my “first day in paris” commenced at night. if sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, i will commence this chapter in the day by saying, “where now! valet de place?” “notre dame,” he replied, and the coachman drove away towards the boulevards. in half an hour’s time, he reined before the door of that “venerable old monument of reality and romance.” i approached it like a timid child being baited with a shining sixpence. as my feet touched the sill, a peal came from the belfry, one of those sonorous twangs, that have made so many hearts flinch for hundreds of years in the “bloody bastile,” and it vibrated from my timid heart to all parts of my frame. at this moment a reverend father offered me his hand, who had all the time been concealed beneath what one might well take to be a dark black coffin standing on end. i accepted his hand, and he led me quietly in that vast “sepulchre of kings.”

in all directions i saw magnificent aisles, and altars with burning incense. magnificent pictures representing all reverend worth, from the “son of man,” to saints of france. golden knobs with inscriptions thereon, adorned the footsteps of every visitor thereof, denoting the downwardness of kings who had once ruled nations. whilst standing there awestruck with departed worth, i gazed downward with a submissive heart, when lo! i stood upon the coffin of a king! i quickly changed my position, but stepped upon a queen. the valet was relating to me the many different opinions the people had about stepping on noted personages, and how unnecessary it was to take notice of such things as they were dead, when i got disgusted at his ignorance, and stepped from a queen to a princess.

to describe this gorgeously furnished sanctum, it is enough to say, that all the brilliant artists of this scientific people have been engaged for hundreds of years in its decoration. not only employed by the coffers of the church of france, but by the throne that upheld numerous kings, as well as the wish of the whole populace of france, and the spoils of other nations. hundreds of people from different parts of the world visit it every day, and all leave a franc or two. thousands of parisians visit it every day, and they make no mark of decay. it stands a living monument of church and state.

drive me to the national assembly, i said to the coachman. in ten minutes i was going up the gallery. before i went in, the valet went to a member’s coachman, and gave him a franc, and he gave in return a ticket to the gallery. each member is allowed so many gallery tickets, and if he fails in giving them out, he makes his servants presents of them, and they sell them.

they were debating republican principles. louis napoleon was then president of the republic, and on the door of every building and gate of france were these words in legible letters, “liberte eqalite fraternite.” louis napoleon was not there that day, and they seemed to have a good time, like mice when the cat is away. the most incomprehensible part of their proceeding was, sometimes two would be speaking at once, regardless of the chair. the speaker hammered away furiously, but it was hard to tell, unless you knew, whether he was beating up a revival or a retreat from destruction; as they cooled off their debative heat, there was always twenty or thirty ready to throw agitating fuel in the furnace. as they would cool down a whiff, mushroom-like risings, would be perceptible in four or five different parts of the spacious hall. i could make nothing out of what was going on, save willingness to talk instead of listening, and i left. one handsome and intelligent looking gentleman descended at the same time, which i learned to be the correspondent of the new york tribune. i then took a curve like tour back, across the seine, by the tuillieries, luxomburg, and back to the same part of the boulevards, which was more crowded with fashion, than when i passed along in the forenoon, and went home. night came on, and with it, the gayest time of paris. the valet said i must go to jardin mabeille, (a ball), i rode there. this is a nightly ball, but there was no less than fifty vehicles of different comforts, which showed that a great many foreigners were there, because parisians generally prefer promenading when going to such a feast of pleasure. i paid two francs and went in.

it was a garden about a square block in size. in all parts of it was shrubbery of the most fragrant odors. there was an immense number of little walks, with neat rustic seats for lovers to caress in, from the disinterested eye; and on my first preambulation, i got lost, and intruded more than was polite, but i did not know the importance of this discretion, until i perilously saw the danger. had i gone on without stopping, i would have led myself to the orchestra, where and when i could have taken part in the amusement to the approbation of all present. when i discovered that i did not know what i was about, i stopped quickly and looked scrutinizingly around those snug little bowers. all in a minute out came a “bower lover,” as furious as a cat. i asked him “where the ball was;” he discovered that i was no frenchman, and could not have meant intrusion; he directed me to go straight ahead, and i left him in his bliss.

like a round pigeon house on the end of pole, i pronounce the orchestra. a stair ran up to the pigeon house from the platform round the great pole, or post that supported it. a small enclosure was under the orchestra and occasionally the band would descend to the platform to play. round this orchestra they danced. the spectators seemed to be exclusively foreigners; they made a ring around the gay lotharios as unbroken as the one they made around the orchestra. the bassy and fluty melodious band, discoursed the sweetest waltz that ever tickled my admiration. off they glided like a scared serpent, winding their curvy way as natural as if they were taking their chances. there they come! but there is some still going in the ranks, and there is still a vacancy. twice they have made the circuit, and the hoop is complete. now to me it is all dizziness, and it all looked to me as a moving body of muses from times of yore. occasionally my eye would cling to a couple for an instant, but this was occasioned by the contrast between a large, fat, and heavy gentleman, that had become a troublesome neighbor to all that chose to get in his way. whenever any of the lighter footed would discover their close proximity to his appollo pedestals, like a shooting star they would flit away, and leave him monarch of all he surveyed.

i wish to describe a few of the most conspicuous, but i will wait for a quadrille, where i can get them to take their places in description.

the name of my valet de place is oscar.

