The Paris Sketch Book | Page 8

the removal of
the milliner's curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady's teeth.--Since
the last relais, the Diligence has been travelling with extraordinary
speed. The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrilly. The
conductor blows incessantly on his horn, the bells of the harness, the

bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the
great hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously
increased within this, the last ten minutes; and the Diligence, which has
been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes
gallantly forward, as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same
space of time. Thus it is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint
Stephen's--he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He
gallopeth at the commencement; in the middle he lingers; at the close,
again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep; he cracketh the
whip of his satire; he shouts the shout of his patriotism; and, urging his
eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the sleepers, and inspires the
weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator! What a capital coach!
We will ride henceforth in it, and in no other!
But, behold us at Paris! The Diligence has reached a rude-looking gate,
or grille, flanked by two lodges; the French Kings of old made their
entry by this gate; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were
fought before it. At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a
busy crowd of men, in green, examining the packages before they enter,
probing the straw with long needles. It is the Barrier of St. Denis, and
the green men are the customs'-men of the city of Paris. If you are a
countryman, who would introduce a cow into the metropolis, the city
demands twenty- four francs for such a privilege: if you have a
hundredweight of tallow-candles, you must, previously, disburse three
francs: if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog: but upon these
subjects Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have already
enlightened the public. In the present instance, after a momentary pause,
one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and the
ponderous vehicle pursues its journey.
The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents a
strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where
everything, in the dingy and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it
were painted in India-ink--black houses, black passengers, and black
sky. Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life and color.
Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of
GUTTER,--not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture
invaluable. On each side are houses of all dimensions and hues; some
but of one story; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the

haberdashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of
gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the street.
Milk-women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, are, at this
early hour of morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian
café-au-lait. Gay wine-shops, painted red, and smartly decorated with
vines and gilded railings, are filled with workmen taking their
morning's draught. That gloomy-looking prison on your right is a
prison for women; once it was a convent for Lazarists: a thousand
unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now occupy that mansion: they
bake, as we find in the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons;
they mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners;
they make hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend
chapel every Sunday:--if occupation can help them, sure they have
enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of the legislature to superintend
the morals and linen at once, and thus keep these poor creatures
continually mending?--But we have passed the prison long ago, and are
at the Porte St. Denis itself.
There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass: it commemorates
some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovicus Magnus, and
abounds in ponderous allegories--nymphs, and river- gods, and
pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis; Louis passing over the Rhine in
triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost, in the year of our
Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame the man some years
afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions make no
mention. Passing, then, round the gate, and not under it (after the
general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the
boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming
white buildings; then, dashing down the Rue