jurisdiction over
the Rhone, all attempts to preserve it from ruin were abandoned in
1680, when Louis XIV. refused either to allow the legates to take toll
for the necesary repairs, or to undertake them himself.

Little is known of the original bridge, which consisted of twenty-two
semi-circular arches (Viollet-le-Duc gives eighteen), much lower than
the present elliptic ones, which date back to the thirteenth century,
according to Labaude--or to the fifteenth century, acording to other
authorities--when the bridge, having proved too low-pitched, was raised
to its present level, and the flood arches over the piles were built.
The four subsisting arches were, with the bridge chapel, restored
during the last century. The old bridge formed an elbow upstream on the
Villeneuve branch of the Rhone.

The chapel of St. Nicholas, too, has suffered many vicissitudes. The
primitive Romanesque building was raised to the level of the new
footway by dividing the nave into two floors and building a flight of
steps, supported on a squinch arch, down to what then became the lower
chapel. Much battered during the sieges of the palace, it was restored
and reconsecrated in 1411 and a century later the Gothic upper apse was
added, whose external walls overtop the old nave. In consequence of
these modifications the lower chapel has a Gothic nave and a Romanesque
apse, whereas the upper chapel has a Gothic apse and a Romanesque nave.

The "Pont d'Avignon" is known to every French-speaking child, and with
many variants the old "ronde" is sung and danced from the remotest
plains of Canada to the valleys of the Swiss Alps. The good folk of
Avignon, however, protest that their "rondes" were not danced
perilously on the narrow Pont St. Benezet, but under its arches on the
green meadows of the Isle de la Barthelasse, and that "Sur" in lieu of
"Sous" is due to northern misunderstanding of their sweet Provençal


By Henry James

[Footnote: From "A Little Tour In France." By special arrangement with,
and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright,

I alighted at Orange to visit a collection of eminently civil
monuments. The collection consists of but two objects, but these
objects are so fine that I will let the word pass. One of them is a
triumphal arch, supposedly of the period of Marcus Aurelius; the other
is a fragment, magnificent in its ruin, of a Roman theater. But for
these fine Roman remains and for its name, Orange is a perfectly
featureless little town, without the Rhone--which, as I have mentioned,
is several miles distant--to help it to a physiognomy. It seems one of
the oddest things that this obscure French borough--obscure, I mean, in
our modern era, for the Gallo-Roman Arausio must have been, judging it
by its arches and theater, a place of some importance--should have
given its name to the heirs apparent of the throne of Holland, and been
borne by a king of England who had sovereign rights over it. During the
Middle Ages it formed part of an independent principality; but in 1531
it fell, by the marriage of one of its princesses, who had inherited
it, into the family of Nassau. I read in my indispensable Murray that
it was made over to France by the treaty of Utrecht.

The arch of triumph, which stands a little way out of the town, is
rather a pretty than an imposing vestige of the Romans. If it had
greater purity of style, one might say of it that it belonged to the
same family of monuments as the Maison Carée at Nîmes. It has three
passages--the middle much higher than the others--and a very elevated
attic. The vaults of the passages are richly sculptured, and the whole
monument is covered with friezes and military trophies. This sculpture
is rather mixed; much of it is broken and defaced, and the rest seemed
to me ugly, tho its workmanship is praised. The arch is at once well
preserved and much injured. Its general mass is there, and as Roman
monuments go it is remarkably perfect; but it has suffered, in patches,
from the extremity of restoration. It is not, on the whole, of
absorbing interest.

It has a charm, nevertheless, which comes partly from its soft, bright
yellow color, partly from a certain elegance of shape, of expression;
and on that well-washed Sunday morning, with its brilliant tone,
surrounded by its circle of thin poplars, with the green country lying
beyond it and a low blue horizon showing through its empty portals, it
made, very sufficiently, a picture that hangs itself to one of the
lateral hooks of the memory. I can take down the modest composition,
and place it before me as I write. I see the shallow, shining puddles
in the hard, fair French road; the pale blue sky, diluted by days of
rain; the disgarnished autumnal fields; the mild sparkle of the low
horizon; the solitary figure in sabots, with a bundle under its arm,
advancing along the "chaussée;" and in the middle I see the little
ochre-colored monument, which, in spite of its antiquity, looks bright
and gay, as everything must look in France of a fresh Sunday morning.

It is true that this was not exactly the appearance of the Roman
theater, which lies on the other side of the town; a fact that did not
prevent me from making my way to it in less than five minutes, through
a succession of little streets concerning which I have no observations
to record. None of the Roman remains in the south of France are more
impressive than this stupendous fragment. An enormous mound rises above
the place, which was formerly occupied--I quote from Murray--first by a
citadel of the Romans, then by a castle of the princes of Nassau, razed
by Louis XIV.

Facing this hill a mighty wall erects itself, thirty-six meters high,
and composed of massive blocks of dark brown stone, simply laid one on
the other; the whole naked, rugged surface of which suggests a natural
cliff (say of the Vaucluse order) rather than an effort of human, or
even of Roman labor. It is the biggest thing at Orange--it is bigger
than all Orange put together--and its permanent massiveness makes light
of the shrunken city. The face it presents to the town--the top of it
garnished with two rows of brackets, perforated with holes to receive
the staves of the "velarium"--bears the traces of more than one tier of
ornamental arches; tho how these flat arches were applied, or
incrusted, upon the wall, I do not profess to explain.

You pass through a diminutive postern--which seems in proportion about
as high as the entrance of a rabbit-hutch--into the lodge of the
custodian, who introduces you to the interior of the theater. Here the
mass of the hill affronts you, which the ingenious Romans treated
simply as the material of their auditorium. They inserted their stone
seats, in a semicircle, in the slope of the hill, and planted their
colossal wall opposite to it. This wall, from the inside, is, if
possible, even more imposing. It formed the back of the stage, the
permanent scene, and its enormous face was coated with marble. It
contains three doors, the middle one being the highest, and having
above it, far aloft, a deep niche, apparently intended for an imperial
statue. A few of the benches remain on the hillside, which, however, is
mainly a confusion of fragments. There is part of a corridor built into
the hill, high up, and on the crest are the remnants of the demolished

The whole place is a kind of wilderness of ruin; there are scarcely any
details; the great feature is the overtopping wall. This wall being the
back of the scene, the space left between it and the chord of the
semicircle (of the auditorium) which formed the proscenium is rather
less than one would have supposed. In other words, the stage was very
shallow, and appears to have been arranged for a number of performers
standing in a line, like a company of soldiers. There stands the silent
skeleton, however, as impressive by what it leaves you to guess and
wonder about as by what it tells you. It has not the sweetness, the
softness of melancholy, of the theater at Arles; but it is more
extraordinary, and one can imagine only tremendous tragedies being
enacted there--

  "Presenting Thebes' or Pelops' line."

At either end of the stage, coming forward, is an immense wing--immense
in height, I mean, as it reaches to the top of the scenic wall; the
other dimensions are not remarkable. The division to the right, as you
face the stage, is pointed out as the green-room; its portentous
altitude and the open arches at the top give it the air of a well. The
compartment on the left is exactly similar, save that it opens into the
traces of other chambers, said to be those of a hippodrome adjacent to
the theater. Various fragments are visible which refer themselves
plausibly to such an establishment; the greater axis of the hippodrome
would appear to have been on a line with the triumphal arch. This is
all I saw, and all there was to see, of Orange, which had a very
rustic, bucolic aspect, and where I was not even called upon to demand
breakfast at the hotel. The entrance of this resort might have been
that of a stable of the Roman days.


By Bayard Taylor

[Footnote: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

This district borders on the desert of the Crau, a vast plain of stones
reaching to the mouth of the Rhone and almost entirely uninhabited. We
caught occasional glimpses of its sealike waste between the summits of
the hills. At length, after threading a high ascent, we saw the valley
of the Durance suddenly below us. The sun, breaking through the clouds,
shone on the mountain-wall which stood on the opposite side, touching
with his glow the bare and rocky precipices that frowned far above the
stream. Descending to the valley, we followed its course toward the
Rhone with the ruins of feudal "bourgs" crowning the crags above us.

It was dusk when we reached the village of Senas tired with the day's
march. A landlord standing in his door, on the lookout for customers,
invited us to enter in a manner so polite and pressing we could not
choose but do so. This is a universal custom with the country
innkeepers. In a little village which we passed toward evening there
was a tavern with the sign "The Mother of Soldiers." A portly woman
whose face beamed with kindness and cheerfulness stood in the door and
invited us to stop there for the night. "No, mother," I answered; "we
must go much farther to-day." "Go, then," said she, "with good luck, my
children! A pleasant journey!"

