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De St. Ouen (search for this): chapter 10
eat number of other staircases, all of stone, running in every direction about the tower. Indeed, every step that I took showed the extent of the building. From the tower I saw the palace of the archbishop, and his gardens beneath; besides looking down completely upon the whole city and the adjoining country, with the Seine curling through the beautiful meadows, green at this very close of the month of December. Next passed to a building scarcely less interesting or ancient, laEglise de St. Ouen. Beautiful rose-painted windows, tombs, and a splendid Gothic coup d'oeil arrested the attention. From this we passed to the adjoining building, the Hotel de Ville, or city hall. Here was the museum, a gallery of paintings and statues: we hardly paused long enough fully to study a single picture, much less several hundred; and yet I cannot but record the admiration, blind and untutored, which was excited by this first view of the arts in Europe. In the collection, a painting was point
Shakspeare (search for this): chapter 10
also we passed in a narrow street the house in which Pierre Corneille was born, on which was printed in large characters, La Maison du Grand Corneille. It was a tall and well-looking house, the lower part of which, I think, was occupied by a brazier. A beautiful bronze statue of Corneille has been quite recently erected by subscription on one of the bridges. My guide spoke of him as one of the greatest men of France: the same in France, he said, as that great man that lived in England. Shakspeare, I said. Yes, said he; he died not many years ago! At dinner to-day we had the music of the harp instead of the guitar, and an attendant appeal to charity. It seems that I could spend months in Rouen and still find interest. If I had time and fortune I should like, while here, to read the various histories of this wonderful cathedral, and master the romantic history of Normandy. From Normandy sprang the long line of kings that has governed England; and here are the tombs of the fo
Walter Scott (search for this): chapter 10
, for one made in a sailing vessel and during the winter, was exceptionally rapid and agreeable. Journal Dec. 25. On the fourth day I was rejoiced to find myself able to read, though lying in my berth. Previously my time had passed without the relief which this at once afforded. Chancellor Kent had been kind enough to advise me to take a stock of pleasant books, and I had provided myself with some on the morning of sailing. I read the fourth and fifth parts of Lockhart's Life of Scott, James's novel of Attila, Cooper's England, and the Life of Burr, while stretched in my berth; and never were books a greater luxury: they were friends and companions where I was, in a degree, friendless and companionless. At the end of the first week I was able, with some ado, to appear at the dinner-table. I know no feeling which, in a small way, is keener than for a man disabled by the weakness rather than the nausea of sea-sickness, with his appetite returning upon him like a Bay of
Rollo (search for this): chapter 10
testifies that it was done by those who commanded hands for labor with a facility not unlike that which summoned the thousands of laborers who raised the pyramids of Egypt. I can hardly imagine such a work at the present day. No building, unless it be Westminster Abbey, abounds more in historical associations. Enlarged, if not built, by the ancient dukes of Normandy anterior to the conquest of England, it is the chosen place where the bones of many of them repose. Here are the remains of Rollo, the first duke of Normandy and the ancestor of the Conqueror, and over them a monumental effigy; of William of the Long Sword, his son; of Henry, the father of Coeur de Lion; and here the Lion-heart itself was deposited. At a later day, the remains of the Duke of Bedford—the English regent of France, discomfited by the Maid of Orleans—were deposited here; and an inscription behind the great altar marks the spot. Different parts, in the neighborhood of altars, are occupied by inscriptions
John Munroe (search for this): chapter 10
as able, with some ado, to appear at the dinner-table. I know no feeling which, in a small way, is keener than for a man disabled by the weakness rather than the nausea of sea-sickness, with his appetite returning upon him like a Bay of Fundy tide, to lie in his berth and hear the clatter of plates and the merry voices of his fellow-passengers, as they attacked a turkey or a duck, and as another cork briskly left the bottle. Our dinners I found quite pleasant. Our company was small,— Mr. John Munroe, a young merchant going to establish himself in Paris; Mr. Darlington, a midshipman on leave of absence for his health; M. Vasseur, a young Frenchman returning home after upwards of a year's absence; and a young man, a brother of the captain. And though with none of these did I have any particular sympathy,–any thing, indeed, which under other circumstances would have led to more than a passing acquaintance,—yet I found them uniformly pleasant; and our dinners, between four and five o'<
Montmorency (search for this): chapter 10
