Paris--Street Cries--St. Roch--The Boulevards--Parisian
Lodgings--Manner of Living--The Grand Opera--Taglioni--The Public
Gardens--The Guinguettes--Dancing, the characteristic amusement of
the French--Sunday Dances--Dancing defended, from classical
authority.
_Paris, July 4th, 1835._
When one has travelled all night in a French diligence in the dog-days,
and is set down next morning in the “_Place Notre Dame des Victoires_,”
three thousand miles from one’s home--oh dear! one has much less
pleasure in the aspect of the great city than one expected. _Voilà
Paris!_ said the “conducteur,” announcing our approach; each one half
opening his eyes, and then closing them suddenly. Four gentlemen and two
ladies in a diligence, bobbing their heads at each other about six of
the morning; the hour in which sleep creeps so agreeably upon one’s
senses, is an interesting spectacle. It was cruel to be interrupted in
so tender an interview. _Voilà Paris!_ was echoed a second time, so we
awoke and looked out, except a lady, who reposed gently upon my left
shoulder, who had seen Paris a thousand times, and had never slept with
four gentlemen perhaps in her life. She lay still, I attentive not to
awake her, until the ill-omened raven croaked a third time, _Paris!_ A
French gentleman now did the honours of the city to us strangers. “That,
sir, is the ‘Invalids;’ see how the morning rays glitter from its gilded
dome. And this, which peers so proudly over the Barrière de l’Etoile, is
the grand Triumphal Arch of Napoleon;” and he read over the
trophies--Marengo! Jena! Austerlitz! praised the sculpture and bas
reliefs, and burst out into a great many tropes about French victories.
We now passed down through the _Champs Elysees_, rolled along the
beautiful _Rue Rivoli_, and arrived fast asleep upon the _Place Notre
Dame des Victoires_. I advise you to sleep at St. Germains, where the
steamboat will leave you, and come to Paris next morning with the
imagination fresh for the enjoyment. To be wide awake improves
wonderfully one’s capacity for admiration.
I stood and looked about, and I felt the spirit of manhood die away
within me; and every other spirit, even curiosity. I would rather have
seen one of your haycocks than the queen. But, fortunately, here is no
time for reflection. You are immediately surrounded by a score of
individuals, who greet you with hats in their hands and with great
officiousness, offering you all at once their services. Some are
exceedingly anxious you should lodge in their hotels: _La plus jolie
location de tout Paris--des chambres de toute beauté!_ and others are
dying to carry your luggage; others again are eager to sell you their
wares, and thrust a bit of soap, or a cane, or a pair of spectacles, in
your face suddenly. I mistook this for an attempt at assassination.
Next, I had to bow to my toes for a lodging. With the address of three
hotels, a mile apart, I had to pick one out of the street. I advise you
not to run about town till your porter’s charges are of greater amount
than the value of your luggage, but to put yourself and your trunks in a
hack, and you will have at least a ride for your money; besides, the
driver is limited in his charges, and the porter is _à discretion_, and
discretion is one of the dearest of the French virtues.
Who do you think I had for a fellow traveller? Your old
acquaintance ---- ----, who has lost his wife, and travels to dissipate
his grief. He has not left off saying good things. He remarked that it
was a bad day to go into Paris--the 4th of July; there would be such a
crowd. Recollecting with what jubilee we celebrate this day at New York,
he imagined how much greater must be the confusion at Paris. He feared
we should have our brains knocked out by the mob. You can’t think what
an advantage it is for one having but little of this commodity of
brains, to travel into foreign countries; one grows into the reputation
of a wit by not being understood. I do not mean to be arrogant in saying
I am better versed, at least in our foreign relations, than my
companion, and yet I was noticed on the way only as being of his suite,
which I ascribe entirely to my capacity to express myself in a known
tongue. As he did not speak French, I was mistaken for the interpreter
to some foreign ambassador.
Paris is a wilderness of tall, scraggy, and dingy houses, of irregular
heights and sizes, starting out impudently into the street, or retiring
modestly, and without symmetry, a palace often the counterpart of a
pig-sty, and a cathedral next neighbour to a hen-roost. The streets run
zig-zag, and abut against each other as if they did not know which way
to run. They are paved with cubical stones of eight and ten inches,
convex on the upper surface like the shell of a terrapin; few have room
for side-walks, and where not bounded by stores, they are dark as they
were under king Pepin. Some of them seem to be water-tight. St. Anne, my
first acquaintance, is yet clammy with mud after a week’s drought, and
early in the morning when she gets up, she is filthy to a degree that is
indecent. The etymology of Paris is mud; the etymology of the Bourbons
is mud, and mud to the last note of time will be, Paris and the
Bourbons.
