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Page 24
PARIS, _September 2_.
I am now on the point of quitting the French Metropolis. I have occupied
the last two days in visiting places of note in the city. I could not
resist the inclination to pay a second visit to the Louvre. Another hour
was spent in strolling through the Italian Hall and viewing the
master-workmanship of Raphael, the prince of painters. Time flies, even
in such a place as the Louvre with all its attractions; and before I had
seen half that I wished, a ponderous clock near by reminded me of an
engagement, and I reluctantly tore myself from the splendours of the
place.
During the rest of the day I visited the Jardin des Plantes, and spent
an hour and a half pleasantly in walking among plants, flowers, and in
fact everything that could be found in any garden in France. From this
place we passed by the column of the Bastile, and paid our respects to
the Bourse, or Exchange, one of the most superb buildings in the city.
The ground floor and sides of the Bourse, are of fine marble, and the
names of the chief cities in the world are inscribed on the medallions,
which are under the upper cornice. The interior of the edifice has a
most splendid appearance as you enter it.
The Cemetery of P�re la Chaise was too much talked of by many of our
party at the Hotel for me to pass it by, so I took it after the Bourse.
Here lie many of the great marshals of France--the resting place of each
marked by the monument that stands over it, except one, which is marked
only by a weeping willow and a plain stone at its head. This is the
grave of Marshal Ney. I should not have known that it was his, but some
unknown hand had written with black paint, "Bravest of the Brave," on
the unlettered stone that stands at the head of the man who followed
Napoleon through nearly all his battles, and who was shot after the
occupation of Paris by the allied army. Peace to his ashes. During my
ramble through this noted place, I saw several who were hanging fresh
wreaths of everlasting flowers on the tombs of the departed.
A ride in an omnibus down the Boulevards, and away up the Champs
Elysees, brought me to the Arc de Triomphe; and after ascending a flight
of one hundred and sixty-one steps, I was overlooking the city of
statuary. This stupendous monument was commenced by Napoleon in 1806;
and in 1811 it had only reached the cornice of the base, where it
stopped, and it was left for Louis Philippe to finish. The first stone
of this monument was laid on the 15th of August, 1806, the birth-day of
the man whose battles it was intended to commemorate. A model of the
arch was erected for Napoleon to pass through as he was entering the
city with Maria Louisa, after their marriage. The inscriptions on the
monument are many, and the different scenes here represented are all of
the most exquisite workmanship. The genius of War is summoning the
obedient nations to battle. Victory is here crowning Napoleon after his
great success in 1810. Fame stands here recording the exploits of the
warrior, while conquered cities lie beneath the whole. But it would take
more time than I have at command to give anything like a description of
this magnificent piece of architecture.
That which seems to take most with Peace Friends, is the portion
representing an old man taming a bull for agricultural labour; while a
young warrior is sheathing his sword, a mother and children sitting at
his feet, and Minerva crowned with laurels, stands shedding her
protecting influence over them. The erection of this regal monument is
wonderful, to hand down to posterity the triumphs of the man whom we
first hear of as a student in the military school at Brienne, whom in
1784 we see in the Ecole Militaire, founded by Louis XV. in 1751; whom
again we find at No. 5, Quai de Court, near Rue de Mail; and in 1794 as
a lodger at No. 19, Rue de la Michand�re. From this he goes to the Hotel
Mirabeau, Rue du Dauphin, where he resided when he defeated his enemies
on the 13th Vendimaire. The Hotel de la Colonade, Rue Neuve des
Capuchins is his next residence, and where he was married to Josephine.
From this hotel he removed to his wife's dwelling in the Rue
Chanteriene, No. 52. In 1796 the young general started for Italy, where
his conquests paved the way for the ever memorable 18th Brumaire, that
made him dictator of France. Napoleon was too great now to be satisfied
with private dwellings, and we next trace him to the Elysee, St. Cloud,
Versailles, the Tuileries, Fontainbleau, and finally, came his decline,
which I need not relate to you.
After visiting the Gobelins, passing through its many rooms, seeing here
and there a half-finished piece of tapestry; and meeting a number of the
members of the late Peace Congress, who, like myself had remained behind
to see more of the beauties of the French capital than could be
overtaken during the Convention week. I accepted an invitation to dine
with a German gentleman at the Palais Royal, and was soon revelling amid
the luxuries of the table. I was glad that I had gone to the Palais
Royal, for here I had the honour of an introduction to M. Beranger, the
poet; and although I had to converse with him through an interpreter, I
enjoyed his company very much. "The people's poet," as he is called, is
apparently about seventy years of age, bald on the top of the head, and
rather corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment of good
health. Few writers in France have done better service to the cause of
political and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de Beranger. He is the
dauntless friend and advocate of the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
and has often incurred the displeasure of the Government by the arrows
that he has thrown into their camp. He felt what he wrote; it came
straight from his heart, and went directly to the hearts of the people.
He expressed himself strongly opposed to slavery, and said, "I don't
see how the Americans can reconcile slavery with their professed love of
freedom." Dinner out of the way, a walk through the different
apartments, and a stroll over the court, and I bade adieu to the Palais
Royal, satisfied that I should partake of many worse dinners than I had
helped to devour that day.
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