I

PARISIAN SKETCHES.

66

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| but never again returning to the original order; and the music was like unto it-a strain of a joy too full for consciousness; a delight born of the fullness of the present moment, and unhaunted by any thought or fear of what is beyond.

It is true that the great feature of this dance is for the danseuse, in one of its movements, to grasp one foot in her hand and hold it above her head, while she dances on the other across and back, a trick more startling than obscene, and that there are one or two other tours and movements upon which the imagination may if it chooses put a bad construction.

WENT one evening to the famous Jardin Mabille. Mrs. Stowe has immortalized herself in Paris more by a sentence she wrote about this Garden than by her "Uncle Tom." "Miss Beecher-Stowe," writes M. Champfleury, I have already alluded to the particular dance dant compte, dans son Voyage à Paris, d'une ex- which has been so often denounced--the cancursion faite au Jardin Mabille, s'extasiait sur la can. It is odd, however, that a world which delicatesse des danseuses, l'élégance de leurs cava- demands and sustains stage ballets should be liers, et la parfaite distinction avec laquelle ils se scandalized by a dance in which each particikvraient au quadrille. Observation curieuse a no-pant is dressed as carefully as in ordinary sociter d'une Americaine, de l'auteur de l'Oncle Tom."ety-for no girl is even décollete at the Mabille. It is curious; for the usual habit of the rigidly righteous from America and England who visit this place is to atone for the delight they have enjoyed by writing an essay on the utter absence of virtue in Paris. It was the evening of a special fête, and the garden was crowded with people from every clime, including more than a dozen princes, among whom were the Prince of Wales and several of the German princes who are now domesticated in England. The Prince of Wales and the Oriental princes were quite well known, although incognito, by all present, yet they were not persecuted by any idle curiosity. There was not in the large company a woman, with the exception possibly of a few who came for the reasons that took Mrs. Stowe there, who was what by any European code would be termed "virtuous;" yet each was treated with as much respect and gentleness as if she had been a guest at the Tuileries. Each dress was decorous and elegant. Nothing was thought too regal to be bestowed upon these fair creatures. The most delicate wines, the finest Neapolitan ices, were brought to them after each dance by the handsome youths who accepted their hands for the dance as a favor, and bowed gracefully on leaving | them. There was no tipsiness, no swearing, no violence; it was only from the guide-books that one could have learned-except for one particular dance-that this was not a refined fête champetre given by the leaders of the best society.

The French mot says, "What can not be said can be sung, and what can not be sung can be danced." This I know, that beside any operaballet I ever saw, the Mabille dances, and even the can-can, are decent enough for the Shakers. The Mabille is, however, the resort of the demimonde, though it is simply that world's place of amusement. "These people," said an intelligent Parisian to me, are never so innocent as when here." It must be remembered also that here, where the Government forbids marriage unless the pair have a certain amount of money, and where parents may forbid it until their children are twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age, the illegitimate relations, while likely to be much more numerous than elsewhere, are likely also to have far less guilt in them.

Indeed, I find myself unable to associate the idea of guilt, in the dark sense, with the French. They seem to me to be borne through all such scenes as this by a kind of gay spirit without falling into the mire-like those boys who wheel themselves like the wind along the Champs Elysées, bestriding a slender iron bar with two high wheels moving in the same line one after The scene was of wondrous beauty; hun- the other. There is nothing more wonderful dreds of lamps hung over the company, shaped than the unanimity with which the best French like great luminous lilies; aureoles and arches gentlemen-the men of letters, of science, the of light gleamed over the avenues stretching artists-enter into the Parisian régime in these beneath the interlacing branches of trees; col- matters. Philosophers quote Plato and Socraored orbs shot red and golden light into strange tes, and Christians refer to Jesus himself, in dreamy grottoes; gorgeous flowers shone in ex-justification of the gentleness and respect with quisite parterres, from which emerged the mar-which they who are outcasts in England and ble forms of goddesses, fauns, and nymphs. A America are treated in Paris. band, second in completeness to that of Strauss Another thing is to be remembered: Paris is alone, occupied the centre of the crystal circle an individual entity; it has one pulse and a and mingled fragments of Beethoven, Mendels- common instinct. It is enough for one, howsohn, and Weber with the brilliant ecstasies of ever good or bad, to be a Parisian, and that Launer, Strauss, and Offenbach. One piece the person will find friends and defenders. The band performed which seemed to me to express Parisian throws the beggar a sou with the air the very life and soul of the strange scene I was of paying a debt; it is the hand acknowledgwitnessing; it was from Le Diable Voiteaux. ing its need of the foot. And if there were no When its first note was struck the dancers shot thought about it there is a graceful instinct off in pairs in all eccentric movements, each fol- about this people which expresses itself in every lowing its own path in manifold little whirls,thing. Even in their language they are more

nasal than a Puritan, and drop more H's by rule than a cockney does by act; but these our defects are graceful in French.