On entering the inn at Senas two or three bronzed soldiers were sitting
by the table. My French vocabulary happening to give out in the middle
of a consultation about eggs and onion-soup, one of them came to my
assistance and addrest me in German. He was from Fulda, in
Hesse-Cassel, and had served fifteen years in Africa....

Leaving next morning at daybreak, we walked on before breakfast to
Orgon, a little village in a corner of the cliffs which border the
Durance, and crossed the muddy river by a suspension bridge a short
distance below, to Cavaillon, where the country-people were holding a
great market. From this place a road led across the meadow-land to
L'Isle, six miles distant. This little town is so named because it is
situated on an island formed by the crystal Sorgues, which flows from
the fountains of Vaucluse.

It is a very picturesque and pretty place. Great mill-wheels, turning
slowly and constantly, stand at intervals in the stream, whose grassy
banks are now as green as in springtime. We walked along the
Sorgues--which is quite as beautiful and worthy to be sung as the
Clitumnus--to the end of the village to take the road to Vaucluse.
Beside its banks stands the "Hôtel de Petrarque et Laure." Alas that
names of the most romantic and impassioned lovers of all history should
be desecrated to a sign-post to allure gormandizing tourists!

The bare mountain in whose heart lies the poet's solitude now rose
before us at the foot of the lofty Mount Ventoux, whose summit of snows
extended beyond. We left the river and walked over a barren plain
across which the wind blew most drearily. The sky was rainy and dark,
and completed the desolateness of the scene, which in nowise heightened
our anticipations of the renowned glen. At length we rejoined the
Sorgues and entered a little green valley running up into the mountain.
The narrowness of the entrance entirely shut out the wind, and, except
the rolling of the waters over their pebbly bed, all was still and
lonely and beautiful. The sides of the dell were covered with olive
trees, and a narrow strip of emerald meadow lay at the bottom.

It grew more hidden and sequestered as we approached the little village
of Vaucluse. Here the mountain towers far above, and precipices of gray
rock many hundred feet high hang over the narrowing glen. On a crag
over the village are the remains of a castle; the slope below this, now
rugged and stony, was once graced by the cottage and garden of
Petrarch. All traces of them have long since vanished, but a simple
column bearing the inscription. "A Petrarque" stands beside the Sorgues.

We ascended into the defile by a path among the rocks, overshadowed by
olives and wild fig-trees, to the celebrated fountains of Vaucluse. The
glen seems as if stuck into the mountain's depths by one blow of the
enchanter's wand, and just at the end, where the rod might have rested
in its downward sweep, is the fathomless well whose over-brimming
fulness gives birth to the Sorgues. We climbed up over the mossy rocks
and sat down in the grotto beside the dark, still pool. It was the most
absolute solitude.

The rocks towered above and over us to the height of six hundred feet,
and the gray walls of the wild glen below shut out all appearance of
life. I leaned over the rock and drank of the blue crystal that grew
gradually darker toward the center till it became a mirror and gave
back a perfect reflection of the crags above it. There was no bubbling,
no gushing up from its deep bosom, but the wealth of sparkling waters
continually welled over as from a too-full goblet.

It was with actual sorrow that I turned away from the silent spot. I
never visited a place to which the fancy clung more suddenly and
fondly. There is something holy in its solitude, making one envy
Petrarch the years of calm and unsullied enjoyment which blest him
there. As some persons whom we pass as strangers strike a hidden chord
in our spirits, compelling a silent sympathy with them, so some
landscapes have a character of beauty which harmonizes thrillingly with
the mood in which we look upon them, till we forget admiration in the
glow of spontaneous attachment. They seem like abodes of the beautiful
which the soul in its wanderings long ago visited and now recognizes
and loves as the home of a forgotten dream. It was thus I felt by the
fountains of Vaucluse; sadly and with weary steps I turned away,
leaving its loneliness unbroken as before.

We returned over the plain in the wind, under the gloomy sky, passed
L'Isle at dusk, and after walking an hour with a rain following close
behind us stopt at an auberge in Le Thor, where we rested our tired
frames and broke our long day's fasting. We were greeted in the morning
with a dismal rain and wet roads as we began the march. After a time,
however, it poured down in such torrents that we were obliged to take
shelter in a remise by the roadside, where a good woman who addrest us
in the unintelligible Provençal kindled up a blazing fire. On climbing
a long hill when the storm had abated, we experienced a delightful
surprise. Below us lay the broad valley of the Rhone, with its meadows
looking fresh and spring-like after the rain. The clouds were breaking
away; clear blue sky was visible over Avignon, and a belt of sunlight
lay warmly along the mountains of Languedoc. Many villages with their
tall picturesque towers dotted the landscape, and the groves of green
olive enlivened the barrenness of winter.

The Pont du Gard--Aigues-Mortes-Nîmes

By Henry James

[Footnote: From "A Little Tour in France." By special arrangement with,
and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright,

It was a pleasure to feel one's self in Provence again--the land where
the silver-gray earth is impregnated with the light of the sky. To
celebrate the event, as soon as I arrived at Nîmes I engaged a calèche
to convey me to the Pont du Gard. The day was yet young, and it was
perfectly fair; it appeared well, for a longish drive, to take
advantage, without delay, of such security. After I had left the town I
became more intimate with that Provençal charm which I had already
enjoyed from the window of the train, and which glowed in the sweet
sunshine and the white rocks, and lurked in the smoke-puffs of the
little olives.

The olive-trees in Provence are half the landscape. They are neither so
tall, so stout, nor so richly contorted as I have seen them beyond the
Alps; but this mild colorless bloom seems the very texture of the
country. The road from Nîmes, for a distance of fifteen miles, is
superb; broad enough for an army, and as white and firm as a
dinner-table. It stretches away over undulations which suggest a kind
of harmony; and in the curves it makes through the wide, free country,
where there is never a hedge or a wall, and the detail is always
exquisite, there is something majestic, almost processional. You are
very near (the Pont du Gard) before you see it; the ravine it spans
suddenly opens and exhibits the picture. The scene at this point grows
extremely beautiful. The ravine is the valley of the Garden, which the
road from Nîmes has followed some time without taking account of it,
but which, exactly at the right distance from the aqueduct, deepens and
expands, and puts on those characteristics which are best suited to
give it effect. The gorge becomes romantic, still, and solitary, and,
with its white rocks and wild shrubbery, hangs over the clear, colored
river, in whose slow course there is here and there a deeper pool. Over
the valley, from side to side, and ever so high in the air, stretch the
three tiers of the tremendous bridge. They are unspeakably imposing,
and nothing could well be more Roman.

The hugeness, the solidity, the unexpectedness, the monumental
rectitude of the whole thing leave you nothing to say--at the time--and
make you stand gazing. You simply feel that it is noble and perfect,
that it has the quality of greatness. A road, branching from the
highway, descends to the level of the river and passes under one of the
arches. This road has a wide margin of grass and loose stones, which
slopes upward into the bank of the ravine. You may sit here as long as
you please, staring up at the light, strong piers; the spot is
extremely natural, tho two or three stone benches have been erected on

I remained there an hour and got a complete impression; the place was
perfectly soundless, and for the time, at least, lonely; the splendid
afternoon had begun to fade, and there was a fascination in the object
I had come to see. It came to pass that at the same time I discovered
in it a certain stupidity, a vague brutality. That element is rarely
absent from great Roman work, which is wanting in the nice adaption of
the means to the end. The means are always exaggerated; the end is so
much more than attained. The Roman rigidity was apt to overshoot the
mark, and I suppose a race which could do nothing small is as defective
as a race that can do nothing great. Of this Roman rigidity the Pont du
Gard is an admirable example.

It would be a great injustice, however, not to insist upon its
beauty--a kind of manly beauty, that of an object constructed not to
please but to serve, and impressive simply from the scale on which it
carries out this intention. The number of arches in each tier is
different; they are smaller and more numerous as they ascend. The
preservation of the thing is extraordinary; nothing has crumbled or
collapsed; every feature remains; and the huge blocks of stone, of a
brownish-yellow (as if they had been baked by the Provençal sun for
eighteen centuries), pile themselves, without mortar or cement, as
evenly as the day they were laid together.

