Part 6 (2/2)
In the middle of the afternoon, we reached the Northern Railway Terminus _(Embarcadere du Nord) _ in Paris. This magnificent station covers nearly 10 acres of ground. The arrival and departure sheds in the center are 230 metres long, and 70 metres wide. (The meter is equal to 39.370079 inches).
Its facade is 180 metres long, 38 metres (about 125 feet) high and consists of a lofty central arch and two lateral arches. This imposing front is adorned with twenty-three colossal statues of n.o.ble female figures, representing the following, princ.i.p.al cities of Europe: Paris, (surmounting the central arch), Londres, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Frankfort, Vienne, Bruixelles, Cologne, Amsterdam, Donai, Dunkerque, Boulogne, Compeigne, St. Quentin, Cambrai, Beauvais, Lille, Armiens, Rouen, Arras, Laon, Calais, Valengiens. (1864).
There are a number of other very fine railway stations in Paris, but we can only take room to define their area. The largest is the Strasbourg Railway Terminus, nearly 13 acres in extent; while the Western Railway Terminus covers an area of 5 acres.
As soon as our train had stopped, I followed my French companion (Prof.
S.) into the extensive apartments of the station, and pa.s.sed muster. I expected to be asked for my ”pa.s.sport,” but slipped through unchallenged.
On pa.s.sing out into the yard I was again saluted by my English friends who were about entering a ”bus” to drive to a hotel. In bidding each other good-by and G.o.d-speed on our journeys, I ran a great risk of losing my Parisian friend, in the great mult.i.tude of people that thronged the yard and pavement; but fortunately, I found him again in a few minutes.
Before we reached the street, I was already made to feel that some strange scenes and experiences were undoubtedly in store for me in Paris and likely throughout the rest of my continental tour, for I had already observed one of those strange social habits of the Parisians in a most public place which the nice delicacies of our language and customs forbid to describe.
The French, the Italians, and many of the inhabitants of South Germany and parts of Switzerland--I should say all the sunny lands in Europe--have handed down to our day, manners and customs which speak in a language that cannot be misunderstood, and with a force far louder than a whisper, that _it is not very long since man took to dressing himself_. In my intercourse with those people, from Paris to Egypt, I nowhere observed any baneful influences exerted over morality by these practices in question, for they are not thought about by those people which are guilty of them, but many an American will be shocked at them, and go home declaring that such indecencies _must_ lead to immoralities, even if they have never gone to the trouble to see whether they actually _do_. Their pernicious influence upon American tastes and manners may be granted, but that does not prove that foreigners, who are cradled, nursed and brought up in these customs, will be affected in like manner. American and English tourists are alike shocked and provoked at the sight of the innumerable nude statues and paintings, on the, pleasure gardens and in the art galleries, but the ladies of the continent seem to see as little of indecencies or improprieties in those things, as we do in opening our Bibles and seeing saints and apostles represented with bare feet--the _toes_ standing out naked over the sandals, or when we read in the family circle and in the public capacity of teachers and ministers, pa.s.sages from Scriptures, such as no one would be capable of reading if they were found in a periodical or a newspaper.
During my first month on the continent, I was often vexed to think that much of what I saw, that was not only very interesting and impressive, but which had likewise an important bearing on history, was of such a nature that it would either const.i.tute unfit material for general diffusion, or seem to be incredible to the average reader.
We went down Boulevard (p.r.o.n. Bool'var') de Magenta about one-third of a mile, to Boulevard de Strasbourg, (p.r.o.n. Straws'boor'), thence along that avenue (?) to the foot of it (another third of a mile) and continued our walk down Boulevard de Sebastopol to Rue de Rivoli, along which latter street we went half a mile west, where my friend, guide and teacher procured for me a room not far from _his_ home.
[With this gentleman I spent from three to five hours daily, during my first stay of fifteen days, in walking about the city seeing sights and studying French reading and p.r.o.nunciation].
As soon as I had taken my room, I retraced my steps to the railway station and fetched my sachel; this time, alone. It was not a little task, for the distance from my quarters, which were near the center of Paris, to the station, was over two miles. The names of the Boulevards ”Magenta, Strasbourg and Sebastopol,” I was constantly repeating in my mind, so that I might not forget the way that I had come with my friend, the first time.
It was dark by the time I reached my lodging place the second time, but I had seen and learned enough for one day. Almost two miles of _Boulevards_ and nearly half a mile of Rue de Rivoli (the finest _Rue_ in Paris) thrice walked that afternoon, had presented to me more that was new, than I had expected to see in a week.
