University of Virginia Library

17. LETTER XVII.

As I was getting out of a fiacre this morning on the
Boulevard, I observed that the driver had the cross of
the legion of honor, worn very modestly under his coat.
On taking a second look at his face, I was struck with
its soldier-like, honest expression; and with the fear
that I might imply a doubt by a question, I simply observed,
that he probably received it from Napoleon.
He drew himself up a little as he assented, and with
half a smile pulled the coarse cape of his coat across
his bosom. It was done evidently with a mixed feeling
of pride and a dislike of ostentation, which showed the
nurture of Napoleon. It is astonishing how superior
every being seems to have become that served under
him. Wherever you find an old soldier of the “emperor,”
as they delight to call him, you find a noble,
brave, unpretending man. On mentioning this circumstance
to a friend, he informed me, that it was possibly
a man who was well known, from rather a tragical
circumstance. He had driven a gentleman to a party
one night, who was dissatisfied with him, for some
reason or other, and abused him very grossly. The
cocher the next morning sent him a challenge; and, as
the cross of honor levels all distinctions, he was compelled
to fight him, and was shot dead at the first fire.

Honors of this sort must be a very great incentive.
They are worn very proudly in France. You see
men of all classes, with the striped riband in their button-hole,
marking them as the heroes of the three
days of July. The Poles and the French and English,

who fought well at Warsaw, wear also a badge; and
it certainly produces a feeling of respect as one passes
them in the street. There are several very young
men, lads really, who are wandering about Paris, with
the latter distinction on their breasts, and every indication
that it is all they have brought away from their
unhappy country. The Poles are coming in now from
every quarter. I meet occasionally in society the
celebrated Polish countess, who lost her property and
was compelled to flee, for her devotion to the cause.
Louis Philippe has formed a regiment of the refugees,
and sent them to Algiers. He allows no liberalists to
remain in Paris, if he can help it. The Spaniards and
Italians, particularly, are ordered off to Tours, and
other provincial towns, the instant they become pensioners
upon the government.

I was presented last night, with Mr. Carr and Mr.
Ritchie, two of our countrymen, to the king. We
were very naturally prepared for an embarrassing ceremony
— an expectation which was not lessened in my
case, by the necessity of a laced coat, breeches, and
sword. We drove into the court of the Tuileries, as
the palace clock struck nine, in the costume of courtiers
of the time of Louis the Twelfth, very anxious
about the tenacity of our knee-buckles, and not at all
satisfied as to the justice done to our unaccustomed
proportions by the tailor. To say nothing of my looks,
I am sure I should have felt much more like a gentleman
in my costume bourgeois. By the time we had
been passed through the hands of all the chamberlains,
however, and walked through all the preparatory halls
and drawing-rooms, each with its complement of gentlemen
in waiting, dressed like ourselves in lace and
small-clothes, I became more reconciled to myself,
and began to feel that I might possibly have looked
out of place in my ordinary dress. The atmosphere
of a court is certainly very contagious in this particular.

After being sufficiently astonished with long rooms,
frescoes, and guardsmen, seven or eight feet high,
(the tallest men I ever saw, standing with halberds at
the doors), we were introduced into the Salle du
Trône — a large hall lined with crimson velvet throughout,
with the throne in the centre of one of the sides.
Some half dozen gentlemen were standing about the
fire, conversing very familiarly, among whom was the
British ambassador, Lord Grenville, and the Brazilian
minister, both of whom I had met before. The king
was not there. The Swedish minister, a noble-looking
man, with snow-white hair, was the only other
official person present, each of the ministers having
come to present one or two of his countrymen. The
king entered in a few moments, in the simple uniform
of the line, and joined the group at the fire, with the
most familiar and cordial politeness; each minister
presenting his countrymen as occasion offered, certainly
with far less ceremony than one sees at most
dinner-parties in America. After talking a few minutes
with Lord Grenville, inquiring the progress of
the cholera, he turned to Mr. Rives, and we were presented.
We stood in a little circle around him, and
he conversed with us about America for ten or fifteen
minutes. He inquired from what states we came,
and said he had been as far west as Nashville, Tennessee,
and had often slept in the woods, quite as
soundly as he ever did in more luxurious quarters.
He begged pardon of Mr. Carr, who was from South
Carolina, for saying that he had found the southern
taverns not particularly good. He preferred the north.
All this time I was looking out for some accent in the
“king's English.” He speaks the language with all
the careless correctness and fluency of a vernacular
tongue. We were all surprised at it. It is American
English, however. He has not a particle of the cockney
drawl, half Irish and half Scotch, with which
many Englishmen speak. He must be the most cosmopolite
king that ever reigned. He even said he had
been at Tangiers, the place of Mr. Carr's consulate.
After some pleasant compliment to our country, he
passed to the Brazilian minister, who stood on the
other side, leaving us delighted with his manner; and,
probably, in spite of our independence, much more
inclined than before to look indulgently upon his bad
politics. The queen had entered, meantime, with the
king's sister, Lady Adelaide, and one or two of the
ladies of honor; and, after saying something courteous
to all, in her own language, and assuring us that
his majesty was very fond of America, the royal group
bowed out, and left us once more to ourselves.