All this to carry the water of a couple of springs to a little
provincial city! The conduit on the top has retained its shape and
traces of the cement with which it was lined. When the vague twilight
began to gather, the lonely valley seemed to fill itself with the
shadow of the Roman name, as if the mighty empire were still as erect
as the support of the aqueduct; and it was open to a solitary tourist,
sitting there sentimental, to believe that no people has ever been, or
will ever be, as great as that, measured, as we measure the greatness
of an individual, by the push they gave to what they undertook. The
Pont du Gard is one of the three or four deepest impressions they have
left; it speaks of them in a manner with which they might have been

On my way back to the little inn where I had left my vehicle, I passed
the Pont du Gard, and took another look at it. Its great arches made
windows for the evening sky, and the rocky ravine, with its dusky
cedars and shining river, was lonelier than before. At the inn I
swallowed, or tried to swallow, a glass of horrible wine with my
coachman; after which, with my team, I drove back to Nîmes in the
moonlight. It only added a more solitary whiteness to the constant
sheen of the Provençal landscape.

       *    *    *    *    *

The weather the next day was equally fair, so that it seemed an
imprudence not to make sure of Aigues-Mortes. Nîmes itself could wait;
at a pinch, I could attend to Nîmes in the rain. It was my belief that
Aigues-Mortes was a little gem, and it is natural to desire that gems
should have an opportunity to sparkle. This is an excursion of but a
few hours, and there is a little friendly, familiar, dawdling train
that will convey you, in time for a noonday breakfast, to the small
dead town where the blest Saint Louis twice embarked for the crusades.
You may get back to Nîmes for dinner; the run is of about an hour.

I found the little journey charming, and looked out of the carriage
window, on my right, at the distant Cévennes, covered with tones of
amber and blue, and, all around, at vineyards red with the touch of
October. The grapes were gone, but the plants had a color of their own.
Within a certain distance of Aigues-Mortes they give place to wide
salt-marshes, traversed by two canals; and over this expanse the train
rumbles slowly upon a narrow causeway, failing for some time, tho you
know you are near the object of your curiosity, to bring you to sight
of anything but the horizon. Suddenly it appears, the towered and
embattled mass, lying so low that the crest of its defences seems to
rise straight out of the ground; and it is not till the train stops,
close before them that you are able to take the full measure of its

Aigues-Mortes stands on the edge of a wide étang, or shallow inlet of
the sea, the further side of which is divided by a narrow band of coast
from the Gulf of Lyons. Next after Carcassonne, to which it forms an
admirable pendant, it is the most perfect thing of the kind in France.
It has a rival in the person of Avignon, but the ramparts of Avignon
are much less effective. Like Carcassonne, it is completely surrounded
with its old fortifications; and if they are far simpler in character
(there is but one circle), they are quite as well preserved. The moat
has been filled up, and the site of the town might be figured by a
billiard-table without pockets. On this absolute level, covered with
coarse grass, Aigues-Mortes presents quite the appearance of the walled
town that a school-boy draws upon his slate, or that we see in the
background of early Flemish pictures--a simple parallelogram, of a
contour almost absurdly bare, broken at intervals by angular towers and
square holes.

Such, literally speaking, is this delightful little city, which needs
to be seen to tell its full story. It is extraordinarily pictorial, and
if it is a very small sister of Carcassonne, it has at least the
essential features of the family. Indeed, it is even more like an image
and less like a reality than Carcassonne; for by position and prospect
it seems even more detached from the life of the present day. It is
true that Aigues-Mortes does a little business; it sees certain bags of
salt piled into barges which stand in a canal beside it, and which
carry their cargo into actual places. But nothing could well be more
drowsy and desultory than this industry as I saw it practised, with the
aid of two or three brown peasants and under the eye of a solitary
douanier who strolled on the little quay beneath the western wall.
"C'est bien plaisant, c'est bien paisible," said this worthy man, with
whom I had some conversation; and pleasant and peaceful is the place
indeed, tho the former of these epithets may suggest an element of
gayety in which Aigues-Mortes is deficient.

The sand, the salt, the dull sea-view, surround it with a bright, quiet
melancholy. There are fifteen towers and nine gates, five of which are
on the southern side, overlooking the water. I walked all round the
place three times (it doesn't take long), but lingered most under the
southern wall, where the afternoon light slept in the dreamiest,
sweetest way. I sat down on an old stone, and looked away to the
desolate salt-marshes and still, shining surface of the étang; and, as
I did so, reflected that this was a queer little out-of-the-world
corner to have been chosen, in the great dominions of either monarch,
for that pompous interview which took place, in 1538, between Francis
I. and Charles V. It was also not easy to perceive how Louis IX., when
in 1248 and 1270 he started for the Holy Land, set his army afloat in
such very undeveloped channels.

An hour later I purchased in the town a little pamphlet by M. Marius
Topin, who undertakes to explain this latter anomaly, and to show that
there is water enough in the port, as we may call it by courtesy, to
have sustained a fleet of crusaders. I was unable to trace the channel
that he points out, but was glad to believe that, as he contends, the
sea has not retreated from the town since the thirteenth century. It
was comfortable to think that things are not so changed as that. M.
Topin indicates that the other French ports of the Mediterranean were
not then "disponibles," and that Aigues-Mortes was the most eligible
spot for an embarkation.

Behind the straight walls and the quiet gates the little town has not
crumbled, like the Cité of Carcassonne. It can hardly be said to be
alive; but if it is dead it has been very neatly embalmed. The hand of
the restorer rests on it constantly; but this artist has not, as at
Carcassonne, had miracles to accomplish. The interior is very still and
empty, with small stony, whitewashed streets, tenanted by a stray dog,
a stray cat, a stray old woman. In the middle is a little place, with
two or three cafés decorated by wide awnings--a little place of which
the principal feature is a very bad bronze statue of Saint Louis by
Pradier. It is almost as bad as the breakfast I had at the inn that
bears the name of that pious monarch.

You may walk round the enceinte of Aigues-Mortes, both outside and in;
but you may not, as at Carcassonne, make a portion of this circuit on
the chemin de ronde, the little projecting footway attached to the
inner face of the battlements. This footway, wide enough only for a
single pedestrian, is in the best order, and near each of the gates a
flight of steps leads up to it; but a locked gate, at the top of the
steps, makes access impossible, or at least unlawful. Aigues-Mortes,
however, has its citadel, an immense tower, larger than any of the
others, a little detached, and standing at the northwest angle of the
town. I called upon the casernier--the custodian of the walls--and in
his absence I was conducted through this big Tour de Constance by his
wife, a very mild, meek woman, yellow with the traces of fever and
ague--a scourge which, as might be expected in a town whose name
denotes "dead waters," enters freely at the nine gates.

The Tour de Constance is of extraordinary girth and solidity, divided
into three superposed circular chambers, with very fine vaults, which
are lighted by embrasures of prodigious depth, converging to windows
little larger than loop-holes. The place served for years as a prison
to many of the Protestants of the south whom the revocation of the
Edict of Nantes had exposed to atrocious penalties, and the annals of
these dreadful chambers during the first half of the last century were
written in tears and blood. Some of the record cases of long
confinement there make one marvel afresh at what man has inflicted and
endured. In a country in which a policy of extermination was to be put
into practise this horrible tower was an obvious resource. From the
battlements at the top, which is surmounted by an old disused
lighthouse, you see the little compact rectangular town, which looks
hardly bigger than a garden-patch, mapped out beneath you, and follow
the plain configuration of its defenses. You take possession of it, and
you feel that you will remember it always.

     *    *    *    *    *

In general Nîmes is poor; its only treasures are its Roman remains,
which are of the first order. The new French fashions prevail in many
of its streets; the old houses are paltry, and the good houses are new;
while beside my hotel rose a big spick-and-span church, which had the
oddest air of having been intended for Brooklyn or Cleveland....

What nobler ornament can there be than the Roman baths at the foot of
Mont Cavalier, and the delightful old garden that surrounds them? All
that quarter of Nîmes has every reason to be proud of itself; it has
been revealed to the world at large by copious photography. A clear,
abundant stream gushes from the foot of a high hill (covered with trees
and laid out in paths), and is distributed into basins which
sufficiently refer themselves to the period that gave them birth--the
period that has left its stamp on that pompous Peyrou which we admired
at Montpellier. Here are the same terraces and steps and balustrades,
and a system of water-works less impressive, perhaps, but very
ingenious and charming.

The whole place is a mixture of old Rome and of the French eighteenth
century; for the remains of the antique baths are in a measure
incorporated in the modern fountains. In a corner of this umbrageous
precinct stands a small Roman ruin, which is known as a temple of
Diana, but was more apparently a nymphaeum, and appears to have had a
graceful connection with the adjacent baths. I learn from Murray that
this little temple, of the period of Augustus, "was reduced to its
present state of ruin in 1577;" the moment at which the towns-people,
threatened with a siege by the troops of the crown, partly demolished
it, lest it should serve as a cover to the enemy. The remains are very
fragmentary, but they serve to show that the place was lovely. I spent
half an hour in it on a perfect Sunday morning (it is enclosed by a
high grille, carefully tended, and has a warden of its own), and with
the help of my imagination tried to reconstruct a little the aspect of
things in the Gallo-Roman days.