As for the noise of the streets, I need not attempt to describe it. What
idea can ears, used only to the ordinary and human noises, conceive of
this unceasing racket--this rattling of the cabs and other vehicles over
the rough stones, this rumbling of the omnibusses. For the street
cries--one might have relief from them by a file and hand-saw. First the
_prima donna_ of the fish-market opens the morning: _Carpes toutes
fraiches; voilà des carpes!_ And then stand out of the way for the
glazier: _Au vitrière!_ quavering down the chromatic to the lowest flat
upon the scale. Next the ironmonger, with his rasps, and files, and
augers, which no human ears could withstand, but that his notes are
happily mellowed by the seller of old clothes, _Marchand de drap!_ in a
monotone so low and spondaic, and so loud, as to make Lablache die of
envy. About nine is full chorus, headed by the old women and their
proclamations: _Horrible attentat contre la vie du roi Louis
Philippe--et la petite chienne de Madame la Marquise--égarée à dix
heures--L’Archevèque de Paris--Le Sieur Lacenaire--Louis Philippe, le
Procès monstre--et tout cela pour quatre sous!_ being set loose all at
the same time, tuned to different keys. All things of this earth seek,
at one time or another, repose--all but the noise of Paris. The waves of
the sea are sometimes still, but the chaos of these streets is perpetual
from generation to generation; it is the noise that never dies. Many new
comers have been its victims. In time, however--such is the complaisance
of human nature--we become reconciled even to this never-ending hubbub.
It becomes even necessary, it is said, to one’s comforts. There are
persons here who get a night-mare in a place of tranquillity, and can
sleep only upon the Boulevards.
Paris and I, are yet on ceremonious terms. I venture upon her
acquaintance as one who walks upon ice; it is the boy’s first lesson of
skating. I am not much versed in towns any way; and this one is ahead of
my experience. In my case, one is ignorant and afraid to ask
information. I did venture this morning to ask what General that was--a
fat, decent-looking gentleman, in silk stockings, and accoutred in
regimentals? That General, sir, is Prince Talleyrand’s lacquey. Soon
after, I inquired what house was that barn of a place? That house, sir,
is the Louvre. So I must feel the ground under me. Yesterday, being
Sunday, (which I found out by the almanac,) I went to St. Roch’s. I had
the luck to hit upon the fashionable church; but the preacher was the
god of dulness. The world, he says, is growing worse and worse; our
roguish ancestors begot us bigger rogues, about to produce a worse set
of rogues than ourselves. “The antichrist is already come.” If he had
said the antichrist of wit, anybody would have believed him; and yet
this is the very pulpit from which the Bossuets and Bourdaloues used to
preach. The church was filled almost entirely with women. One might
think that none go to heaven in this country but the fair sex. The
worshippers seem intent enough upon their devotions; but the wide
avenues at the sides are filled with a crowd of idle, curious, and
disorderly spectators. Give me a French church: one walks in here booted
and spurred, looks at the pretty women and the pictures, whistles a tune
if one chooses, and then walks out again. They have not spoilt the
architectural beauty of St. Roch’s by pews and galleries. The walls are
adorned splendidly with paintings; and here and there are groups of
statuary; and the altar, being finely gilt and illuminated, looks
magnificently. When I build a church I will decorate it somewhat in this
manner. It is good to imitate nature as much as one can, in all things;
and she has set us the example in this. She has adorned her great
temple, the world, with green fields and fragrant flowers, and its
superb dome, the firmament, with stars. I walked into the Tuileries
after church, where I saw a great number of naked statues and pretty
women. The pretty women were not naked. I sat down awhile by the goddess
of wisdom. And this is the sum of my adventures.
Oh, no! I ventured also a walk last night upon the Boulevards, about
twilight. How adorable is the Madelaine! While staring at this church,
(for staring is the only expression of countenance one pretends to, the
first week in Paris,) a little girl--but not a little graceful and
pretty--presented me a bouquet. But, my dear, I have no change. “_Mais,
qu’est ce que cela fait?_” and she turned it about with her taper
fingers, and fixed it and unfixed it, though there were but two leaves
and a rosebud, and then arranged it in a buttonhole, shewing all the
while her pearly teeth and laughing black eyes. She had the finesse to
gain admiration for her charms without seeming to court it. We now
walked on a few steps, when we met other women, of a richer attire, and
of very easy, unembarrassed manners, who also said very obliging things
to us, walking along side.
