Julia G[riffiths] Crofts to Frederick Douglass, March 29, 1859

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER LXV.

RUE BALZAC, PARIS, March 29, 1859.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—Once again I find myself in the gay and brilliant metropolis of "la Belle France;" no longer breathing fog and smoke, and looking on cold, grey skies, but in haling a pure, clear atmosphere, basking in bright sunshine, and feeling (as I have invariably done when I have crossed the channel, and quitted, for a brief season, our dear little, misty, cloudy island for the continent) as if Mount Atlas had been removed from my shoulders. Some one has, some where, said, that an Englishman, when at home, is always grumbling about his climate, and, when abroad, at everything else. This is a libel; yet, perchance, a slight vein of truth runs through the first part of the assertion, for with the comfort of some of us, climate has a good deal to do; and I am prepared to maintain that it's a somewhat difficult matter for any Englishman, (or English woman,) who has been victimized by influenza through an English winter, for weeks together, upon leaden skies, a murky atmosphere, and miry streets, commiserating the sun for his unsuccessful attempts to shine, as much as he commiserates himself for being confined a prisoner in doors, by the weather, to keep up his thoroughly nationality, or to repeat, (when February has come,) con amore, Cowper's well know lines, commencing, "England! with all thy faults, I love thee!" Be this as it may, it is very pleasant to look on "les Champs Elysees," and to see the beautiful foliage of early spring, opening out beneath agure skies, and in the light of unclouded sunshine. There is an indescribably and irresistible fascination in Paris, to be found, I am incline to believe, in few other cities. Munich (when I explored its rich art-treasures, some years since) seemed to be a city of the present; Nuremberg, with its tall green, quaint houses, with gable ends, and old fashioned roofs—its winding, grass-grown streets—its almost innumerable reminiscences of Albert Durer and Adam Kraaft—its mysterious cemetery, full of weird-looking, ancient, bronze monuments—carried to me so entirely back to past ages, that I found it difficult to realize that I looked on real, live men and women walking in the streets, and not on the ghosts of those who live in other days! Nuremberg is a city of the past. Paris is both of the past and the present. It has it own peculiar charm.

Now we stand on the Pont de Jena, look down into the Seine, and back into its past, thinking of some of the terrible scenes of other days, witnessed by this rapidly flowing river. On, on, it gushes, unchanged by the agonizing death and troubled life so often found by its side. It heard the fatal signal given from the belfry of St. Germain l` Auxerrois, on the Eve of St. Bartholomew, and received into its rushing waters many poor victims of that dread massacre; it has probably witnessed more terrible revolutions than any river in Europe—more anarchy, cruelty and bloodshed! Yet on it flows, all unheeding, its banks adorned with wide and beautiful quais, and stately edifices raise their heads on either side—lovely gardens stretch themselves out in all directions—rich treasures of architecture and art every where visible—sparkling fountains glimmer in the sunshine—merry, light-hearted people are chatting and gesticulating in all directions—the past has faded from before our eyes—the present asserts its claim—and soon we find ourselves all in vain attempting to moralize on the Pont de Jena, the bright sunshine, the blue skies, the buoyant atmosphere—these vivacious, garrulous French people all combine to forbid it—so we yield ourselves (perchance not altogether unwillingly)

to our circumstances, and are soon threading our way along the Avenue de Neuilly, (a favorite walk of the gay Parisians,) amusing ourselves with the fashion and elegance around us, and contrasting the light-hearted Frenchman with the reflective Englishman. To attempt to tell you, my dear friend, what we have seen, and where we have been since we reached Paris, in a single letter, would be an impossibility—so I will not try. Our stay here is brief and our engagements so numerous, that it is only at intervals I can snatch a few minutes for writing—so I must trust to concluding my budget after I have returned to old England, and to you and your readers accepting a confused mass of "jottings," in place of a letter.