I do wrong, perhaps, to say that I tried; from a flight so deliberate I
should have shrunk. But there was a certain contagion of antiquity in
the air; and among the ruins of baths and temples, in the very spot
where the aqueduct that crosses the Garden in the wondrous manner I had
seen discharged itself, the picture of a splendid paganism seemed
vaguely to glow. Roman baths--Roman baths; those words alone were a

Everything was changed; I was strolling in a jardin français; the bosky
slope of the Mont Cavalier (a very modest mountain), hanging over the
place, is crowded with a shapeless tower, which is as likely to be of
medieval as of antique origin; and yet, as I leaned on the parapet of
one of the fountains, where a flight of curved steps (a hemicycle, as
the French say) descended into a basin full of dark, cool recesses,
where the slabs of the Roman foundations gleam through the clear green
water--as in this attitude I surrendered myself to contemplation and
reverie, it seemed to me that I touched for a moment the ancient world.
Such moments are illuminating, and the light of this one mingles, in my
memory, with the dusky greenness of the Jardin de la Fontaine.

The fountain proper--the source of all these distributed waters--is the
prettiest thing in the world, a reduced copy of Vaucluse. It gushes up
at the foot of the Mont Cavalier, at a point where that eminence rises
with a certain cliff-like effect, and, like other springs in the same
circumstances, appears to issue from the rock with a sort of quivering
stillness. I trudge up the Mont Cavalier,--it is a matter of five
minutes,--and having committed this cockneyism enhanced it presently by
another. I ascended the stupid Tour Magne, the mysterious structure I
mentioned a moment ago. The only feature of this dateless tube, except
the inevitable collection of photographs to which you are introduced by
the doorkeeper, is the view you enjoy from its summit. This view is, of
course, remarkably fine but I am ashamed to say I have not the smallest
recollection of it; for while I looked into the brilliant spaces of the
air I seemed still to see only what I saw in the depths of the Roman
baths--the image, disastrously confused and vague, of a vanished world.
This world, however, has left at Nîmes a far more considerable memento
than a few old stones covered with water-moss.

The Roman arena is the rival of those of Verona and of Arles; at a
respectful distance it emulates the Colosseum. It is a small Colosseum,
if I may be allowed the expression, and is in a much better
preservation than the great circus at Rome. This is especially true of
the external walls, with their arches, pillars, cornices. I must add
that one should not speak of preservation, in regard to the arena at
Nîmes, without speaking also of repair. After the great ruin ceased to
be despoiled, it began to be protected, and most of its wounds have
been drest with new material. These matters concern the archeologist;
and I felt here, as I felt afterward at Arles, that one of the profane,
in the presence of such a monument, can only admire and hold his
tongue. The great impression, on the whole, is an impression of wonder
that so much should have survived. What remains at Nîmes, after all
dilapidation is estimated, is astounding.

I spent an hour in the Arènes on that same sweet Sunday morning, as I
came back from the Roman baths, and saw that the corridors, the vaults,
the staircases, the external casing, are still virtually there. Many of
these parts are wanting in the Colosseum, whose sublimity of size,
however, can afford to dispense with detail. The seats at Nîmes, like
those at Verona, have been largely renewed; not that this mattered
much, as I lounged on the cool surface of one of them, and admired the
mighty concavity of the place and the elliptical sky-line, broken by
uneven blocks and forming the rim of the monstrous cup--a cup that had
been filled with horrors, and yet I made my reflections; I said to
myself that tho a Roman arena is one of the most impressive of the
works of man, it has a touch of that same stupidity which I ventured to
discover in the Pont du Gard. It is brutal; it is monotonous; it is not
at all exquisite.

The Arènes at Nîmes were arranged for a bull-fight--a form of
recreation that, as I was informed, is much dans les habitudes Nîmoises
and very common throughout Provence, where (still according to my
information) it is the usual pastime of a Sunday afternoon. At Arles
and Nîmes it has a characteristic setting, but in the villages the
patrons of the game make a circle of carts and barrels, on which the
spectators perch themselves. I was surprised at the prevalence, in mild
Provence, of the Iberian vice, and hardly know whether it makes the
custom more respectable that at Nîmes and Arles the thing is shabbily
and imperfectly done. The bulls are rarely killed, and indeed often are
bulls only in the Irish sense of the term--being domestic and motherly
cows. Such an entertainment of course does not supply to the arena that
element of the exquisite which I spoke of as wanting.

The exquisite at Nîmes is mainly represented by the famous Maison
Carrée. The first impression you receive from this delicate little
building, as you stand before it, is that you have already seen it many
times. Photographs, engravings, models, medals, have placed it
definitely in your eye, so that from the sentiment with which you
regard it curiosity and surprise are almost completely, and perhaps
deplorably absent. Admiration remains however--admiration of a familiar
and even slightly patronizing kind. The Maison Carrée does not
overwhelm you; you can conceive it. It is not one of the great
sensations of antique art; but it is perfectly felicitous, and, in
spite of having been put to all sorts of incongruous uses, marvelously
preserved. Its slender columns, its delicate proportions, its charming
compactness, seemed to bring one nearer to the century that built it
than the great superpositions of arenas and bridges, and give it the
interest that vibrates from one age to another when the note of taste
is struck.

If anything were needed to make this little toy-temple a happy
production, the service would be rendered by the second-rate boulevard
that conducts to it, adorned with inferior cafés and tobacco-shops.
Here, in a respectable recess, surrounded by vulgar habitations, and
with the theater, of a classic pretension, opposite, stands the small
"square house," so called because it is much longer than it is broad. I
saw it first in the evening, in the vague moonlight, which made it look
as if it were cast in bronze. Stendhal says, justly, that it has the
shape of a playing-card, and he expresses his admiration for it by the
singular wish that an "exact copy" of it should be erected in Paris. He
even goes as far as to say that in the year 1880 this tribute will have
been rendered to its charms; nothing would be more simple, to his mind,
than to "have" in that city "le Panthéon de Rome, quelques temples de
Grèce." Stendhal found it amusing to write in the character of a
commis-voyageur, and sometimes it occurs to his reader that he really
was one.

Arles and Les Baux

By Henry James

[Footnote: From "A Little Tour in France." By special arrangement with,
and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright,

There are two shabby old inns at Arles, which compete closely for your
custom. I mean by this that if you elect to go to the Hôtel du Forum,
the Hôtel du Nord, which is placed exactly beside it (at a right
angle), watches your arrival with ill-concealed disapproval; and if you
take the chances of its neighbor, the Hôtel du Forum seems to glare at
you invidiously from all its windows and doors. I forget which of these
establishments I selected; whichever it was, I wished very much that it
had been the other.

The two stand together on the Place des Hommes, a little public square
of Arles, which somehow quite misses its effect. As a city, indeed,
Arles quite misses its effect in every way; and if it is a charming
place, as I think it is, I can hardly tell the reason why. The
straight-nosed Arlésiennes account for it in some degree; and the
remainder may be charged to the ruins of the arena and the theater.
Beyond this, I remember with affection the ill-proportioned little
Place des Hommes; not at all monumental, and given over to puddles and
to shabby cafés. I recall with tenderness the tortuous and featureless
streets, which looked like the streets of a village, and were paved
with villainous little sharp stones, making all exercise penitential.

Consecrated by association is even a tiresome walk that I took the
evening I arrived, with the purpose of obtaining a view of the Rhone. I
had been to Arles before, years ago, and it seemed to me that I
remembered finding on the banks of the stream some sort of picture. I
think that on the evening of which I speak there was a watery moon,
which it seemed to me would light up the past as well as the present.
But I found no picture, and I scarcely found the Rhone at all. I lost
my way, and there was not a creature in the streets to whom I could
appeal. Nothing could be more provincial than the situation of Arles at
ten o'clock at night. At last I arrived at a kind of embankment, where
I could see the great mud-colored stream slipping along in the
soundless darkness. It had come on to rain, I know not what had
happened to the moon, and the whole place was anything but gay. It was
not what I had looked for; what I had looked for was in the
irrecoverable past. I groped my way back to the inn over the infernal
cailloux, feeling like a discomfited Dogberry.