The social freedom of Paris has been the means of giving to each neighborhood its character which is never without its constituency. Now it is a philosophic rag-picker, or again a street-minstrel. An elderly spirit-medium from Boston fell into an ecstasy the other day in the Jardin des Plantes, and preached away in an unknown tongue to a delighted but not much amazed crowd. The police only interfered when the Medium became too loud.

Paris, setting the fashion of the world, is at the same time the paradise of oddities. The man who most of all excites the wonder and delight of the habitués of the Champs Elysées is a queer old gentleman, in poor but clean snuffcolored dress, who every now and then comes to see and feed the birds. No sooner does this thin, silent old man make his appearance than a general twitter and scream of delight is heard amidst the trees of the Tuileries, and the birds swarm about his head, sit on his shoulders and hands, while others describe a thousand evolutions around his head.

His

much "bock," or German beer, as "vin ordinaire ;" and Germany has threatened to take possession of the French stage. During Lent Beethoven and Mendelssohn sway Paris. The Opera season has witnessed a constant repetition of Athalie with Mendelssohn's chorus, the Magic Flute, Robert, Don Giovanni, and the little unpublished piece by Mozart just discovered, The Goose of Cairo. Goethe, however, is now the ruler of the fashionable world. sceptre is Mignon, whose story has been travestied into a charming melodrama and set to exquisite music by Thomas. Mignon appears in stockings carefully painted to represent bare feet, and though Madame Galli-Marie has none of the spiritual beauty of a Mignon she sings charmingly. A more perfect Wilhelm Meister than that of M. Achard, or a more ideal Philina than Madame Cico could hardly have passed through the scenic brain of Goethe himself. I was somewhat disappointed at learning beforehand that the music of Beethoven to Kennst du das Land was not introduced in rendering that finest of all lyrics; but I found that M. Thomas understood his business very well; in that song Mignon simply elevates her voice and in a

"Who is that?" I asked of one of the group dreamy way half sings half breathes her golden of people who stood by.

dream, accompanied by a soft shiver of violins,

"I never heard his name; he is the Bird- the effect being incomparable. Charmer."

I was almost ready to believe that he was a charmer, for he threw them a very few crumbs -a supply quite inadequate, apart from past and future favors, to produce the curious scene. I tried hard to discover the name of this man, but the Parisians are not curious about the names of their characters; they assign them descriptive names which suffice. For instance: "The man without a hat," "the Persian," "the bouquet-girl," and so on. The old "BirdCharmer" spoke to no human being, but kissed his hand to the birds and quietly went his way toward the river.

"IT'S

LIGHT AND SHADOW.

T'S what folks say, at any rate," affirmed Sally. "I don't know how much truth there is in it. That's what we've got to wait and see."

"How can they!" exclaimed Helen, as her face grew hot and her voice choked with mingled grief and indignation.

"Oh, for that matter, folks are always ready to talk about any thing or nothing!" replied the handmaiden. "We can't hinder that; but we ain't obliged to give heed to 'em unless we choose."

commiseration. "I don't know And yet it may

As Helen went back into her sitting-room Sally looked after her with "Poor thing!" she thought. as I'd ought to have told her. prepare her mind, like."

But Paris understands no humors but its own, as poor Sothern discovered. This actor's engagement at the International Theatre was preceded by his covering the walls of Paris with his physiognomy, represented as Dundreary counting on his fingers. One hundred of these lithographs I counted near the Palais Royal The young girl tried to take up her work as without moving from that point. The passers-usual, but she was too full of what she had just by gazed on them and vacantly inquired of each other, "What is he counting ?" At his first appearance every body went; his second appearance was to empty boxes. The criticism of Paris was, "M. Sothern does not speak good English!"

heard. It was a rude intrusion on her most
sacred feelings. So soon! It was not a year
yet since the dear mother had been there, fill-
ing her own place; and people already began
to talk of her successor! She had not a
thought that there was any truth in it.
father, if not always the most congenial parent,
was hers, at any rate. The idea of a third per-

Her

The strength and height of the wall still existing between France and England is remarkable. The liking of the English for the Em-son, a stranger, coming in between them was peror is perhaps chiefly due to the fact that he is almost the only personage across the Channel who knows any thing about them; it comes of his long residence in England. On the other hand, the Parisians have a passion for every thing German. They now drink almost as

so unnatural that she did not recognize its possibility. But how cruel it was that people would talk in such a way! that the saddest, the most sacred things of life were not safe from gossip! To her and to her father how much that death implied! The loss of what

was dearest, most important in this world-loss | watch, "it's growing late and time for you to never to be atoned for or forgotten. But to be in bed. I hope things will seem brighter to these others it meant simply that there was an-you in the morning. Good-night, my dear." other widower in the place, and the chance of another marriage by-and-by.