There is a kind of men in New England who cannot be beaten out of the
dignity of a walk, who would rather die than be seen running, which is
perhaps the reason they won the battle of Bunker’s Hill. Now, if you
would represent to yourself something very comical, you must imagine my
companion, straight-laced in his gravity, escorted by one of these
sultanas of the Boulevards, all betawdried, and rustling in her
silks--_Mon petit cœur!--Mon petit ami!--Venez donc!_ At last, turning
suddenly upon her with a look and air of menace and expostulation, he
invoked her in a most solemn manner to depart; though she understood not
a word of the exorcism, she obeyed instantly, the gesture and tone being
significant enough, and she went off as evil spirits do usually in such
cases, murmuring, “_Pourquoi me tenir donc à causer, ce diable d’homme?
il m’a fait perdre au moins deux messieurs._”
We now descended by the _Rue St. Anne_ towards our lodgings, talking as
we went to prevent thinking; for we are both very tender-hearted so far
from home--he of his Yankee wife, how industrious, how economical, and
how she has resigned all the intercourse and pleasures of the world to
teach the little children their catechism and their astronomy; and I, of
our dear little wives of Schuylkill, so amiable, so cheerful, tempering
their duties with amusements, and not forgetting the claims of
society--when suddenly we observed, in a dark corner, reached only by a
few rays of a distant lamp, a queer old woman, seated, her knees and
chin together, and rocking herself on a chair. She rose up in the face
of my companion, who knows not a word of French, with an immense gabble:
“_Des demoiselles très distinguées!--jolies comme des anges!_” and
instantly we were hemmed round with a fluttering troop of the angels;
but we escaped into the _Hotel des Ambassadeurs_, and locked our doors
for the night. Please direct your letters to this house, No. 64, _Rue
St. Anne_.
* * * * *
_Hotel des Ambassadeurs, July 6th, 1835._
I must tell you how one lodges in Paris. A hotel is a huge edifice,
mostly in the form of a parallelogram, and built around a paved
courtyard, which serves as a landing for carriages as well as for
persons on foot, and leads up to the apartments by one or more
staircases. In the centre of the front wall, is a wide door (a _porte
cochère_) opening from the street, and just inside a lodge (a
_concièrge_) and a porter, who watches night and day over the concerns
of the establishment. This porter is an important individual, and holds
about the same place in a Paris hotel, that Cerberus holds--(I leave you
a place for the rhyme.) He is usually a great rogue, a spy of the
government, and a shoemaker; he cobbles the holes he makes in your
boots, while his wife darns those she makes in your stockings. He is
always a bad enemy and a useful friend, and you purchase his good will
by money and condescensions, as a first minister’s. He lets you rooms,
he attends them, receives parcels, letters, messages, runs errands,
answers your visits, and fines you a shilling if you stay out after
twelve; and his relation with many lodgers enables him to give you these
services, I am ashamed to tell you how cheap. By proper attentions also
to his wife, there will come to your bed every morning, at the hour you
appoint, a cup of coffee or tea, and the entertainment of the lady’s
conversation while you sip it. Each story of a hotel is divided into
apartments and rooms--that is, accommodations for whole families or
individuals; distinction, and, of course, price, decreasing upwards; for
example, he who lives a story lower down thinks himself above you, and
you in return consider him overhead below you. A third story in the Rue
Castiglione or Rivoli, is equal in rank to a second story anywhere else.
The porter’s lodge is a little niche, about eight feet square. It pays
no rent, but receives a salary, usually of sixty dollars a year, from
the proprietor. Our porter is a man of several talents. He tunes pianos
for ten sous, and plays at the “Petit Lazare” of a night for two francs.
Indeed, his whole family plays; his grandmother plays the “Mother of the
Gracchi.” He takes care, too, of his wife’s father; but he dresses him
up as a Pair de France, or a Doge, and makes a good deal out of him
also. Besides, he has a dog which he expects soon to play the “_Chien de
Montargis_,” he is studying; and a magpie, which plays already in the
“_Pie Voleuse_.” It is by these several industries that he is enabled to
clean my boots once a day, take care of my room, and do all the domestic
services required by a bachelor, at six francs a month; and he has grown
into good circumstances. But, alas! impartial fate knocks at the
Porter’s Lodge, as at the gates of the Louvre. He had an only son, who,
in playing Collin last winter--a shepherd’s part in a vaudeville--had to
wear a pair of white muslin breeches in the middle of the inclement
season, and he took cold, and died of a _fluxion de poitrine_! The
mother wept in telling this story; and then some one coming in, she
smiled.
