The remembrances I have of Paris Sundays decidedly possess a character of rest and recreation; of waking in the morning to a grateful sense of repose; of clean shirts and trimmed beards; and of delicious breakfasts at our Cafe aux Quatres Mendiants, of coffee and white bread, instead of the bouillon and confiture of the atelier. Did we not work, then?
Assuredly we did sometimes, when hard pressed; but the recollection of those few occasions is drowned in that of a flood of happy, tranquil Sundays. When we did work it was from eight till twelve, which made half a day, and this was the rate at which all overtime was reckoned. One hard taskmaster I remember, who, instead of paying us our dues, as is the custom on Saturday night, at the end of quinze jours, cajoled us to come and work under the promise of their payment on the Sunday morning. He failed us like a rogue; and we drudged on for another quinzaine, Sunday mornings included, in hopeful anticipation of the receipt of our wages.
When we found that he slunk out of the way, without paying us a sou, we rebelled, sang the Marseillaise, demanded our wages, and never worked another Sunday.
I am lost in my endeavours to define the mingled recollections of Sunday tranquillity, enjoyment, and frivolity during a stay of eighteen months in Paris. My thoughts run from the Madelaine to Minu-montant; from Versailles to the Funambule; from Diogenes' lantern at St. Cloud to the blind man's concert in the Palais Royal. Sometimes I wander over the plains of Auteuil and Passy; then suddenly find myself examining a paper-making machine in the Museum of Arts and Trades. Or I look over the vine fields from the heights of Montmorency at one moment, and the next am pacing the long galleries of the Louvre, or the classic chambers of the Palais des Beaux Arts. I have passed a Whitsunday morning at Versailles among the paintings; the afternoon at Sevres among glass and porcelain; have won a game at dominoes after dinner in Paris; and have heard the last polka at the Salle Vivienne in the evening. Paris is a city of extremes; the young Theophile who works by my side, and is an ingenious fellow and a clever workman, you will meet next Sunday in the Louvre discoursing energetically on the comparative merits of the French and Italian schools of painting; yet this same Theophile shall be the Titi of the gallery of the Porte St. Martin in the evening, who yells slang at his friend on the opposite side; and the Pierrot or Debardeur of the next opera masquerade.
With the vivid impressions of many Sundays abroad upon my mind, I have been wondering whether, after all, the practices of the continental Sunday have anything to do with the opening of a museum or picture-gallery in London; and, after profound study, in the laborious course of which I have several times fallen asleep, I have come to the deliberate conclusion that there is no connection between the two things.
In the first case, as regards Germany, seeing that they there almost sedulously close all that relates to art or science, and give full licence only to beer and tobacco, to music and dancing on the Sunday-where is the parallel? In the second, as regards France or Paris, although it must be admitted that there is unfortunately no comparison between the Louvre and the National Gallery, it can at least be claimed that there is no resemblance between the British Museum and the Bal des Chiens in the Rue St. Honore. I take it that to preserve the English Sunday as a day of greater rest than French or German Sundays ever were, and to add to it such rational and instructive recreation, as a Museum or a Picture-Gallery, or a place of innocent recreation could supply, might be a good thing in the eyes of religious men; and I have not yet heard of any society or association in any part of the United Kingdom, which proposes to open a Sunday evening ball at the Pig and Tinderbox, or to grant licences to the theatrical performances at the Penny Gaff in the New Cut.
NOTE.
{173} This is incorrect; the Picture Gallery is open during the mid-day hours on Sunday.