The Boulevards,
like a dozen other of the distinguis.h.i.+ng features of Paris, are _new things_ to the American; and as they are quite different from anything that I have yet seen of the kind in this country, I shall here take room to note some of their striking characteristics. They are the grandest streets in Paris, sustaining about the same relation to the ”Rues” that the avenues in our American cities sustain to the streets. In the French nomenclature, the names applied the different cla.s.ses of thoroughfares, &c., run as follows: 1st., avenues; 2nd., boulevards; 3rd., rues; 4th., allees or ruelles, and 5th., pa.s.sages (p.r.o.n. pahsahjes). In America, the corresponding terms are 1st., avenues; 2nd.,----; 3rd., streets; 4th., alleys, and 5th., pa.s.sages. It will be observed, that we have here nothing to correspond with the boulevard. In the cla.s.sification here presented, the term avenue is to designate thoroughfares of great width and shaded with rows of trees on each side, as are the avenues in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. In most American cities, the avenues are diagonal streets or openings connecting distant points of the cities, but this definition loses most of its force when applied to European cities, as they are not built square or rectangular.
Champs Elysees intersects a fine and extensive reservation, (having many of the characteristics of the pleasure garden), extending from the Jardin des Tuileries (Garden of the Tuileries) to the Arc de Triomphe (the Arch of Triumph). Its length is a mile and a quarter, and the garden or park of which it is the grand thoroughfare, is, in one place, about a third of a mile in width. The buildings are consequently a considerable distance off from this carriage-way; but in the boulevards, nothing except the pavement intervenes between the street and the houses. The boulevards of Paris are its widest as well as its n.o.blest streets. The pavements on each side of them, are, in many instances from twenty-five to thirty feet in width.
Thick rows of large and elegant shade-trees border them on both sides, and under these are placed numerous wooden settees for the accommodation of the public. Many of the 6,000 cafes which are strewn over Paris, grace these boulevards with their gla.s.s fronts. During the summer season, most of the refreshments and meals are served in front of the cafes on the pavements, and grand is the sight of seeing ten thousand gay Parisians seated along these splendid streets, chattering away over their wine and coffee! Paris is about five miles long by four miles wide, and few are the houses in the entire city that are less than five or six stories high. A few only of the outer streets have as low as four and five story houses.
These houses are mostly built of stone, having stone floors, even. Each room is arched over from the four walls; upon these arches are placed the flagstones const.i.tuting the next floor, and it is in consequence of this arching that each story is so very high. The white sandstone of the Paris basin const.i.tutes the princ.i.p.al building stone. The city is divided into seven sections, and each section is required by law, to either sc.r.a.pe the fronts of their houses once every seven years, so that the walls look new again, or to paint them anew. No proprietor can choose his time, but when the year is come for his section to repair their houses, it must be done.
In consequence of this regulation, the streets never look _checkered_ by old and new houses contrasting with each other, but the external appearance of the buildings is made to harmonize, and each street is a unit in appearance. In the finest part of Paris there are few alleys or stables, but splendid rues and boulevards lined with magnificent buildings with elegant fronts, have taken their places. This section is over three miles in length, nearly two in width, and presents scenes of beauty, grandeur and magnificence which are _unrivaled_ by anything that the first other cities of the world have ever brought forth.
Its beautiful balconies, as numerous as the windows, const.i.tute another very charming feature of Parisian scenery. The streets are always kept clean and wet by sweepers and sprinklers, and the broad smooth pavements along the boulevards, free from dust and all manner of rubbish or obstructions, afford a suitable promenade for gayety, wealth and fas.h.i.+on to roam. Here beauty's feet may stray, arrayed in the most showy colors or the stateliest attire, without fear of encountering nasty crossings or of being splashed over and soiled by teams upon muddy streets. Ladies attired in gaudy ball-room dresses with long trails, would scarcely present a contrast in dress with the average promenaders. All dress equally well, on Sundays, and on week-days, so that Paris presents to the foreigner, the appearance of a city celebrating an eternal Sabbath. Even when it rains, the pedestrian can walk _for miles_ about the city, without being in want of an umbrella. In that event he need only confine his course to the
Arcades and Pa.s.sages.
Webster defines an arcade as ”A long, arched building or gallery lined on each side with shops.” May the reader not be misled by this definition; for the arcades of Paris do not have shops on _both_ sides. They are a uniform system of porticoes generally from twenty to thirty feet in width.
Those on Rue de Rivoli are about a mile in length, and the houses to which they belong have been exempted from taxes for thirty years. From these ramify numerous pa.s.sages and other arcades, connecting different parts of the city.
A ”Pa.s.sage” (p.r.o.n. pa-sahj) is a street covered with a gla.s.s roof, elegantly paved, animals and vehicles excluded or shut off, and lined by the first-cla.s.s shops in the city. The most remarkable are the Pa.s.sages des Panoramas, Jouffroy, Verdean, Vivienne, Colbert, Choiseul, Delorine du Saumon, &c. The first of these are the most brilliant and are perhaps not excelled or even equaled by any other in the world, with the solitary exception of Pa.s.sage des Victor Emanuel of Milan, in Italy. Some of these pa.s.sages are called
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