I remember now that this hotel was the one (whichever that may be)
which has the fragment of a Gallo-Roman portico inserted into one of
its angles. I had chosen it for the sake of this exceptional ornament.
It was damp and dark, and the floors felt gritty to the feet; it was an
establishment at which the dreadful "gras-double" might have appeared
at the table d'hôte, as it had done at Narbonne. Nevertheless, I was
glad to get back to it; and nevertheless, too--and this is the moral of
my simple anecdote--my pointless little walk (I don't speak of the
pavement) suffuses itself, as I look back upon it, with a romantic
tone. And in relation to the inn, I suppose I had better mention that I
am well aware of the inconsistency of a person who dislikes the modern
caravansary, and yet grumbles when he finds a hotel of the
superannuated sort, one ought to choose, it would seem, and make the
best of either alternative. The two old taverns at Arles are quite
unimproved; such as they must have been in the infancy of the modern
world, when Stendhal passed that way, and the lumbering diligence
deposited him in the Place des Hommes, such in every detail they are
to-day. Vieilles auberges de France, one ought to enjoy their gritty
floors and greasy windowpanes. Let it be put on record, therefore, that
I have been, I won't say less comfortable, but at least less happy, at
better inns.

To be really historic, I should have mentioned that before going to
look for the Rhone I had spent part of the evening on the opposite side
of the little place, and that I indulged in this recreation for two
definite reasons. One of these was that I had an opportunity of
conversing at a café with an attractive young Englishman, whom I had
met in the afternoon at Tarascon, and more remotely, in other years, in
London; the other was that there sat enthroned behind the counter a
splendid mature Arlésienne, whom my companion and I agreed that it was
a rare privilege to comtemplate.

There is no rule of good manners or morals which makes it improper, at
a café to fix one's eyes upon the dame de comptoir; the lady is, in the
nature of things, a part of your "consommation." We were therefore free
to admire without restriction the handsomest person I had ever seen
give change for a five-franc piece. She was a large quiet woman, who
would never see forty again; of an intensely feminine type, yet
wonderfully rich and robust, and full of a certain physical nobleness.
Tho she was not really old, she was antique, and she was very grave,
even a little sad. She had the dignity of a Roman empress, and she
handled coppers as if they had been stamped with the head of Caesar.

I have seen washerwomen in the Trastevere who were perhaps as handsome
as she; but even the head-dress of the Roman contadina contributes less
to the dignity of the person born to wear it than the sweet and stately
Arlesian cap, which sits at once aloft and on the back of the head;
which is accompanied with a wide black bow covering a considerable part
of the crown; and which, finally, accomodates itself indescribably well
to the manner in which the tresses of the front are pushed behind the

This admirable dispenser of lumps of sugar has distracted me a little;
for I am still not sufficiently historical. Before going to the café I
had dined, and before dining I had found time to go and look at the
arena. Then it was that I discovered that Arles has no general
physiognomy, and, except the delightful little church of Saint
Trophimus, no architecture, and that the rugosities of its dirty lanes
affect the feet like knife-blades. It was not then, on the other hand,
that I saw the arena best. The second day of my stay at Arles I devoted
to a pilgrimage to the strange old hill town of Les Baux, the medieval
Pompeii, of which I shall give myself the pleasure of speaking.

The evening of that day, however (my friend and I returned in time for
a late dinner), I wandered among the Roman remains of the place by the
light of a magnificent moon, and gathered an impression which has lost
little of its silvery glow. The moon of the evening before had been
aqueous and erratic; but if on the present occasion it was guilty of
any irregularity, the worst it did was only to linger beyond its time
in the heavens, in order to let us look at things comfortably. The
effect was admirable; it brought back the impression of the way, in
Rome itself, on evenings like that, the moonshine rests upon broken
shafts and slabs of antique pavement. As we sat in the theater, looking
at the two lone columns that survive--part of the decoration of the
back of the stage--and at the fragments of ruin around them, we might
have been in the Roman forum.

The arena at Arles, with its great magnitude, is less complete than
that at Nîmes; it has suffered even more the assaults of time and of
the children of time, and it has been less repaired. The seats are
almost wholly wanting; but the external walls, minus the topmost tier
of arches, are massively, ruggedly complete; and the vaulted corridors
seem as solid as the day they were built. The whole thing is superbly
vast, and as monumental, for a place of light amusement--what is called
in America a "variety-show"--as it entered only into the Roman mind to
make such establishments. The podium is much higher than at Nîmes, and
many of the great white slabs that faced it have been recovered and put
into their places. The proconsular box has been more or less
reconstructed, and the great converging passages of approach to it are
still majestically distinct; so that, as I sat there in the moon-charm
stillness, leaning my elbows on the battered parapet of the ring, it
was not impossible to listen to the murmurs and shudders, the thick
voice of the circus, that died away fifteen hundred years ago.

The theater has a voice as well, but it lingers on the ear of time with
a different music. The Roman theater at Arles seemed to me one of the
most charming and touching ruins I had ever beheld; I took a particular
fancy to it. It is less than a skeleton--the arena may be called a
skeleton; for it consists only of half a dozen bones. The traces of the
row of columns which formed the scene--the permanent
back-scene--remain; two marble pillars--I just mentioned them--are
upright, with a fragment of their entablature. Before them is the
vacant space which was filled by the stage, with the line of the
proscenium distinct, marked by a deep groove, imprest upon slabs of
stone, which looks as if the bottom of a high screen had been intended
to fit into it. The semicircle formed by the seats--half a cup--rises
opposite; some of the rows are distinctly marked. The floor, from the
bottom of the stage, in the shape of an arc of which the chord is
formed by the line of the orchestra, is covered by slabs of colored
marble--red, yellow, and green--which, tho terribly battered and
cracked to-day, give one an idea of the elegance of the interior.

Everything shows that it was on a great scale: the large sweep of its
enclosing walls, the massive corridors that passed behind the
auditorium, and of which we can still perfectly take the measure. The
way in which every seat commanded the stage is a lesson to the
architects of our epoch, as also the immense size of the place is a
proof of extraordinary power of voice on the part of the Roman actors.
It was after we had spent half an hour in the moonshine at the arena
that we came on to this more ghostly and more exquisite ruin. The
principal entrance was locked, but we effected an easy escalade, scaled
a low parapet, and descended into the place behind the scenes.

It was as light as day, and the solitude was complete. The two slim
columns, as we sat on the broken benches, stood there like a pair of
silent actors. What I called touching, just now was the thought that
here the human voice, the utterance of a great language, had been
supreme. The air was full of intonations and cadences; not of the echo
of smashing blows, of riven armor, of howling victims and roaring
beasts. The spot is, in short, one of the sweetest legacies of the
ancient world; and there seems no profanation in the fact that by day
it is open to the good people of Arles, who use it to pass, by no
means, in great numbers, from one part of the town to the other;
treading the old marble floor, and brushing, if need be, the empty
benches. This familiarity does not kill the place again; it makes it,
on the contrary, live a little--makes the present and the past touch
each other.

If I called Les Baux a city, it was not that I was stretching a point
in favor of the small spot which to-day contains but a few dozen
inhabitants. The history of the place is as extraodinary as its
situation. It was not only a city, but a state; not only a state; but
an empire; and on the crest of its little mountain called itself
sovereign of a territory, or at least of scattered towns and counties,
with which its present aspect is grotesquely out of relation. The lords
of Les Baux, in a word, were great feudal proprietors; and there was a
time during which the island of Sardinia, to say nothing of places
nearer home, such as Arles and Marseilles, paid them homage.

The chronicle of this old Provençal house has been written, in a style
somewhat unctuous and flowery, by M. Jules Canonge. I purchased the
little book--a modest pamphlet--at the establishment of the good
sisters, just beside the church, in one of the highest part of Les
Baux. The sisters have a school for the hardy little Baussenques, whom
I heard piping their lessons, while I waited in the cold parlor for one
of the ladies to come and speak to me. Nothing could have been more
perfect than the manner of this excellent woman when she arrived; yet
her small religious house seemed a very out-of-the-way corner of the
world. It was spotlessly neat, and the rooms looked as if they had
lately been papered and painted; in this respect, at the medieval
Pompeii, they were rather a discord. They were, at any rate, the
newest, freshest thing at Les Baux.

I remember going round to the church, after I had left the good
sisters, and to a little quiet terrace, which stands in front of it,
ornamented with a few small trees and bordered with a wall,
breast-high, over which you look down steep hillsides, off into the air
and all about the neighboring country. I remember saying to myself that
this little terrace was one of those felicitous nooks which the tourist
of taste keeps in his mind as a picture. The church was small and brown
and dark, with a certain rustic richness. All this however, is no
general description of Les Baux.

I am unable to give any coherent account of the place, for the simple
reason that it is a mere confusion of ruin. It has not been preserved
in lava like Pompeii, and its streets and houses, its ramparts and
castle, have become fragmentary, not through the sudden destruction,
but through the gradual withdrawal, of a population. It is not an
extinguished, but a deserted city; more deserted far than even
Carcassonne and Aigues-Mortes, where I found so much entertainment in
the grass-grown element.