One is usually a little shy of these hotels at first sight, especially
if one comes from the Broad Mountain. You take hold of an unwieldy
knocker, you lift it up cautiously, and open flies the door six inches;
you then push yourself through, and look about with a kind of a
suspicious and sheepish look, and you see no one. At length you discover
an individual, who will not seem to take the least notice of you till
you intrude rather far;--then he will accost you: _Que demandez-vous,
Monsieur?_--I wish to see Mr. Smith? _Monsieur?--Monsieur, il ne demeure
pas ici.--Que tu es bête!_ exclaims the wife, _c’est Monsieur_ Smit.
_Oui, oui, oui--au quatrième, Monsieur, au dessus de l’entresol_; and
with this information, of which you understand not a syllable, you
proceed up stairs, and there you ring all the bells to the garret; but
no one knows Mr. Smith. Why don’t you say _Mr. Smit_?
The houses here are by no means simple and uniform, as with us. The
American houses are built, as ladies are dressed, all one way. First
there is a pair of rival saloons, which give themselves the air of
parlours: and then there is a dining room, and corresponding chambers
above to the third or fourth story; and an entry runs through the middle
or alongside a mile or two without stopping, at the farthest end of
which is the kitchen; so that one always stands upon the marble of the
front door in December, until Kitty has travelled this distance to let
one in. How many dinners have I seen frozen in their own sauces, how
many lovers chilled, by this refrigeratory process? Here, if you just
look at the knocker, the door, as if by some invisible hand, flies open;
and when you descend, if you say “Cordon,” just as Ali Baba said
“Sesame,” the door opens, and delivers you to the street. The houses,
too, have private rooms, and secret doors, and intricate passages; and
one can never be said to be at home in one’s own house. I should like to
see any one find the way to a lady’s boudoir. A thief designing to rob,
has to study beforehand the topography of each house, without which, he
can no more unravel it than the Apocalypse. There are closets, too, and
doors, in many of the rooms, unseen by the naked eye. If a gentleman is
likely to be intruded on by the bailiff, he sinks into the earth; and a
lady, if surprised in her dishabille, or any such emergency, just
disappears into the wall.
No private dwellings are known in Paris. A style, which gives entire
families and individuals, at a price that would procure them very mean
separate lodgings, the air of living in a great castle; and they escape
by it all that emulation about houses, and door servants, and street
display, which brings so much fuss and expense in our cities. I have
seen houses a little straitened that were obliged to give Cæsar a coat
to go to the door, another to bring in dinner, and another to curry the
horses. To climb up to the second or third story is, to be sure,
inconvenient; but once there, your climbing ends. Parlours, bedrooms,
kitchen, and all the rest, are on the same level. In America, you have
the dinner in the cellar, and the cook in the garret; and nothing but
ups and downs the whole day. Moreover, climbing is a disposition of our
nature. “In our proper motion we ascend.” See with what avidity we climb
when we are boys; and we climb when we are old, because it reminds us of
our boyhood. I have no doubt that the daily habit of climbing, too, has
a good moral influence; it gives one dispositions to rise in the world.
I ought to remark here, that persons in honest circumstances do not have
kitchens in their own houses.
It is in favour of the French style not a little, that it improves the
quality at least of one class of lodgers. Mean houses degrade men’s
habits, and lower their opinions of living. As for me, I like this Paris
way, but I don’t know why. I like to see myself under the same roof
with my neighbours. One of them is a pretty woman, with the prettiest
little foot imaginable; and only think of meeting this little foot, with
which one has no personal acquaintance, three or four times a-day on the
staircase! Indeed, the solitude of a private dwelling begins to seem
quite distressing. To be always with people one knows! it paralyzes
activity, breeds selfishness, and other disagreeable qualities. Solitary
life has its vices, too, as well as any other.
On the other hand, a community of living expands one’s benevolent
affections, begets hospitality, mutual forbearance, politeness, respect
for public opinion, and keeps cross husbands from beating their wives,
and _vice versa_. If Xantippe had lived in a French hotel, she would not
have kept throwing things out of the window upon her husband’s head. The
domestic virtues are, to be sure, well enough in their way; but they are
dull, and unless kept in countenance by good company, they go too soon
to bed. Indeed, that word “home,” so sacred in the mouths of Englishmen,
often means little else than dozing in an arm-chair, listening to the
squeaking of children, or dying of the vapours; at all events, the
English are the people of the world most inclined to leave these
sanctities of home. Here they are by hundreds, running in quest of
happiness all about Europe.