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It is almost as impossible, as it seems to me to be supererogatory to describe the Louvre, with its almost countless attractions of splendor and of art. Yet, I have just returned form our second day there, and can write of nothing else at this time; indeed, I feel in such a dreamy, mesmeric state, as if I were turned into a spirit writer, and could write about its world-renowned Long Gallery with my eyes closed!—then its still more famous "Salon Carre," that is said to contain the choicest specimens of the choice treasures of which the Louvre is so justly celebrated—its gorgeous "Galerie d` Apollon," commenced under Charles IX, completed under the auspices of the present Emperor, and re-opened to the public. The magnificence and gorgeousness of this last named Galley can scarcely be exceeded; it is 184 feet in length and 28 in breadth. The walls and the vaulted ceiling are profusely gilt and elaborately painted. Here are allegorical figures, arabesques and escutcheons in any number and variety. On this side, we see Aurora mounted on her car, on that Amphitrite, or Triumph of the Waters, Here

is a compartment, representing Summer—there another portraying Winter—on this side is Evening—on that, Night. here are stuccos of the Muses, the signs of the zodiac and flowers, beautifully executed, and all manner of emblems and medallions so thickly interspersed that the mind becomes confused, and you quit the spot with but little ability to analyze l` enbarras des richesses of the Galarie d` Apollon. It is just the reverse of this with a neighboring apartment, termed the Salon Carre. The recollection of some of the magnificent paintings that adorn the wall of this Salon will never be effaced from my memory. "The Marriage at Cana," by Paul Verronise, is one of the gems here. More than 120 figures are painted in this wonderful picture, which is colossal in its dimensions. "The Holy Family," of Raffeello here, is one of the finest pictures of that first of painters. I could gaze at it for hours, unwearied, and still discover new beauties both in the design and execution. It is a sould subduing painting that it costs one a pang to leave. Had I my choice of one picture from the Louvre treasures, this would unhesitatingly, be the one I should select. Some other fine Holy Families are here—one by Correggio, another by Andrea del Sarto—a Head of John the Baptist, by [Bernardino?] Luini, some of the masterpieces of Guido, Caravaggio, and Michel Angelo are in this Salon Curre; and even for the Long Gallery of teh Louvre, you quit with regret these wondrous pictures, which stand out from the canvas, and look down upon you from the walls of this department.

I dare not trust myself to particularize any of the paintings of the Long Gallery. They are classical and arranged in accordance with their respective schools. The Italian, Flemish, Spanish and French schools are all extensively represented. Claude is here seen in perfection. I am not an admirer of the French school of painting, yet Vernet has several excellent paintings,

and Claude makes one forget that he belonged to the French school, and came from Lorraine. I do not consider that Murillo is well represented at the Lourve. I would rather have his "Holy Family," in our National Gallery, or his "[Cornish] Boys," from the Dulwich Gallery, than any picture of his now in the Louvre, even though his "Conception" and "Assumption of the Virgin" are here. The riches of the Italian and Venetian schools are endless. Raphael, Correggio, Leonardo da Vinci, Guido, the Carracci, Andrea del Sarto, Michel Angelo, Caravaggio, Giorgione, Titian—mighty Titian!—with many lesser lights of Italy, are all fittingly represented here. Time fails you to look at all the wonders spread out before you, much less to tell of them. Then the Flemish school, with countless "Vans," &c., contains some wonderous minutely painted pictures. Steenwyck`s interiors of churches, Ruisdael`s dark storm scenes, Rembrandt`s lights and shadows. Paul Potter`s cattle, Wouwerman`s white horses, Denner's "Old Woman," are world renowned; and Ostade, Gerard Dow, Braurer, and Bergham, and last but not least, Rubens, and Vandyck, what can we say of all these mighty masters, but that we needed a month, instead of two days, to make ourselves thoroughly acquainted with their wondrous works, and that we grieved when the clock sounded the hour for bidding adieu to the Long Gallery of the Louvre. We only passed and repassed Muses Egyptian. Our own Museum is rich in Egyptian antiques, and we had no spare time—so, on went we to the Musee des Souverains, which is comprised of five rooms, that interested me exceedingly, as it contains memorials and paintings of some of the leading monarchs of France—not omitting Henry IV. and his queen, Marie de Medicis.—