It is of very small extent, and even in the days of its greatness, when
its lords entitled themselves counts of Cephalonia and Neophantis,
kings of Arles and Vienne, princes of Achaia, and emperors of
Constantinople--even at this flourishing period, when, as M. Jules
Canonge remarks, "they were able to depress the balance in which the
fate of peoples and kings is weighed," the plucky little city contained
at the most no more than thirty-six hundred souls. Yet its lords (who,
however, as I have said, were able to present a long list of subject
towns, most of them, tho a few are renowned, unknown to fame) were
seneschals and captains-general of Piedmont and Lombardy, grand
admirals of the kingdom of Naples, and its ladies were sought in
marriage by half the first princes in Europe.

A considerable part of the little narrative of M. Canonge is taken up
with the great alliances of the House of Baux, whose fortunes,
matrimonial and other, he traces from the eleventh century down to the
sixteenth. The empty shells of a considerable number of old houses,
many of which must have been superb, the lines of certain steep little
streets, the foundations of a castle, and ever so many splendid views,
are all that remains to-day of these great titles.

To such a list I may add a dozen very polite and sympathetic people,
who emerged from the interstices of the desultory little town to gaze
at the two foreigners who had driven over from Arles, and whose horses
were being baited at the modest inn. The resources of this
establishment we did not venture otherwise to test, in spite of the
seductive fact that the sign over the door was in the Provençal tongue.
This little group included the baker, a rather melancholy young man, in
high boots and a cloak, with whom and his companions we had a good deal
of conversation.

The Baussenques of to-day struck me as a very mild and agreeable race,
with a good deal of the natural amenity which, on occasions like this
one, the traveler, who is waiting for his horses to be put in or his
dinner to be prepared, observes in the charming people who lend
themselves to conversation in the hilltowns of Tuscany. The spot where
our entertainers at Les Baux congregated was naturally the most
inhabited portion of the town; as I say, there were at least a dozen
human figures within sight. Presently we wandered away from them,
scaled the higher places, seated ourselves among the ruins of the
castle, and looked down from the cliff overhanging that portion of the
road which I have mentioned as approaching Les Baux from behind.

I was unable to trace the configuration of the castle as plainly as the
writers who have described it in the guide-books, and I am ashamed to
say that I did not even perceive the three great figures of stone (the
three Marys, as they are called; the two Marys of Scripture, with
Martha), which constitute one of the curiosities of the place, and of
which M. Jules Canonge speaks with almost hyperbolical admiration. A
brisk shower, lasting some ten minutes, led us to take refuge in a
cavity, of mysterious origin, where the melancholy baker presently
discovered us, having had the bonne pensée of coming up for us with an
umbrella which certainly belonged, in former ages, to one of the
Stéphanettes or Berangères commemorated by M. Canonge. His oven, I am
afraid, was cold so long as our visit lasted.

When the rain was over we wandered down to the little disencumbered
space before the inn, through a small labyrinth of obliterated things.
They took the form of narrow, precipitous streets, bordered by empty
houses, with gaping windows and absent doors, through which we had
glimpses of sculptured chimney-pieces and fragments of stately arch and
vault. Some of the houses are still inhabited; but most of them are
open to the air and weather. Some of them have completely collapsed;
others present to the street a front which enables one to judge of the
physiognomy of Les Baux in the days of its importance. This importance
had pretty well passed away in the early part of the sixteenth century,
when the place ceased to be an independent principality, It became--by
request of one of its lords, Bernardin des Baux, a great captain of his
time--part of the appanage of the kings of France, by whom it was
placed under the protection of Arles, which had formerly occupied with
regard to it a different position. I know not whether the Arlesians
neglected their trust; but the extinction of the sturdy little
stronghold is too complete not to have begun long ago. Its memories are
buried under its ponderous stones.

As ve drove away from it in the gloaming, my friend and I agreed that
the two or three hours we had spent there were among the happiest
impressions of a pair of tourists very curious in the picturesque. We
almost forgot that we were bound to regret that the shortened day left
us no time to drive five miles further, above a pass in the little
mountains--it had beckoned to us in the morning, when we came in sight
of it, almost irresistibly--to see the Roman arch and mausoleum of
Saint Remy. To compass this larger excursion (including the visit to
Les Baux) you must start from Arles very early in the morning; but I
can imagine no more delightful day.


Cathedrals and Chateaux


By Nathaniel Hawthorne

[Footnote: From "French and Italian Note Books." By special arrangement
with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co.
Copyright, 1871, 1883, 1889.]

The aspect of the old French town was very different from anything
English; whiter, infinitely cleaner; higher and narrower houses, the
entrance to most of which seeming to be through a great gateway
affording admission into a central court-yard; a public square, with a
statue in the middle, and another statue in a neighboring street. We
met priests in three-cornered hats, long frock-coats, and
knee-breeches; also soldiers and gendarmes, and peasants and children,
clattering over the pavements in wooden shoes.

It makes a great impression of outlandishness to see the signs over the
shop doors in a foreign tongue. If the cold had not been such as to
dull my sense of novelty, and make all my perceptions torpid, I should
have taken in a set of new impressions, and enjoyed them very much. As
it was, I cared little for what I saw, but yet had life enough left to
enjoy the Cathedral of Amiens, which has many features unlike those of
English cathedrals.

It stands in the midst of the cold, white town, and has a
high-shouldered look to a spectator accustomed to the minsters of
England, which cover a great space of ground in proportion to their
height. The impression the latter give is of magnitude and mass; this
French Cathedral strikes one as lofty. The exterior is venerable, tho
but little time-worn by the action of the atmosphere; and statues still
keep their places in numerous niches, almost as perfect as when first
placed there in the thirteenth century. The principal doors are deep,
elaborately wrought, pointed arches; and the interior seemed to us, at
the moment, as grand as any that we had seen, and to afford as vast an
idea of included space; it being of such an airy height, and with no
screen between the chancel and nave, as in all the English cathedrals.

We saw the differences, too, betwixt a church in which the same form of
worship for which it was originally built is still kept up, and those
of England, where it has been superseded for centuries; for here, in
the recess of every arch of the side-aisles, beneath each lofty window,
there was a chapel dedicated to some saint, and adorned with great
marble sculptures of the crucifixion, and with pictures, execrably bad,
in all cases, and various kinds of gilding and ornamentation. Immensely
tall wax candles stand upon the altars of these chapels, and before one
sat a woman, with a great supply of tapers, one of which was burning. I
suppose these were to be lighted as offerings to the saints, by the
true believers. Artificial flowers were hung at some of the shrines, or
placed under glass.

In every chapel, moreover, there was a confessional--a little oaken
structure, about as big as a sentry-box, with a closed part for the
priest to sit in, and an open one for the penitent to kneel at, and
speak through the open-work of the priest's closet. Monuments, mural
and others, to long-departed worthies, and images of the Savior, the
Virgin, and saints, were numerous everywhere about the church; and in
the chancel there was a great deal of quaint and curious sculpture,
fencing in the Holy of Holies, where the high altar stands. There is
not much painted glass; one or two very rich and beautiful
rose-windows, however, that looked antique; and the great eastern
window, which, I think, is modern. The pavement has, probably, never
been renewed, as one piece of work, since the structure was erected,
and is foot-worn by the successive generations, tho still in excellent
repair. I saw one of the small, square stones in it, bearing the date
of 1597, and no doubt there are a thousand older ones.


By Thomas Frognall Dibdin

[Footnote: From "A Bibliographical Tour in France and Germany."]

The approach to Rouen is indeed magnificent. I speak of the immediate
approach, after you reach the top of a considerable rise, and are stopt
by the barriers. You then look down a straight, broad, and strongly
paved road, lined with a double row of trees on each side. As the
foliage was not thickly set, we could discern, through the delicately
clothed branches, the tapering spire of the cathedral, and the more
picturesque tower of the Abbaye St. Ouen--with hanging gardens, and
white houses, to the left--covering a richly cultivated ridge of hills,
which sink, as it were, into the Boulevards, and which is called the
Faubourg Cauchoise. To the right, through the trees, you see the River
Seine (here of no despicable depth or breadth), covered with boats and
vessels in motion, the voice of commerce, and the stir of industry,
cheering and animating you as you approach the town. I was told that
almost every vessel which I saw (some of them of two hundred, and even
of three hundred tons burden) was filled with brandy and wine....

