The Music Was Fine; But Our Ideal Had Outstripped The
Real.
The strangest part of the performance was the censer swinging at
the altar.
It was done in certain parts of the chant, with rhythmic
sweep, and glitter, and vapor wreath, that produced a striking effect.
There was an immense audience - quiet, orderly, and to all appearance
devout. This was the first Romish service I ever attended. It ought to
be impressive here, if any where. Yet I cannot say I was moved by it
Rome-ward. Indeed, I felt a kind of Puritan tremor of conscience at
witnessing such a theatrical pageant on the Sabbath. We soon saw,
however, as we walked home, across the gardens of the Tuileries, that
there is no Sabbath in Paris, according to our ideas of the day.
Monday, June 6. This day was consecrated to knick-knacks. Accompanied
by Mrs. C., whom years of residence have converted into a perfect
_Parisienne_, we visited shop after shop, and store after store.
The politeness of the shopkeepers is inexhaustible. I felt quite
ashamed to spend a half hour looking at every thing, and then depart
without buying; but the civil Frenchman bowed, and smiled, and thanked
us for coming.
In the evening, we rode to L'Arc de Triomphe d'Etoile, an immense pile
of massive masonry, from the top of which we enjoyed a brilliant
panorama. Paris was beneath us, from the Louvre to the Bois de
Boulogne, with its gardens, and moving myriads; its sports, and games,
and light-hearted mirth - a vast Vanity Fair, blazing in the sunlight.
A deep and strangely-blended impression of sadness and gayety sunk
into our hearts as we gazed.
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