“oscar, what nation does that puny looking, red-skinned man belong to?” “a maltese,” said he, as if he never would stop sounding the ese, but he added the “i believe.” i afterwards found out that he was some of the canary island’s stock; but the best of the stock. a beautiful french girl held him by the hind part of his coat with her left hand, whilst she held with her right his hand, lest he might go off in his glee, “half shot.” she was also afraid that some interested lady might take better care of him than herself. he was fashionably dressed, and in paris, as a nabob, his actions represented some rich man’s foolish son.

i swear by my father’s head, i see a live turk! turban! sack hanging between his legs, more empty than falstaff’s! one of the genuine breed that followed saladin to the plains of palestine and stood before richard’s battle-axe with his scimitar! one of the head choppers of christians! perhaps the next will be the amiable countenance of “blue beard.” the old turk and his beard is trying to dance, but his bag won’t let him. he is let down, and goes off the track. he is now mixing some oakum with tobacco. now he is looking on, like a poor boy at a frolic—yes! he would if he could. i am sure his first duty to-morrow will be to hunt a mosque and give up dancing. he is leaving and trying to get his money back.

i walked round on the opposite side, and saw several other incomprehensibles. “what tall, fine looking, yellow skinned man is that, oscar, with that tall lady standing looking on?” “that, sir,” said he, “is a very rich quadroon from louisiana, i believe new orleans. he lives at no. 4, boulevard possoniere, when he is in town, but he has his country residence nine miles in the country. he has a very handsome french lady for a wife, and it is said he left new orleans on account of their prejudice to color. he is a very popular man here, and is said to be worth $150,000.” just then i saw mr. holbrook, of the new orleans picayune, and mr. fellowes of the firm of fellowes & co., step up to this man and shake him warmly by the hand, and said, “mr. cordevoille, don’t you know me? i patronized your tailor’s shop five or six years.” cordevoille had been the largest tailorizer in the south, and accumulated a large fortune, and sold out to his partner, mr. lacroix, who still is carrying on the firm under the name and style of cordevoille & lacroix. mr. cordevoille was looking the very picture of a gentleman; he seemed to be a great object of respect to those that spoke to the lady he was conversing with in the french tongue. he reminded me more of prince albert in his manners than any other person around. had his face not been pock marked, he would have conveyed a conception of an inferior appollo; his tout ensemble had as many brilliant cuts of a true gentleman’s conduct, as the single diamond he wore. after some enquiry about new orleans, he invited some american gentlemen to his country seat; it was to be on the following day, and they being high toned gentlemen of sense, they accepted, not so much for pleasure and information, as for giving mr. cordevoille to understand that they understood the duty of gentlemen; no doubt they felt that if they refused, mr. cordevoille might feel the weight of such a refusal. they agreed also to stay all night, which invitation had been extended by mr. cordevoille. lest it be a censure on these gentlemen, i refrain from going any further with a subject so delicate.

i now walked under the roof of a very extensive hall; in it was all kinds of refreshments. all one side of the hall was a door, so that when the crowd in the garden was likely to be overtaken by a shower, dancing went on in there. immense crowds were seated about at tables smoking, and discussing politics, but not one gentleman had his foot on the table, except an american quietly seated in one corner in a profound soliloquy. he was chewing tobacco. i did’nt stop to see where he spit, for fear he might claim nationality. i learned that several of the quietly seated, were members of the national assembly. it was now getting late, and gentlemen that had pretty mates were going through the gates in compact succession. why gentlemen with pretty mates could not stay to the last was a mystery to me. but to solve that mystery i followed the crowd, and discovered that the nearer they got home, the more affectionate they got.

the most of these couples would stop at the first cafe and call for their tass du coffee and vere d’eau de vie (cup of coffee and glass of brandy). they would set the brandy on fire and burn the spirits out, and then pour it into the coffee. as soon as they began to feel the effects of this pleasant nourishment, they would move again for home.

at 11 o’clock at night carriages were running in all directions from balls, theatres, operas, museums, concerts, soirees, dancing schools, and more amusements than could be named in one article.

i went to the hotel, seeking my own amusement. i could not conjecture a more comfortable place than the house i roomed at, after seeing all this night’s bustle. even if i could not find my own room, i was in the house of acquaintances.

i went to the room of an acquaintance, and talked and lingered in agreeable conversation and amusement until near day. i approached my own chamber, and found that whilst i was out helping to make a city of dissipators, elvereta had been to my room and arranged my wardrobe comme foi. this ends my “first night in paris.”