First for the cathedral, for what traveler of taste does not doff his
bonnet to the mother-church of the town through which he happens to be
traveling, or in which he takes a temporary abode? The west front,
always the forte of the architects's skill, strikes you as you go down,
or come up, the principal street--La Rue des Carmes--which seems to
bisect the town into equal parts. A small open space, which, however,
has been miserably encroached upon by petty shops, called the Flower
Gardens, is before this western front; so that it has some little
breathing room in which to expand its beauties to the wondering eyes of
the beholder. In my poor judgment, this western front has very few
elevations comparable with it--including even those of Lincoln and
York. The ornaments, especially upon the three porches, between the two
towers, are numerous, rich, and for the greater part entire, in spite
of the Calvinists, the French Revolution, and time.

As you enter the cathedral, at the center door, by descending two
steps, you are struck with the length and loftiness of the nave, and
with the lightness of the gallery which runs along the upper part of
it. Perhaps the nave is too narrow for its length. The lantern of the
central large tower is beautifully light and striking. It is supported
by four massive clustered pillars, about forty feet in circumference;
but by casting your eye downward, you are shocked at the tasteless
division of the choir from the nave by what is called a Grecian screen;
and the interior of the transepts has undergone a like preposterous

The rose windows of the transepts, and that at the west end of the
nave, merit your attention and commendation. I could not avoid
noticing, to the right, upon entrance, perhaps the oldest side chapel
in the cathedral, of a date less ancient than that of the northern
tower, and perhaps of the end of the twelfth century. It contains by
much the finest specimens of stained glass--of the early part of the
sixteenth century. There is also some beautiful stained glass on each
side of the chapel of the Virgin, behind the choir; but altho very
ancient, it is the less interesting, as not being composed of groups,
or of historical subjects. Yet, in this as in almost all the churches
which I have seen, frightful devastations have been made among the
stained glass windows by the fury of the Revolutionists....

On gazing at this splendid monument of ancient piety and
liberality--and with one's mind deeply intent upon the characters of
the deceased--let us fancy we hear the sound of the great bell from the
southwest tower--called the Amboise Tower--erected, both the bell and
the tower, by the uncle and minister of Amboise. Know, my dear friend,
that there was once a bell (and the largest in Europe, save one), which
used to send forth its sound for three successive centuries from the
said tower. This bell was broken about thirty years ago, and destroyed
in the ravages of the immediately succeeding years. The southwest tower
remains, and the upper part of the central tower, with the whole of the
lofty wooden spire--the fruits of the liberality of the excellent men
of whom such honorable mention has been made. Considering that this
spire is very lofty, and composed of wood, it is surprising that it has
not been destroyed by tempest or by lightning.

Leaving the cathedral, you pass a beautifully sculptured fountain, of
the early time of Francis I., which stands at the corner of the street,
to the right; and which, from its central situation, is visited the
livelong day for the sake of its limpid waters. Push on a little
further, then, turning to the right, you get into a sort of square, and
observe the abbey--or rather the west front of it--full in face of you.
You gaze, and are first struck with its matchless window: call it rose,
or marigold, as you please.

I think, for delicacy and richness of ornament, this window is
perfectly unrivaled. There is a play of line in the mullions, which,
considering their size and strength, may be pronounced quite a
masterpiece of art. You approach, regretting the neglected state of the
lateral towers, and enter through the large and completely opened
center doors, the nave of the abbey. It was toward sunset when we made
our first entrance. The evening was beautiful; and the variegated tints
of sunbeam, admitted through the stained glass of the window, just
noticed, were perfectly enchanting. The window itself, as you look
upward, or rather as you fix your eye upon the center of it, from the
remote end of the abbey, or the Lady's Chapel, was a perfect blaze of
dazzling light; and nave, choir, and side aisles seemed magically
illumined. We declared instinctively that the Abbey of St. Ouen could
hardly have a rival--certainly not a superior.

Let me, however, put in a word for the organ. It is immense, and
perhaps larger than that belonging to the cathedral. The tin pipes
(like those of the organ in the cathedral) are of their natural color.
I paced the pavement beneath, and think that this organ can not be
short of forty English feet in length. Indeed, in all the churches
which I have yet seen, the organs strike me as being of magnificent

You should be informed, however, that the extreme length of the
interior, from the further end of the chapel of the Virgin, to its
opposite western extremity, is about four hundred and fifty English
feet; while the height, from the pavement to the roof of the nave, or
the choir, is one hundred and eight English feet. The transepts are
about one hundred and forty feet in length. The central tower, upon the
whole, is not only the grandest tower in Rouen, but there is nothing
for its size in our own country that can compare with it. It rises
upward of one hundred feet above the roof of the church; and is
supported below, or rather within, by four magnificent cluster-pillared
bases, each about thirty-two feet in circumference. Its area, at
bottom, can hardly be less than thirty-six feet square. The choir is
flanked by flying buttresses, which have a double tier of small arches,
altogether "marvelous and curious to behold."

I could not resist stealing quietly round to the porch of the south
transept, and witnessing, in that porch, one of the most chaste, light,
and lovely specimens of Gothic architecture which can be contemplated.
Indeed, I hardly know anything like it. The leaves of the poplar and
ash were beginning to mantle the exterior; and, seen through their
green and gay lattice work, the traceries of the porch seemed to assume
a more interesting aspect. They are now mending the upper part of the
façade with new stone of peculiar excellence--but it does not harmonize
with the old work. They merit our thanks, however, for the preservation
of what remains of this precious pile. I should remark to you that the
eastern and northeastern sides of the abbey of St. Ouen are surrounded
with promenades and trees: so that, occasionally, either when walking
or sitting upon the benches, within these gardens, you catch one of the
finest views imaginable of the abbey.


By Epiphanius Wilson

[Footnote: From "The Cathedrals of France." By permission of the
author. Copyright, 1900.]

For many a mile over the rich cornfields of Beauce, of which ancient
district Chartres was once the capital, the spires of Chartres are
visible. The river and the hill constitute at Chartres the basis of its
strength in long-forgotten warfare; its walls in piping times of peace
have been leveled into leafy boulevards, but it may still be entered
through one of the antique gates that survive as memorials of its
former fortifications.

The cathedral itself is one of that group to which belong Amiens,
Rheims, Bourges and Notre Dame de Paris. It is noted for its size,
magnificence and completeness, and contains in itself, from its crypt
to its highest stone, an exemplification of architectural history in
France from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries. We may suppose
that Christianity was first published in the Beauce province by the
same apostles, Savinienus and Potentienius, who had evangelized Sens
and the Senones. Their disciple, Aventin (Aventinus), is recognized as
the first Bishop of Chartres, and as the builder of the first cathedral
which stood on the site of the present building....

The naves, the north and south transept portals, and the choir belong
to the thirteenth century, the north tower to the fifteenth, and the
magnificent jubé, or screen, which runs round the choir, is evidently
sixteenth century style, being an example of that Renaissance
employment of Gothic details, of which we find such glorious
counterparts at Rouen and Albi. The western façade of Chartres is plain
in comparison with those of Amiens or Rheims. The voussures of the
three central portals are comparatively shallow. Above them are three
lancet windows which resemble windows of the Early English Style. The
rose-window, beneath which the lancets are placed, is of great
dimensions and effective tracery. The highest story of the front
between the towers is screened by a rich arcade, over which rises the
gable point.

This arcade, or gallery, is intended to break the abruptness with which
the pointed roof rises between the two spires. These spires are
different in design, the southern tower being much earlier than that at
the north. The southern spire, in its austere simplicity and exquisite
proportions, is certainly the finest I have seen in France, and can
only be paralleled elsewhere by that which rises like a flower-bud
almost ready to burst over Salisbury plain. The northern tower is very
much more elaborate, and reminded me of those examples with which the
traveler becomes so familiar in the many churches of Rouen. The richly
crocketed gables, the flying buttresses and pinnacles which run half
way up this spire, while they adorn it, seem to stunt the profile and
rob it of its towering altitude, just as is the case with the western
spires of St. Ouen. Yet this northern tower is considerably higher than
the ancient one at the south, being 374 feet high, while the more
ancient spire is only 348. The other dimensions of the church are as
follows: It is 420 feet long; 110 feet wide; its height from ceiling
vault to pavement is 115 feet. The modern tower was built by Louis XII.
in 1514, the architect being an inhabitant of Beauce, a certain Jean

The carvings in the west front of the cathedral are examples of the
beginning of French sculpture, as it emerges from the severity and
rigidity of Byzantine types. The human figures are long, slender, and
swathed almost like mummies in their drapery. The faces are strongly
individualized and seem to be portraits. While these statues must be
attributed to a period previous to the middle of the twelfth century,
we see in them the originality of French genius struggling to break
away from the fetters of Eastern precedent.

