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. All is vivacity, gracefulness, and
sparkle, to the eye; but ah, what fires are smouldering below! Are not
all these vines rooted in the lava and ashes of the volcano side?
Tuesday, June 7. _A la Louvre_! But first the ladies must "shop"
a little. I sit by the counter and watch the pretty Parisian
_shopocracy_. A lady presides at the desk. Trim little grisettes
serve the customers so deftly, that we wonder why awkward men should
ever attempt to do such things. Nay, they are so civil, so evidently
disinterested and solicitous for your welfare, that to buy is the most
natural thing imaginable.
But to the Louvre! Provided with catalogues, I abandoned the ladies,
and strolled along to take a kind of cream-skimming look at the whole.
I was highly elated with one thing. There were three Madonnas with
dark hair and eyes: one by Murillo, another by Carracci, and another
by Guido. It showed that painters were not so utterly hopeless as a
class, and given over by common sense to blindness of mind, as I had
supposed.
H. begins to recant her heresy in regard to Rubens. Here we find his
largest pieces. Here we find the real originals of several real
originals we saw in English galleries.