We remained a few minutes, and I occupied myself
with looking at the gold and crimson throne before
me, and recalling to my mind the world of historical
circumstances connected with it. You can easily
imagine it all. The throne of France is, perhaps, the
most interesting one in the world. But of all its associations,
none rushed upon me so forcibly, or retained
my imagination so long, as the accidental
drama of which it was the scene during the three days
of July. It was here that the people brought the
polytechnic scholar, mortally wounded in the attack
on the palace, to die. He breathed his last on the
throne of France, surrounded with his comrades and
a crowd of patriots. It is one of the most striking and
affecting incidents, I think, in all history.

As we passed out I caught a glimpse, through a
side door, of the queen and the princesses sitting
round a table, covered with books, in a small drawing-room,
while a servant, in the gaudy livery of the court,
was just entering with tea. The careless attitudes of
the figures, the mellow light of the shade-lamp, and
the happy voices of children coming through the door,
reminded me more of home than anything I have seen
in France. It is odd, but really the most aching
sense of home-sickness I have felt since I left America,
was awakened at that moment — in the palace of a
king, and at the sight of his queen and daughters!

We stopped in the antechamber to have our names
recorded in the visiting-book — a ceremony which insures
us invitations to all the balls given at court during
the winter. The first has already appeared in the
shape of a printed note, in which we are informed by
the “aide-de-camp of the king and the lady of honor
of the queen,” that we are invited to a ball at the palace
on Monday night. To my distress there is a little
direction at the bottom, “Les hommes seront en uniforme,”
which subjects those of us who are not military,
once more to the awkwardness of this ridiculous
court dress. I advise all Americans coming abroad to
get a commission in the militia to travel with. It is
of use in more ways than one.

I met the Countess Guiccioli, walking yesterday in
the Tuileries. She looks much younger than I anticipated,
and is a handsome blonde, apparently about
thirty. I am told by a gentleman who knows her,
that she has become a great flirt, and is quite spoiled
by admiration. The celebrity of Lord Byron's attachment
would, certainly, make her a very desirable acquaintance,
were she much less pretty than she really
is; and I am told her drawing-room is thronged with
lovers of all nations, contending for a preference,
which, having been once given, as it has, should be
buried, I think, for ever. So, indeed, should have
been the Emperess Maria Louisa's, and that of the
widow of Bishop Heber; and yet the latter has married
a Greek count, and the former a German baron!

I find I was incorrect in the statement I gave you
of the duel between Mr. Hesse and Count Leon.
The particulars have come out more fully, and from
the curious position of the parties (Mr. Hesse, as I

stated, being the natural son of George the Fourth;
and Count Leon of Napoleon) are worth recapitulating.
Count Leon had lost several thousand francs to
Mr. Hesse, which he refused to pay, alleging that
there had been unfair dealing in the game. The
matter was left to arbitration, and Mr. Hesse fully
cleared of the charge. Leon still refused to pay, and
for fifteen days practised with the pistol from morning
till night. At the end of this time he paid the
money, and challenged Hesse. The latter had lost
the use of his right arm in the battle of Waterloo,
(fighting of course against Count Leon's father), but
accepted his challenge, and fired with his left hand.
Hesse was shot through the body, and has since died,
and Count Leon was not hurt. The affair has made
a great sensation here, for Hesse had a young and
lovely wife, only seventeen, and was unusually beloved
and admired; while his opponent is a notorious gambler,
and every way detested. People meet at the
gaming-table here, however, as they meet in the street,
without question of character.

