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and the Ionian Islands, are the resort of great numbers of refugees of all classes, whom I have often seen and conversed with. The poorer these often beg their bread in exile, -for they are now as much foreigners in Greece as they are in the Ionian Islands, - rather than return to their native villages, in European Turkey, where they probably possess lands and houses. As a plea for their mendicity, some of them give the wish to make up a sum which will suffice to bribe the Turkish head of their district to allow them to remove also their wives and children. Could such a state of matters exist were there no ground for the accusations against the Turks? The Greeks, of all people, would be the least disposed to expatriate themselves unless driven to it by unbearable oppression; as, independent of their keen feelings for their paternal home, they are sufficiently awake to their own interest to prevent their yielding to anything short of the hard necessity to abandon their property.
Now that a spirit of change pervades every country in Europe, that which has always existed in the Turkish provinces becomes more than ever alarming. Matters cannot go on in their present state; and if prompt measures be not taken to relieve the Greeks, a civil war will inevitably break out, bringing in its train serious embarrassments to the great powers of Europe.
ON AN OLD RAILWAY ENGINE.
BY J. P. ANTHONY.
Thou rusty ruin,
Thy flight pursuing
Thou look'st so quiet
A thing of riot:
A monstrous flier,
On wings of fire,
And now art branded
Like monster stranded -
And never more
Nor thy uproar
Hush'd, and for ever,
And thou shalt never
A FORTNIGHT ON THE LOIRE..
BY DUDLEY COSTELLO..
The attraction which Paris has had for me is of old date: .
It is no easy thing--though in this chargeable world it occasionally happens to be disenchanted with one's first love. The current of time, or the force of circumstances, may have swept away much of the illusion which, in early life, is mistaken for reality; but something'always lingers to the last, some fragments remain, to show that what our soul was once bound up in, was after all worth loving.
So it is with a great city. The novelty may have long since disappeared,—a multitude of untoward or painful events may have chanced, its aspect may have completely altered, -- but in the past there is still a . charm which can never be forgotten.
It was certainly owing more to the past than the present that the pleasure was attributable which I felt, a few weeks since, in once more treading the streets of Paris, after an absence of about three years. The architectural embellishments remained the same, the treasures of art and science were as accessible as of yore; but all the life and spirit, all the gaiety and animation, all the picturesque movement which characterised the once lively Parisians, appeared to be entirely gone. The cafés on the Boulevards presented the same showy outside, but there was a sad falling off of habitués; the shop-windows were filled as usual, but the doors seemed hermetically sealed, no customers venturing to break the spell; and as I passed I fancied I saw the identical objets which had caught my attention when last I was in Paris. The only novelty was a larger étalage of " chemises d'hommes," a branch of trade which has probably increased since the prolétaires set themselves up
for shirt-wearers. Of this class -I mean the prolétaires—for shirt-wearing is, perhaps, not general even yet—the numbers were immense, but they were exceeded by the hosts of dirty, lounging, idiot-looking soldiers, who, baving no occupation at present save that of mounting guard here and there, devote their leisure to a close examination of the contents of every boutique in the principal thoroughfares. Curiosity has always been a prominent feature of the Parisian, but in that curiosity there used to be an air and manner, a significant gesture or spoken word, which rendered it legitimate; the same tendency to stop and stare exists now, but it is in a dull, gaping, wondering way, as if the object seen were beyond the comprehension of the gazer. In a word, the purely idle man d'autrefois
, who enjoyed himself upon nothing, and by his insouciance contributed not a little to the enjoyment of others, has entirely disappeared ; and his place is badly supplied by a clumsy imitation, on the front of which is stamped the word “ Republican.”