Viollet-de-Duc thinks that these faces belong to the type of the
ancient Gaul; the flat forehead and raised arch of the eyebrows, the
projecting eyes, the long jaws, the peaked and drooping nose, the long
upper lip, the wide, closed mouth, the square chin, the long wavy hair
are neither German, Roman, or French. There is a blending of firmness,
grandeur and refinement in these wonderful countenances, each of them
apparently copied from a different model. They are crowned and nimbused
as the kings and saints of antique France. A more impressive gallery of
illustrious personages is nowhere else to be found.


By Epiphanius Wilson

[Footnote: From "The Cathedrals of France." By permission of the
author. Copyright, 1900.]

French cathedrals have, as it were, a royal character, and this is
emphasized especially in the history and architecture of Rheims
cathedral, which became, from the time of Philippe Auguste, the church
at whose altar the kings of France were crowned.

The origin of the Church at Rheims dates from the third century; when
we are told Pope Fabian sent into Gaul a band of bishops and teachers.
Rheims was chosen as the seat of an episcopal primacy, and it was in
the church built by St. Nicaise, or Nicasius, in 401, that Clovis was
baptized and crowned in 496. This ancient building, doubtless of simple
Roman proportions, was rebuilt in the reign of Louis the Debonair in
822, when Ebon was archbishop.

It was completed with a magnificence which vied with the churches of
Constantinople, Ravenna and Rome. It was considered in its day the most
splendid church in France. Its roof and walls blazed with gilding and
many-tinted paintings. Its floors were of marble mosaic. Rich
tapestries hung round the choir, and its treasury was filled with
masterpieces of the goldsmith and the jeweler. This church continued to
be the wonder of Gallic Christianity until the beginning of the
thirteenth century, when it was destroyed by fire. It is remarkable to
notice in the history of French cathedrals how many of them were
rebuilt just at the time when the pointed style, which may be called
preeminently the Christian style of architecture, had come to birth
almost simultaneously in various countries of Europe.

We are obliged to come to the conclusion that the pointed arch was
introduced in Germany, France and England by the Crusaders, who had
seen it used in the East, and had considered it best fitted for
buildings that enshrined the sublime mysteries of the Christian faith.
It was in the pointed style, therefore, that the new cathedral of
Rheims was built. The name of its architect is not known, but his plan
shows that he must have been a man of profound genius. Archbishop
Alberic Humbert laid the foundation stone in 1212. The whole province
contributed liberally to the work, and in 1242 the building was
sufficiently advanced for the celebration of divine service in the

The Church of Notre Dame of Rheims would require a volume to describe
it completely. The front is perhaps the most elaborate to be found in
France. The three vast portals, peopled with statues of colossal size,
their arched vaulting covered with saintly and angelic figures, the
mighty rose-windows, flanked with pointed openings, crowned with carved
tabernacle work, and the great gallery of kings crossing the whole
front, just below the peak of the gable, and above all, the two towers
pierced by majestic windows and supported at each corner by niches with
three open faces, give an impression of richness and brightness and
grace, mingled with that indefinable majesty, which is due partly to
the vast dimensions, partly to the harmonious proportions of the whole

The divisions of the front façade resemble somewhat the same part of
the edifice at Amiens, excepting that it is far more florid, and less
strict and severe in its main divisions. At Amiens the details are kept
in strictest subservience to the structural lines of the edifice. At
Rheims it is the magnificent wealth of details that crowds upon the
view, the walls and arches are surcharged with statues, with niches,
with brackets, pinnacles, tracery, foliage, finials and turrets. The
sides of the entrances of the three portals are crowded with colossal
statues, thirty-nine in number, representing patriarchs, prophets,
kings, bishops, virgins and martyrs. On the trumeau of the central gate
is a fine statue of the Virgin Mary; on the sides of this trumeau are
bas-reliefs representing the Fall of Man, of whose restoration Mary
should be the instrument.

It is quite characteristic of a medieval church that we should find, on
the lintels and side-posts of these doorways, emblems of agricultural
work in the various seasons of the year, as well as different symbols
of arts and handicrafts. Amid the carvings of these doorways are the
heroes and saints of the Old Testament, types and forerunners of the
Messiah, as well as historic scenes, representing the Redemption of the
World, the Conversion of the Gentiles, the Resurrection of the Dead,
the Last Judgment, the Condemnation of the Wicked, the Reception of the
Just into the habitations of the blest. Finally, the Assumption and
Coronation of the Blessed Virgin sums up, with an imaginative legend,
this series of Christian dogma perpetuated in stone.

But the medieval genius is many-sided, and never satisfied with that
which is beautiful alone; and this magnificent array of Christian
carving would not be complete to the mind of the medieval artist unless
he had crowned the angles of his buildings with a series of grotesque
gargoyles and allegoric statues, representing the streams that watered
the earthly paradise, while at the summit of the roof are niched angles
bearing instruments of music. As the rose is a peculiarity of Gothic
churches, and from its remarkable shape gives ample room for sculpture
in stone, and color in glass, so the rose at Rheims is among the most
beautiful examples of the kind, and illustrates the principle that the
rose is intended to light up high, remote and shadowy spaces in a long
nave or aisle.

Above the great rose-window is a pointed arch in whose voussures are
ten statues, relating the history of David, while over this arch runs a
band of niches, forty-two in number, in which are colossal statues of
the kings of France from Clovis to Charles VI.

The two portals of the transepts are richly decorated in harmony with
the style of the western façade. A graceful spire rises from the
eastern part of the roof. It is called "The Angel's spire," from the
fact that poised upon its summit is an angel covered with gilt and
holding aloft a cross. This turret rises 59 feet above the roof of the
church. The church itself is 486 feet in length, and from the vaulting
of the roof to the pavement is 125 feet. The towers are 272 feet high.
I noticed the church is built in the form of a cross, but the transept
is very close to the apse, so that the choir being too confined for the
great ceremonies, such as that of royal coronations, which used to take
place there, has been extended westward across the transept so as to
take up three bays of the nave.

There are seven chapels at the east of the church, but none are found
in the naves. The plainness of the nave, in comparison with the ornate
character of the exterior, is very remarkable, but this plainness
detracts nothing from the impressiveness of its long arcades, its
towering roof, the noble lines which rise from the ground and support,
as it were, on slender sinews of stone, the shadowy ceiling. The
rose-windows, four in number, are filled with glass of the thirteenth
century, and the tall windows of the chevet and clerestory contain a
many colored mosaic of a similar sort. I was particularly struck with
the rose-window over the western portal. It represents the Beautiful
Vision; the Eternal Father is throned in the central ring of the
window, and in the radiating panes is the Hierarchy of Paradise, angels
and archangels and all the company of Heaven, while in a wider
circumference are grouped the redeemed, contemplating in adoration the
majesty of God.

I noticed two very interesting tombs in Rheims cathedral. The first was
the sarcophagus of Jovinus, the Christian prefect of Rheims, in the
fourth century, who protected the church and was originally buried in
the Abbey of St. Nicaise, from whence his tomb was brought to the
cathedral. It consists of a single block of snowy marble, nine feet
long, and four feet high, on which the consular general is represented
in a spirited bas-relief mounted on horseback and saving the life of a
man from the lion, in whose flank Jovinus has launched his spear. Very
fine indeed is the workmanship of this monument. The figures which
surround Jovinus are men of handsome countenance, evidently portraits,
their dress and arms being finished with the utmost nicety of detail.
The figures are about half life-size.

The other tomb is that of St. Remigius, a Renaissance work erected by
Cardinal Delenoncourt in 1533. It is sumptuous and gaudy rather than
beautiful. Twelve statues, full life-size, represent the twelve peers
of France, six are the prelates of Rheims, Laon, Langres, Beauvais,
Chalons, and Noyon; the six lay peers are the dukes of Burgundy,
Normandy and Aquitaine, and the counts of Flanders, Champagne, and
Toulouse. The white marble of these somewhat stagey figures is
beautifully worked and the effect is imposing.

The western wall of the interior is faced with niches, in which the
statues seem to emerge from a cloud of gloom. At one time tombs of the
most magnificent sort crowded the aisles, enshrining the relics of
saints and bishops, but during the raging of the Terror the
Revolutionists violated these tombs, seizing their treasures, breaking
down with ax and hammer their carvings. But, after all, the church of
Notre Dame of Rheims does not seem to have suffered very much loss from
the clearing away of these obstructions to the vista of her arcades,
which now depend for their solemn beauty upon the simplicity and
dignity of their lines and proportions, the effect of their windows,
and the religious gloom which lingers in their lofty recesses.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Seeing Europe with Famous Authors, Volume 3 - France and the Netherlands, Part 1" ***

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