Carnival is over. Yesterday was “Mardi Gras” —
the last day of the reign of Folly. Paris has been like
a city of grown-up children for a week. What with
masking all night, supping, or breakfasting, what you
will, at sunrise, and going to bed between morning and
noon, I feel that I have done my devoir upon the experiment
of French manners.

It would be tedious, not to say improper, to describe
all the absurdities I have seen and mingled in for the
last fortnight; but I must try to give you some idea of
the meaning the French attach to the season of carnival,
and the manner in which it is celebrated.

In society it is the time for universal gayety and
freedom. Parties, fancy balls, and private masques,
are given, and kept up till morning. The etiquette is
something more free, and gallantry is indulged and
followed with the privileges, almost, of a Saturnalia.
One of the gayest things I have seen was a fancy ball,
given by a man of some fashion, in the beginning of
the season. Most of the distingués of Paris were
there; and it was, perhaps, as fair a specimen of the
elegant gayety of the French capital, as occurred
during the carnival. The rooms were full by ten.
Everybody was in costume, and the ladies in dresses
of unusual and costly splendor. At a bal costumé
there are no masks, of course, and dancing, waltzing,
and galopading followed each other in the ordinary
succession, but with all the heightened effect and additional
spirit of a magnificent spectacle. It was really
beautiful. There were officers from all the English
regiments, in their fine showy uniforms; and French
officers who had brought dresses from their far-off campaigns;
Turks, Egyptians, Mussulmans, and Algerine
rovers — every country that had been touched by
French soldiers, represented in its richest costume,
and by men of the finest appearance. There was a
colonel of the English Madras cavalry, in the uniform
of his corps — one mass of blue and silver, the most
spendidly dressed man I ever saw; and another Englishman,
who is said to be the successor of Lord Byron
in the graces of the gay and lovely Countess Guiccioli,
was dressed as a Greek; and between the exquisite
taste and richness of his costume, and his
really excessive personal beauty, he made no ordinary
sensation. The loveliest woman there was a young
baroness, whose dancing, figure, and face, so resembled
a celebrated Philadelphia belle, that I was constantly
expecting her musical French voice to break into English.
She was dressed as an eastern dancing-girl, and
floated about with the lightness and grace of a fairy.
Her motion intoxicated the eye completely. I have
seen her since at the Tuileries, where, in a waltz with
the handsome Duke of Orleans, she was the single object
of admiration for the whole court. She is a small,
lightly-framed creature, with very little feet, and a face
of more brilliancy than regular beauty, but all airiness
and spirit. A very lovely, indolent-looking English
girl, with large sleepy eyes, was dressed as a Circassian
slave, with chains from her ankles to her waist.
She was a beautiful part of the spectacle, but too passive
to interest one. There were sylphs and nuns,
broom-girls and Italian peasants, and a great many in
rich Polonaise dresses. It was unlike any other fancy
ball I ever saw, in the variety and novelty of the characters
represented, and the costliness with which they
were dressed. You can have no idea of the splendor
of a waltz in such a glittering assemblage. It was
about time for an early breakfast when the ball was
over.

The private masks are amusing to those who are
intimate with the circle. A stranger, of course, is
neither acquainted enough to amuse himself within
proper limits, nor incognito enough to play his gallantries
at hazard. I never have seen more decidedly
triste assemblies than the balls of this kind which I
have attended, where the uniform black masks and
dominoes gave the party the aspect of a funeral, and the
restraint made it quite as melancholy.