This changed aspect is apparent everywhere, but more particularly in the Palais Royal and the Tuileries. If it were not for the Trois Frères and old Véry, the former would be thoroughly done up. Chévet, it is true, holds out in his well-known corner; but though his shop is filled with good things, gélinottes from the Ardennes, ortolans from the Pyre
nees, pheasants from Chambord, trout from the lake of Geneva, and rare légumes from Holland-he stands amidst his wares with the mournful air of a Marius in the ruins of Carthage. He has been so long in the habit of purveying these things, that to do so still has become a necessity of his existence. He freely admits that nobody comes to buy anything now. “Il n'y a plus de luxe, monsieur!” he says with a sigh, but; taking refuge in a Frenchman's unfailing expedient, he adds: “Que voulez-vous ?" and, yielding to fate, he buries himself daily beneath a hecatomb of unsold dainties. Chevet's shop is the finest study in the world for a painter of still life, and Chévet himself is, unfortunately, in every sense of the word, its presiding genius. There are quite as many glittering ornaments, quite as many variegated dressing-gowns, quite as many money-changers' comptoirs in the Palais Royal now as formerly; but diamond necklaces, lory bird costumes, and English bank-notes, are not to be had without their equie valents, and the aspiring youths in képis and brick-red trousers, who constitute the bulk of the loungers there, are not yet in a condition to offer them; the time has not yet come for them to spend half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day.”
On the other side of the Rue St. . Honoré,--that is to say, in the Place du Carrousel, -the change is even greater. Beneath the lateral arches of the Arc de Triomphe there used to stand, within my recollection, the splendidly equipped and martial-looking soldiers of the Grénadiers à Cheval; this, however, was as far back as the time of the elder Bourbons ; these were replaced by the troops of the citizen king, showing a change indeed, but still giving to the old palace an aspect of guarded royalty; now the Triumphal Arch is left to take care of itself, -the guichet is closed, and what soldiers there are to watch over the Tuileries are stationed at the entrances on either side of the square, to prevent, in these times of republican liberty, the free passage across, which was unimpeded in the days of an absolute monarchy. So literally do the new custodians interpret their consigne, that they not only refuse admission in the least courteous manner, but warn the stranger to quit the spot without a moment's delay,--the privilege of gazing on these admirable troops from the pavement of the Rue de Rivoli being an intero dicted pleasure. When these gallant fellows, however, are off duty there is no such restriction, and in the square of the Carrousel he may, if he pleases, gaze his fill at the apartments on the rez de chaussée, where they are quartered, and where he may see at an open window, as I did, a. black man in his shirt-sleeves giving lessons in fencing, to the great delight of a gaping crowd outside. How the rest of the palace is tenanted I cannot pretend to say. Since the last revolution it has served the purposes of an hospital, a barrack, and an exhibition, -and before it is restored to its original destination, it may very probably be converted into a prison or a maison de santé. The gardens of the Tuileries are nursery--. gardens to as great an extent as ever ; the same old women lie perdues in them, behind the trees, ready to pounce down with unerring aim on the occupants of chairs; and seedy-looking individuals, who do not even disdain to beg, are as numerous there as elsewhere.
Before the revolution of 1830, the Swiss - sentinels - suffered none to enter the gardens who wore a casquette or blouse, or carried a bundle ; and when the three glorious days were past, instead of the consigne being “On n'entre pas en casquette,” it was made a joke to say, “On
n'entre pas sans casquette.” This has been improved upon in practice since the establishment of the republic, though there is no mot extant on the subject, -and if any one were desirous now of taking in at a glance the dirtiest and most ragged of the population, the gardens of the Tuileries, the Place de Concorde, and the avenues of the Champs Elysées, would offer him the finest opportunity of any part of the capital.
I have spoken only of those parts of Paris which, though they lie in a small compass,
offer more amusement to the stranger than all the rest of the city ; but a wider survey only confirmed the first impression. It was decidedly not worth while to linger in a place where nothing—not even an émeute-was going on; the time of the year, about the middle of September, when nobody is censé to be in Paris, was also against a protracted visit ; so the party, of which I formed one, bidding adieu to such of the withered trees of liberty as had not yet been rooted up by order of the préfet de police, set out by the Orleans railway to pass a fortnight amongst the vineyards and chấteaux on the Loire.
II. No one requires to be told that the motto of republican France is “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.” It is written on every public building and on every pan de mur that is long enough to hold it and clean enough to allow it to be visible. The only place where I observed it shorn of its fair proportions was on the outside of the Elysée Bourbon, in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, and there the word “Fraternité" was rather ominously huddled into a corner, like an afterthought, or an impossibility.
