THE ANATHEMA. PARIS is certainly beaten ground; but there are some of its by-paths rarely trodden on, and many of its public places are full of interest that lies too deep for hurried observers. Its antiquity alone gives evidence that it must have been the scene of thousands of adventures and incidents, the memory of which have perished in the lapses of time. But history has preserved numerous details of romance and chivalry, relieving, by their lightness or their tenderness, the shades of its recorded crimes; and we may admit, without cavilling at its extravagance, the following complimentary acrostic on the name and character of this city, from the pen of a reve rend and venerable eulogist. "Pourpris d'honneur, precieuse maison, C'est de Paris le titre de noblesse !"* The nooks and corners of great cities have a double population-of inhabitants and recollections. They are close crowded with associations; and we often hasten over the most common scenes, as ignorant of the sympathies by which they are haunted and hallowed, as the greasy rogues," who cumber the paths, or plod along their sacred ways. Palaces in particular appear built to be gazed at, but not to be inquired into. Their gaudy exterior and lofty bearing, seem to check the inquisitiveness of the world, as if their aristocratic pride would turn into ourselves the look *Le Théâtre des Antiquitez de Paris, Par le R. P. F. Jaques du Breul. 1612. that might aim at fathoming their mysteries. Months of methodical inquiry may, however, fail to let us into these secrets; but a happy chance often brings us into immediate contact with some spring of sentiment, whence flow feelings of the brightest enjoyment. Few of the promenades of Paris had such charms for me as the gardens of the Luxembourg. When wearied by the solemn fineries of the Tuileries, the glitter of the Palais Royal, or the noise of the Boulevards, I generally crossed the river, and reposed for an hour in my favourite retreat. I sat down on one of the stone benches, under the shade of a sycamore, and gazed on the children sporting round me, on a tender couple exchanging soft looks and words—or on the other specimens of pleasure which always abound in the place. I marked now an admirer of sculpture, as motionless as the statue he stared at; again, an amateur of flowers, bending over the parterre, and feeding on the loveliness of its productions. Antiquated beings of either sex often fixed my eye, as they basked in the sunny spots-varieties of those living monuments which recall the memory of past daysanimated powder-puffs-muffed and tippetted disciples of the old school, who cling to the silk coats, pink breeches, canes, queues, and cocked hats of the ancien regime:while in the shady avenues, I frequently remarked the pale and slovenly students, a book in their hands, and their eyes fixed on the page. I used to please myself in fancying that I discovered the nature of their studies from the movements which, in their abstraction, these youths involuntarily fell into. If, for example, I saw one of them tracing angles, curves, and parallelograms, instead of walking straight forward on his path, I set him down as a mathematician. Did another stop frequently, and toss his arms about, then bite his nails and snap his fingers, I invariably placed him among those mooters of law points, who begin with declamation, proceed obscurely, and make a flippant ending. The disciple of Esculapius betrayed himself by his regulated pace, and the pestle-like motion with which he struck his cane upon the ground and whenever a lank and wild-looking creature threw his eyes alternately to heaven and earth, stumbled over the benches, or knocked his head against the trees, I believe the closest reasoner will not accuse me of paralogy in having concluded that I gazed on a poet. I had thus my theory as well as Lavater or Gall; and by its rules I studied the whole tribe of students, lecturers and professors, who poured in every day at certain hours, from that cluster of narrow lanes, called the Pays Latin, to shake off the dust of the school, and draw in a mouthful of pure air. I was one evening thus seated in the indulgence of my contemplation, when I observed a young gentleman, shabbily dressed, walking forwards and backwards at a slow pace. The frequent application of his handkerchief to his eyes, and his air of distress, plainly told me the state of his mind. I cannot say that I am ever averse to the observation of silent grief. It must be a hard heart that is not touched by the evidence of sorrow; and I believe the oftener that most of us allow ourselves such opportunities, the better. I felt myself mentally and sentimentally drawn towards this sufferer, but I experienced a physical repulsion proportionably strong. In fact, I could not, for any reward, have gone up to speak to him, and I shrunk away as often as he approached me. After some time spent in irregular movement, he once more made towards the place where I sat; and there seemed in his manner something more of fixed purpose than before. Fearing that I might be in the way of his object, I rose, and was preparing to retire, when he waved his handkerchief and motioned me to stop. I was not a little surprised, but obeyed his signal; and when he came close, he bowed to me with a most obliging air, and addressed me thus: "Do not be surprised, Sir, at the liberty I take with you, a perfect stranger. I see