The public masks are quite another affair. They
are given at the principal theatres, and commence at
midnight. The pit and stage are thrown into a brilliant
hall, with the orchestra in the centre; the music
is divine, and the etiquette perfect liberty. There is,
of course, a great deal of vulgar company, for every
one is admitted who pays the ten francs at the door;
but all classes of people mingle in the crowd; and if
one is not amused, it is because he will neither listen
nor talk. I think it requires one or two masks to get
one's eye so much accustomed to the sight, that he is
not disgusted with the exteriors of the women. There
was something very diabolical to me at first in a dead,
black representation of the human face, and the long
black domino. Persuading one's self that there is
beauty under such an outside, is like getting up a passion
for a very ugly woman, for the sake of her mind —
difficult, rather. I soon became used to it, however,
and amuse myself infinitely. One is liable to waste his
wit, to be sure; for in a crowd so rarely bien composée,
as they phrase it, the undistinguishing dress gives
every one the opportunity of bewildering you; but the
feet and manner of walking, and the tone and mode of
expression, are indices sufficiently certain to decide,
and give interest to a pursuit; and, with tolerable caution,
one is paid for his trouble, in nineteen cases out
of twenty.

At the public masks, the visiters are not all in domino.
One half at least are in caricature dresses, men
in petticoats, and women in boots and spurs. It is not
always easy to detect the sex. An English lady, a
carnival-acquaintance of mine, made love successfully,
with the aid of a tall figure and great spirit, to a number
of her own sex. She wore a half uniform, and
was certainly a very elegant fellow. France is so remarkable
indeed, for effeminate looking men and masculine
looking women, that half the population might
change costume to apparent advantage. The French
are fond of caricaturing English dandies, and they do
it with great success. The imitation of Bond-street
dialect in another language is highly amusing. There
were two imitation exquisites at the “Varietiés” one
night, who were dressed to perfection, and must have
studied the character thoroughly. The whole theatre
was in a roar when they entered. Malcontents take the
opportunity to show up the king and ministers, and these
are excellent, too. One gets weary of fun. It is a
life which becomes tedious long before carnival is
over. It is a relief to sit down once more to books and
pen.

The three last days are devoted to street-masking.
This is the most ridiculous of all. Paris pours our

its whole population upon the Boulevards, and guards
are stationed to keep the goers and comers in separate
lines, and prevent all collecting of groups on the pavé.
People in the most grotesque and absurd dresses pass
on foot, and in loaded carriages, and all is nonsense
and obscenity. It is difficult to conceive the motive
which can induce grown-up people to go to the expense
and trouble of such an exhibition, merely to
amuse the world. A description of these follies would
be waste of paper.

On the last night but one of the carnival, I went to
a ball at the palace. We presented our invitations at
the door, and mounted through piles of soldiers of the
line, crowds of servants in the king's livery, and groves
of exotics at the broad landing places, to the reception
room. We were ushered into the Salle des Marechals
— a large hall, the ceiling of which rises into the
dome of the Tuileries, ornamented with full-length
portraits of the living marshals of France. A gallery
of a light airy structure runs round upon the capitals
of the pillars, and this, when we entered, and at all the
after hours of the ball, was crowded with loungers from
the assembly beneath — producing a splendid effect, as
their glittering uniforms passed and repassed under the
flags and armor with which the ceilings were thickly
hung. The royal train entered presently, and the
band struck up a superb march. Three rows of velvet-covered
seats, one above another, went round the
hall, leaving a passage behind, and in front of these the
queen and her family made a circuit of courtesy, followed
by the wives of the ambassadors, among whom
was our countrywoman, Mrs. Rives. Her majesty
went smiling past, stopping here and there to speak to
a lady whom she recognised, and the king followed
her with his eternal and painfully forced smile, saying
something to every second person he encountered.
The princesses have good faces, and the second one
has an expression of great delicacy and tenderness, but
no beauty. As soon as the queen was seated, the
band played a quadrille, and the crowd cleared away
from the centre for the dance. The Duke of Orleans
selected his partner, a pretty girl, who, I believe, was
English, and forward went the head couples to the exquisite
music of the new opera — Robert le Diable.

