There was a crush of people at the entrance to see the royals make their exit.Gendarmes were busy, and mounted guards went smashing through the crowd to clear a space.Everybody was on the tiptoe of expectation.There is a portion of the Emperor's guard; there is an officer of the household; there is an emblazoned carriage; and, quick, there! with a rush they come, driving as if there was no crowd, with imperial haste, postilions and outriders and the imperial carriage.There is a sensation, a cordial and not loud greeting, but no Yankee-like cheers.That heavy gentleman in citizen's dress, who looks neither to right nor left, is Napoleon III.; that handsome woman, grown full in the face of late, but yet with the bloom of beauty and the sweet grace of command, in hat and dark riding-habit, bowing constantly to right and left, and smiling, is the Empress Eugenie.And they are gone.As we look for something more, there is a rout in the side avenue; something is coming, unexpected, from another quarter: dragoons dash through the dense mass, shouting and gesticulating, and a dozen horses go by, turning the corner like a small whirlwind, urged on by whip and spur, a handsome boy riding in the midst,--a boy in cap and simple uniform, riding gracefully and easily and jauntily, and out of sight in a minute.It is the boy Prince Imperial and his guard.It was like him to dash in unexpectedly, as he has broken into the line of European princes.He rides gallantly, and Fortune smiles on him to-day; but he rides into a troubled future.There was one more show,--a carriage of the Emperor, with officers, in English colors and side-whiskers, riding in advance and behind: in it the future King of England, the heavy, selfish-faced young man, and beside him his princess, popular wherever she shows her winning face,--a fair, sweet woman, in light and flowing silken stuffs of spring, a vision of lovely youth and rank, also gone in a minute.
These English visitors are enjoying the pleasures of the French capital.On Sunday, as I passed the Hotel Bristol, a crowd, principally English, was waiting in front of it to see the Prince and Princess come out, and enter one of the Emperor's carriages in waiting.I heard an Englishwoman, who was looking on with admiration "sticking out" all over, remark to a friend in a very loud whisper, "I tell you, the Prince lives every day of his life." The princely pair came out at length, and drove away, going to visit Versailles.
I don't know what the Queen would think of this way of spending Sunday; but if Albert Edward never does anything worse, he does n't need half the praying for that he gets every Sunday in all the English churches and chapels.
THE LOW COUNTRIES AND RHINELAND
AMIENS AND QUAINT OLD BRUGES
They have not yet found out the secret in France of banishing dust from railway-carriages.Paris, late in June, was hot, but not dusty:
the country was both.There is an uninteresting glare and hardness in a French landscape on a sunny day.The soil is thin, the trees are slender, and one sees not much luxury or comfort.Still, one does not usually see much of either on a flying train.We spent a night at Amiens, and had several hours for the old cathedral, the sunset light on its noble front and towers and spire and flying buttresses, and the morning rays bathing its rich stone.As one stands near it in front, it seems to tower away into heaven, a mass of carving and sculpture,--figures of saints and martyrs who have stood in the sun and storm for ages, as they stood in their lifetime, with a patient waiting.It was like a great company, a Christian host, in attitudes of praise and worship.There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone, when the last of the long twilight illumined them; and there in the same impressive patience they waited the golden day.It required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and now in long procession came down the ages.The central portal is lofty, wide, and crowded with figures.The side is only less rich than the front.Here the old Gothic builders let their fancy riot in grotesque gargoyles,--figures of animals, and imps of sin, which stretch out their long necks for waterspouts above.From the ground to the top of the unfinished towers is one mass of rich stone-work, the creation of genius that hundreds of years ago knew no other way to write its poems than with the chisel.The interior is very magnificent also, and has some splendid stained glass.At eight o'clock, the priests were chanting vespers to a larger congregation than many churches have on Sunday: their voices were rich and musical, and, joined with the organ notes, floated sweetly and impressively through the dim and vast interior.We sat near the great portal, and, looking down the long, arched nave and choir to the cluster of candles burning on the high altar, before which the priests chanted, one could not but remember how many centuries the same act of worship had been almost uninterrupted within, while the apostles and martyrs stood without, keeping watch of the unchanging heavens.
When I stepped in, early in the morning, the first mass was in progress.The church was nearly empty.Looking within the choir, Isaw two stout young priests lustily singing the prayers in deep, rich voices.One of them leaned back in his seat, and sang away, as if he had taken a contract to do it, using, from time to time, an enormous red handkerchief, with which and his nose he produced a trumpet obligato.As I stood there, a poor dwarf bobbled in and knelt on the bare stones, and was the only worshiper, until, at length, a half-dozen priests swept in from the sacristy, and two processions of young school-girls entered from either side.They have the skull of John the Baptist in this cathedral.I did not see it, although Isuppose I could have done so for a franc to the beadle: but I saw a very good stone imitation of it; and his image and story fill the church.It is something to have seen the place that contains his skull.