her vehicles were driving with the same rapidity, building after building bursting upon us, and long lines of splendid shops, until at last we were landed at the bureau of all the Messageries Royales of France,—the focus of all the diligences from every quarter, situated in the Rue des Victoires. Here our baggage was inspected by an officer of the police. We gave our trunks to porters, who, by means of a sort of rack, took them, large and heavy as they were, on their backs to the Hotel Montmorency, Boulevard Montmartre No. 12. Dinner despatched, I went about ten o'clock to Frascati's,—the great hell of Paris. By law all public gaming-houses are forbidden after the first of January, which commences this midnight. Passing through an outside court, and then a short entry, we entered an antechamber, where there were a large number of servants in livery who received our hats and outside garments, no one being allowed to enter the gambling salons with either. The hats already hangi
Scott Lockhart (search for this): chapter 10
ng, and the voyage, for one made in a sailing vessel and during the winter, was exceptionally rapid and agreeable. Journal Dec. 25. On the fourth day I was rejoiced to find myself able to read, though lying in my berth. Previously my time had passed without the relief which this at once afforded. Chancellor Kent had been kind enough to advise me to take a stock of pleasant books, and I had provided myself with some on the morning of sailing. I read the fourth and fifth parts of Lockhart's Life of Scott, James's novel of Attila, Cooper's England, and the Life of Burr, while stretched in my berth; and never were books a greater luxury: they were friends and companions where I was, in a degree, friendless and companionless. At the end of the first week I was able, with some ado, to appear at the dinner-table. I know no feeling which, in a small way, is keener than for a man disabled by the weakness rather than the nausea of sea-sickness, with his appetite returning upon h
Brockholst Livingston (search for this): chapter 10
he journal begins thus:— Dec. 25, 1837.—Christmas. It is now seventeen days since I left New York for Havre in the ship Albany, Captain Johnston. Described in a letter of Sumner to Judge Story, Dec. 25, as a man of science and veracity. My passage had been taken, and my bill on the Rothschilds in Paris obtained, on the 7th December. On that day dined with a pleasant party at Mrs. Ledyard's, Mrs. Susan Ledyard, 53 Crosby Street; a friend of Judge Story, and the daughter of Brockholst Livingston, a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, 1806-23. She died March 7, 1864; surviving her husband, Benjamin Ledyard, more than half a century.— the last dinner of my native land. Left early, called on one or two friends, and spent the residue of the hours before retiring—running far into the watches of the night—in writing letters; saying some parting words to the friends whom I value. And a sad time it was, full of anxious thoughts and doubts, with mingled gleams of g
Coeur Lion (search for this): chapter 10
. I can hardly imagine such a work at the present day. No building, unless it be Westminster Abbey, abounds more in historical associations. Enlarged, if not built, by the ancient dukes of Normandy anterior to the conquest of England, it is the chosen place where the bones of many of them repose. Here are the remains of Rollo, the first duke of Normandy and the ancestor of the Conqueror, and over them a monumental effigy; of William of the Long Sword, his son; of Henry, the father of Coeur de Lion; and here the Lion-heart itself was deposited. At a later day, the remains of the Duke of Bedford—the English regent of France, discomfited by the Maid of Orleans—were deposited here; and an inscription behind the great altar marks the spot. Different parts, in the neighborhood of altars, are occupied by inscriptions and engraved effigies of bishops, archbishops, cardinals, and other eminent men, whose standing or character gave them admission after death to this company. Over all was
Susan Ledyard (search for this): chapter 10
hnston. Described in a letter of Sumner to Judge Story, Dec. 25, as a man of science and veracity. My passage had been taken, and my bill on the Rothschilds in Paris obtained, on the 7th December. On that day dined with a pleasant party at Mrs. Ledyard's, Mrs. Susan Ledyard, 53 Crosby Street; a friend of Judge Story, and the daughter of Brockholst Livingston, a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, 1806-23. She died March 7, 1864; surviving her husband, Benjamin Ledyard, more Mrs. Susan Ledyard, 53 Crosby Street; a friend of Judge Story, and the daughter of Brockholst Livingston, a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, 1806-23. She died March 7, 1864; surviving her husband, Benjamin Ledyard, more than half a century.— the last dinner of my native land. Left early, called on one or two friends, and spent the residue of the hours before retiring—running far into the watches of the night—in writing letters; saying some parting words to the friends whom I value. And a sad time it was, full of anxious thoughts and doubts, with mingled gleams of glorious anticipations. I thought much of the position which I abandoned for the present; the competent income which I forsook; the favoring tide, <
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