I fell into the little cortêge standing about the queen,
and watched the interesting party dancing in the head
quadrille for an hour. The Duke of Orleans, who is
nearly twenty, and seems a thoughtless, good-natured,
immature young man, moved about very gracefully
with his handsome figure, and seemed amused, and
quite unconscious of the attention he drew. The
princesses were vis-a-vis, and the second one a dark-haired,
slender, interesting girl of nineteen, had a
polytechnic scholar for her partner. He was a handsome,
gallant-looking fellow, who must have distinguished
himself to have been invited to court, and I
could not but admire the beautiful mixture of respect
and self-confidence with which he demanded the hand
of the princess from the lady of honor, and conversed
with her during the dance. If royalty does not seal
up the affections, I could scarce conceive how a being
so decidedly of nature's best nobility, handsome, graceful,
and confident, could come within the sphere of a
sensitive-looking girl, like the princess Christine, and
not leave more than a transient recollection upon her
fancy. The music stopped, and I had been so occupied
with my speculations upon the polytechnic boy,
that I had scarcely noticed any other person in the
dance. He led the princess back to her seat by the
dame d'honneur, bowing low, colored a little, and mingled
with the crowd. A few minutes after I saw him
in the gallery, quite alone, leaning over the railing,
and looking down upon the scene below, having apparently
abandoned the dance for the evening. From
something in his face, and in the manner of resuming
his sword, I was certain he had come to the palace
with that single object, and would dance no more. I
kept him in my eye most of the night, and am very
sure he did not. If the little romance I wove out of
it was not a true one, it was not because the material
was improbable.

As I was looking still at the quadrille dancing before
the queen, Dr. Bowring took my arm and proposed a
stroll through the other apartments. I found that the
immense crowd in the Salle des Marechals was but
about one fifth of the assembly. We passed through
hall after hall, with music and dancing in each, all
crowded and gay alike, till we came at last to the Salle
du Trône, where the old men were collected at card-tables
and in groups for conversation. My distinguished
companion was of the greatest use to me here, for
he knew everybody, and there was scarce a person in
the room who did not strongly excite my curiosity.
One half of them at least were maimed; some without
arms, and some with wooden legs, and faces scarred
and weather-burnt, but all in full uniform, and nearly
all with three or four orders of honor on the breast.
You would have held your breath to have heard the
recapitulation of their names. At one table sat Marshal
Grouchy and General Excelmans; in a corner
stood Marshal Soult, conversing with a knot of peers
of France; and in the window nearest the door, General
Bernard, our country's friend and citizen, was
earnestly engaged in talking to a group of distinguished
looking men, two of whom, my companion said, were
members of the chamber of deputies. We stood a
moment, and a circle was immediately formed around
Dr. Bowring, who is a great favorite among the literary
and liberal people of France. The celebrated General
Fabvier came up among others, and Cousin the poet.
Fabvier, as you know, held a chief command in Greece,
and was elected governor of Paris pro tem, after the
“three days.” He is a very remarkable looking man,
with a head almost exactly resembling that of the bust of
Socrates. The engravings give him a more animated
and warlike expression than he wears in private.
Cousin is a mild, retired looking man, and was one of
the very few persons present not in the court uniform.
Among so many hundred coats embroidered with gold,
his plain black dress looked singularly simple and
poet-like.

I left the diplomatist-poet conversing with his
friends, and went back to the dancing rooms. Music
and female beauty are more attractive metal than disabled
generals playing at cards; and encountering in
my way an attaché to the American legation, I inquired
about one or two faces that interested me, and
collecting information enough to pass through the
courtesies of a dance, I found a partner and gave myself
up, like the rest, to amusement.

Supper was served at two, and a more splendid affair
could not be conceived, A long and magnificent
hall on the other side of the Salle du Trône, was set
with tables, covered with everything that France could
afford, in the royal services of gold and silver, and in
the greatest profusion. There was room enough for
all the immense assemblage, and when the queen was
seated with her daughters and ladies of honor, the
company sat down and all was as quiet and well-regulated
as a dinner party of four.

After supper the dancing was resumed, and the
queen remained till three o'clock. At her departure
the band played cotillons or waltzes with figures, in
which the Duke of Orleans displayed the grace for
which he is celebrated, and at four, quite exhausted
with fatigue and heat, I went with a friend or two into
the long glass verandah, built by Napoleon as a promenade
for the Emperess Maria Louisa during her illness,
where tea, coffee, and ices were served to those who
wished them after supper. It was an interesting place
enough, and had my eyes and limbs ached less, I
should have liked to walk up and down, and muse a

little upon its recollections, but swallowing my tea as
hastily as possible, I was but too happy to make my
escape and get home to bed.