Helen took his kiss mechanically and went to her own room. In solitude and silence she went through her bitter struggle. Mother, that dear and sacred memory, was to be nothing any more. The husband had put her utterly away; and for what a substitute! Only one year! The world might call this right and suitable, but to Helen such heartlessness was little short of cruelty.

She did not credit it an instant. Still it made her a little more watchful of Mr. Macdonald's movements. If he were out late of an evening she did not take it for granted, as heretofore, that business had detained him; she wondered what the cause had been, and wished to ask the question, but forbore. Then the absences became so frequent that, spite of And home was to be home no longer. Stranherself, she began to feel uneasy. It was too gers were to come in and take possession of it, dreadful to happen-it could not be. Yet, sup-to drive her from her place by the hearth and pose it should prove true after all? When in her father's heart. That was the hardest things came to this pass she had not long to thing. There was a person whom he preferred wait. There were but few miserable forebod- to her, whom he would bring there against her ings, few trembling reassurances, before it was known, her expressed wishes. And that perdecided for her. Mr. Macdonald announced son how peculiarly unwelcome! Upon Mrs. that he was to be married next month to Mrs. Parker she had never bestowed a thought till Parker. recently. She was a buxom widow, very bus"Oh, father! is it really settled?” she asked. tling and managing, and was quite in the set "Is it too late to help it?"

He was vexed at the moment, but her pale face and imploring eyes softened him. "I don't want to help it, child," he said, but not unkindly. "Why should I begin about it if I had felt in that way?"

Helen was silent. A world of amazement and reproach was in her mind—but why speak? If it were in her father to do so, if he could think of putting that woman in her mother's place, it was useless to say a single word.

"I suppose it's natural that you should take it rather hard," continued Mr. Macdonald. "I should have spoken to you before but for that. But I think you'll find it for your comfort in the end. You're young, and young girls like their liberty; and you have been tied too much to the care of the house."

"Don't speak of my comfort," she said, in a low voice; "such a change as this can never add to it. And I thought I had attended to yours too, father. I am sure I tried."

"So you have," he answered. "You have done nobly for a girl like you. But I can't expect to have you always with me. We have been company for each other so far, but it's natural, as you get your spirits back, that you should want those of your own age about you; and then I must be a dead weight in your circle, or else left alone. And if you married, see how it would be! Oh, I've no doubt," he went on," that you'll think yourself it's all for the best after a while. You'll be relieved of care; and then Amelia will be a companion for you and make the house lively."

"Amelia!" exclaimed Helen. "Is she coming too?"

"Of course," said Mr. Macdonald, rather testily. "Where would you have her go? Her place is with her mother, I should say."

which Helen's family had always frequented. A greater contrast to her own gentle and ladylike mother could not well be imagined. As for Amelia, hardly a young girl of her acquaintance could have been so unacceptable an inmate of the house. Helen had seen a good deal of her at school. Pretty and forward, dull at her studies, but not wanting in a certain pert brightness of speech and repartee, she was especially repugnant to Helen's taste and notions of propriety. She would have felt it a trial, she told herself, to have these people for a week as guests; and now they were coming for life. Coming with authority, too, to set her aside. Her grief, till now, had been only for the irreparable loss; she had not dreamed what new, strange troubles that loss might bring in its train.

To-night she began to realize them.

All was misery, hopeless misery; not one bright spot appeared. Only there was a feeble gleam of consolation in the thought, "How sorry Philip will be for me when he hears of this!"

66

Well, what did Helen say?" inquired Mrs. Parker of her future at his next visit.

Mr. Macdonald was a little embarrassed by this direct appeal. "I think," he said, “that Helen will be reasonable about it."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Parker, in rather an uncompromising tone.

"Well, you see, she was uncommonly attached to her mother, and being so nearly grown up, and having had charge of the housekeeping, it was natural that it should strike her a little uncomfortably just at first."

"Very likely," assented Mrs. Parker, but such naturalness did not tend to endear the proposed daughter to her.

"Helen is a good girl," continued Mr. Macdonald. "I don't think you will have any trouble with her. And I mustn't forget to say that she would like to call on you and Amelia "And now," said the father, looking at his soon; to-morrow, if convenient for you."