It is as well to accept this conclusion generally, for the thing itself is not to be met with. Neither can I say much for the application of the other high-sounding phrases. “Egalité” abounds, but it is not the equality which elevates : it does not raise the lowly from a debased condition, but brings down that which was above it to its own fallen state, As to “ Liberté,” whoever happens to meet with it must be a person singularly endowed. So far are they in France from taking off restrictions, that, with every move or improvement to make man a freer agent, a clog is added to counterbalance the gain. Take, for instance, the system in operation at all the French (as at the German and Dutch) railway stations. As soon as the traveller's ticket is taken, and his excès de bagages paid for (an inevitable result, let him travel in the very lightest marching order), he is admitted, à travers a file of armed men, into the waiting-room for which he has qualified.
These rooms are well enough of themselves, except for a paucity of light, which either enters from the roof or from the side remotest from the trains, and then they are placed so high as to be inaccessible; but though the couches and fauteuils are of oak and velvet, and all the decorations in excellent taste, the place is at the best but
pen from whence there is only one exit, and that at a given signal. As a matter of convenience to the railway authorities, and as a means of diminishing confusion, the arrangement is not a bad one, but the morale of the affair is at variance with one's preconceived notions. With “ Liberty” staring one out of countenance at every turn, it seems something like an infringement
may dance if
you please, but
of it to be driven nolens volens into a corner, to be let loose only at the will and pleasure of a grim official, and whether for good or evil it seems to show that the genius of the country is in favour of restraint. You
must dance in fetters. Although circulating libraries are not yet established at the French railway stations, cheap literature and newspapers without end are to be bought there, to beguile the time on the journey should it chance to hang heavily on hand. This was not likely to happen with us, for, though the country we were about to visit was not altogether new, the way to it was; and as we were whirled along through the rich orchards and smiling gardens which surround the numerous country-houses on the south side of Paris, it was impossible not to enjoy the scene. The weather was magnificent, the sun shone brilliantly in the clear blue sky, and the air was pure, fresh, and invigorating
It is this lightness of the air which, more than anything else, offers the greatest contrast between France and his own country to an Englishman's sensations. It is to this air, in my opinion, that the French are indebted for that volatile quality which is the most amusing part of their character. There is a pressure upon them just now, they are exhausted with their internal political struggles, their losses have been heavy and their prospects are gloomy enough, but the national elasticity is unimpaired. Paris, the mirror in which all France is reflected, may for a time present a clouded aspect, but the vapours will pass away and the polished surface shine brighter than ever. My theory with respect to France may be a fanciful one, but I look upon her as the country created to keep the rest of Europe from stagnation. Her vivacity may occasionally be too mercurial for her more sober neighbours, but the quicksilver that flows in her veins is a happy set-off to the more solid metal of which other nations are composed. To extinguish the French character—if such a thing were possiblewould be like putting down Punch: if the sprightly; malicious, unscrupulous puppet were finally knocked on the head, we should never laugh again.
The rate of travelling on such of the French railways as have been open for any length of time is nearly, if not quite, as fast as with us, expresstrains of course excluded, there being no convoi de vitesse except for special purposes. It took us, therefore, only three hours to get to Orleans, passing through a country which for the greater part of the way was not only full of beauty, but abounded in objects of interest. It was not long before we were in the midst of the vineyards which skirt the Seine, and, as the vintage had not yet begun here, we saw them in the full glow of their golden leaves and purple clusters. The apple-trees, which were dotted along the line, were perfect pictures, and seemed as if they had served as models for the illuminators of old manuscripts, where the minute painting of flowers and fruit was carried to the extremest point of fidelity to nature. Then came sunny gardens shedding the perfume of mignionette and autumnal roses, and gleaming with the brightest and richest hues of many-tinted dah ias. At intervals were modern châteaux, the spires of antique churches, and here and there some relic of a feudal time, -such, for example, as the lofty tower of Montlhéry, beneath which the bloody battle was fought that sufficed for the military fame of Louis XI., or the singular ruin opposite to Etampes, called Guinette, magnificent still in spite of the fissures which have cloven it half way down. Before we Nov.--VOL. LXXXVII. NO. CCCXLVII.