that my sorrow has caught your attention; and I feel it necessary to commit this outrage on your privacy, lest in my despair I might do myself, perhaps, a greater !" I was rather embarrassed; but I have seen enough of sorrow, one way or other, to know that though it is hard to stop its source, its channel may be easily turned. On this principle I offered no checks, in the way of consolation or argument, to the tears of my companion; but remarked to him, that if the secret feelings of the many who then filled the garden were known to us, he might find parallels to his grief, be it ever so deep-rooted. "Ah! yes," cried he, "I am aware of the sympathy which draws together so many wretches in this place. I know the charm which this spot possesses for the wearied sufferers of the world." "Indeed," replied I, glad to get him on a general topic, it would be hard to find a more soothing retreat for misfortune. These beautiful parterres-this pure air-these cheerful terraces seem to invite Wo. "What do I hear ?" cried he, with an astonished stare. "Do you mock me, Sir? Could cheerfulness or pleasure hold a charm for me? Oh, Emilie, Emilie!-Cheerfulbeautiful! Alas, Sir, you are a stranger. Did you know the ground you trod on, you would think differently of the place. No, Sir! These doleful gardens wear the garb of Melancholy has chosen them for her empire, and sorrow for its refuge. All writers are united on that point. And if, let me ask in the words of a modern author,-if it is impossible to think, without a sigh, of the Isle of Naxos, or the banks of the Mondego, the fountain of Vaucluse, or the forest of the Paraclet; why should we forget, in this amorous topography, the ancient Château Valvert, which history, imagination and sentiment unite to dignify!" Having thus exclaimed, with a theatrical air, he stalked away; and, as he glided through the plantation, I saw him cast his looks from earth to heaven. A little farther, encountering one of the benches, he fell bodily over it, sprawling on the ground, and had scarcely recovered his legs when his head came in violent contact with one of the lime trees. The abruptness of this hint seemed to bring him to himself, for he walked rapidly to the next gate and disappeared, leaving me at no loss to judge of his pursuits and profession. I never had the pleasure of seeing him again; and though somewhat piqued to have been so taken in by the rhapsodies of a flighty poet, I nevertheless resolved to ascertain on what foundation they were built. A little stung by the justice of his remark, that I did not know the ground I trod on,' aware of the influence which historical recollections have upon the mind, and knowing how much association regulates our likings and antipathies, I resolved to examine into the history of the spot. I do not mean to display to my readers all the secrets of my researches. In truth, I am apprehensive that if I wrote all I have learned on this mighty matter, my pages would be turned over faster than printed. But in all my reading for centuries back, if I may so express myself, I could find nothing to corroborate the poet's assertion; nor, in the long list of noble and royal names connected with the palace, aught which could attach to it any very overwhelming interest. I betook myself therefore to more modern studies, and found, to my utter surprise, that the poet was fairly and honestly borne out in the gloomy picture he had drawn, by the united opinions of several authors, who have apparently laboured under some such unhappy influence as his own. One of these,* having to describe the monotonous and melancholy life of an old bachelor, and wishing to give him a fitting recreation, makes him walk in the Luxembourg "Je vais au Luxembourg me promener un peu." Another authort makes it the asylum of silence, retirement, and deep thought. In a work more systematic and original than his, are the following reflections on the gardens : "Il semble que la langueur habite en personne ces lieux, dont aucune métamorphose ne saurait changer l'impression. C'est un point du globe décidément dévoué à la taciturnité. En vain l'art et le luxe y rassembleraient tout ce qui peut charmer les yeux, ils ne sauraient arracher l'âme au sentiment de tristesse qu'elle y respire. Je ne répondrais même pas que, peuplé de houris, il reprit une face nouvelle. Ce jardin est l'emblême de la vie, que rien ne peut égayer. Je ne donnerais pas huit jours de promenade consécutive au Luxembourg, à quelqu'un enclin à la melancolie, pour y terminer sa languissante carrière." A later works allows that, under the improvement of M. Chalgrin the architect, (whose name is so nearly in unison with the nature of others who have laboured there,) these gardens have assumed an appearance somewhat "plus riant et plus agréable qu'autrefois.' But all this accordance of opinion, as to the characteristic melancholy of the place, fell short of my desire, which was, to have a notion so much at variance with my own rationality accounted for. I still sought my object; and at length met with an author who, abandoning all hope of establishing a solid reason for the conceit, takes refuge in imagination, and retracing the steps of historical record, attributes to the memory of two royal lovers the secret sympathy which steals * M. Colin d'Harleville. † Mercier. Tableau de Paris, t. ii. p. 219. Pensées et Reflections par Hippolite de Livry, t. vii. p. 184. |