"Yes," agreed Helen, with a faltering voice. "Only I had not thought of it before."

selves."

Mrs. Parker shrewdly suspected that she and me would ever be living there ourwas indebted for this courtesy to the father rather than the child; however, she was too judicious to betray such a belief, and responded graciously to the appointment.

Poor Helen, meanwhile, was sufficiently unhappy. The morning after the announcement of the news her father had returned to the subject. She felt it rather hard that she was not left to be miserable in peace for the one little month that remained.

"I wish, my dear," he said, "that you could make it convenient to call on Mrs. Parker before long."

"Is it necessary?" asked Helen, wearily. "Do you suppose she will expect it?"

Mrs. Parker felt no less than her daughter their prospective rise in the world, but she had outgrown the amiable candor of youth. Therefore she offered no response to this comment on the mutability of human affairs.

Helen had an anxious and busy time preparing for her guests. She was determined that every thing should be in the choicest order; Mrs. Parker should see that if she were coming into the house it was not because she was at all necessary to its owner's comfort.

"What sort of biscuit will you have?" asked Sally, full of unspoken sympathy and outspoken zeal. "I don't care. What will be most conven

"I don't know what her expectations are, but it would look kind and friendly. And as [ient for you?" you are to live together it is best not to neglect any attention that may gratify her."

"Well, my emptins ain't just first-rate; I was laying out to make new before I baked again. I guess I'll give 'em some of my cream," biscuit; most folks can eat them, I believe."

"As I am to be so much in her power I had better do all I can to propitiate her, I suppose,' thought Helen, bitterly, reproaching herself the next moment for such an interpretation of the words. "I will go with you any time you like, father," she said aloud.

"And don't you think that it would be well to have her and Amelia take tea with us some day soon? You might invite a few friends to meet them."

"Oh, father, not yet."

"Well, well, no matter about any one else, then. But I should like you to have them here, just by ourselves."

"They can, indeed, if they know what is good," said Helen. "And we must have the tongue boiled very tender, and I do hope I sha'n't fail in the frosting; it was beautiful the last time, but I have not made it often, you know."

"Never you worry," said Sally. "Things'll be good enough; a sight better than they're used to, I'll be bound."

These comfortable prophecies were verified; all turned out well. The cake was light and beautifully baked; the frosting cut without a Helen had gone carefully over the house, and every thing was in exactest order. She thought she might defy the most critical glance to detect aught amiss.

"I don't believe she would come," said Hel-crack. en, decidedly.

"Yes, she would; I am sure of it. And it would have a pleasant look, as if we were suited all around. You know people might make remarks, they might even fancy you were not very well pleased, and if they see every thing going on in this way it will give them no chance to talk."

"Very well," Helen acquiesced. If she could not show much cordiality Mr. Macdonald took no notice. Consent was the main thing. And it was all sure to come right in time, he cheerfully philosophized.

Helen paid her visit, and was received with the utmost complaisance; her invitation, too, was accepted, contrary to all her own ideas of delicacy or probability. The fact of the call was soon reported through the little town, and was justly regarded as equivalent to the reading of the bans.

"We shall know all about it soon enough," remarked the bride elect when her visitors had taken their departure. "Still I've a kind of notion for seeing what the inside of the house is like."

"We know the outside well enough," said Amelia; "it's the handsomest place in town, I think, and always have. Well, ma, it's strange how things turn out, ain't it? I didn't use to suppose when I stopped to look at the hedges and the flower-beds that you

The ladies came rather early as it was such a family visit. Helen met them with all the cordiality she could summon to her aid, and escorted them up stairs to the front bedroom. Mrs. Parker, who did not make this transit with closed eyes, was agreeably surprised; she had not expected such high ceilings, such a handsome hall. As she lingered before the mirror to adjust her shining locks she took a swift and stealthy survey of her future possessions. What handsome furniture; and the Cologne bottles and things on the mantle-picce; real Bohemian! Well, this was something like!

Then Amelia had the looking-glass to herself a moment, and the three descended in state to the parlor.

Helen could not but admit that they were a very well-looking pair. Mrs. Parker was of rather exuberant style, but was held up and kept in bounds by her close-fitting silk. Her black, abundant hair shone with a satin gloss, her bright dark eyes and substantial color were very cheerful and agreeable. As for Amelia, no one ever doubted that she was pretty. "Just what I was at her age!" Mrs. Parker often said, and there was indeed a strong resemblance. But Amelia's eyes were soft instead of merry; her cheek had a changing, wild-rose bloom,