But to return. My object, in setting out, was to shew you, as nearly as
possible, my manner of living in the street of St. Anne. I have a
_chambre de garçon au second_; this means, a bachelor’s room in the
third story. As companions, I have General Kellerman, and a naked Mars
over the chimney (not Mademoiselle), and a little Bonaparte about three
inches long; and on a round table, with a marble cover, there is an old
Rabelais and a Seneca’s Maxims, with manuscript notes on the margin, and
a Bible open at Jeremiah. The floor is a kind of brick pavement, upon
which a servant performs a series of rubbings, every morning, with a
brush attached to his right foot, which gives it a slippery and mahogany
surface. We have a livery stable also in the yard, and several persons
lodge here for the benefit of the smell, it being good against
consumption. Of the staircase I say nothing now, as I intend some day to
write a treatise upon French Staircases. This one has not been washed
ever, unless by some accident, such as Noah’s flood. Indeed, the less
one says of French cleanliness in the way of houses the better. Our
landlady appears no more delighted with a clean floor than an antiquary
would be with a scoured shield; and there is none of the middling hotels
of Paris that presumes to be better than this. I ought to remark here,
that servants do not run about from one garret to another as they do in
America. A French servant is transmitted to posterity. Our coachman says
he has been in this family several hundred years.
When one cannot travel in the highway of life with a fashionable
equipage, it is pleasant to steal along its secret path unnoticed. A
great man is so jostled by the throng that either he cannot think at
all, or, in gathering its silly admiration, so occupied with intrigues
and mere personal vanities that the good qualities of his understanding
are perverted, and he loses at length his taste for innocent enjoyments.
But, travelling in this sober, unambitious way, one may gather flowers
by the road side; one has leisure for the contemplation of useful and
agreeable things; and is not obliged to follow absurd fashion, or keep
up troublesome appearances; and one can get into low company when one
pleases, without being suspected. Now I can wander “on my short-tailed
nag” all over the country; I can get sometimes into a _coucou_ and ride
out to St. Germains, or stroll unconcerned through the markets, and ask
the price of fruits; of cassolettes, muscats, and jargonelles, and of
grapes; and I can eat a bunch or two upon the pavement, just fresh from
Fontainbleau; and do a great many innocent things which persons of
distinction dare not do. This is the life of those who lodge at the
_Hotel des Ambassadeurs_.
Here are two sheets filled, with what meagre events! and how much below
the dignity of history! I console myself that trifles, like domestic
anecdotes, are often the most characteristic. I will be your Boswell to
the city of Paris. But Boswell had to retail the sense of an individual,
and I the nonsense of the multitude, and my own. However, I wish these
letters to be preserved from the flames, if you can, frivolous as they
are; I have partly a design to manufacture some sort of a book out of
them on my return home. I intend them as notes upon the field of
battle--like Cæsar’s Commentaries, with the exception of the wit.
_July 7th._
I went with my Yankee companion last night to the Grand Opera; and, at
the risk of being enormously long, I am going to add a postscript; for
it is a wet day, and I have no better way to beguile the lazy
twenty-four hours. They admit the spectators to a French theatre in
files of two between high railings, and under the grim and bearded
authority of the police, which prevents crowding and disorder; and
whoever wishes to go in, not having a seat provided, “makes tail,” as
they call it, by entering the file in the rear. A number of speculators
also stand in the ranks at an early hour, and sell out their places at
an advance to the more tardy, so that you have always this resort to
obtain a good enough seat. In approaching the house, persons will offer
you tickets, with great importunity, in the streets. With one of these,
which, by cheapening a little, I got at double price, I procured
admission to the pit.
_L’analyse de la Pièce; voilà le programme!_ These are two
phrases--meaning only the analysis and bill of the play, at two
sous--which you will hear croaked with the most obstreperous discord
through the house, in the intervals of the performance, to bring out
Monsieur Auber, and Scribe, and the Donnas. It is probably for the same
reason the owls are permitted to sing in the night, to bring out the
nightingales. The opera last night was “_Robert le Diable_,”--_voici
l’analyse de la pièce_.
There was the representation of a grave-yard and a resurrection; and the
ghosts, at least two hundred, flocked out of the ground in white frocks
and silk stockings, and they squeaked and gibbered all over the stage.
Then they asked one another out to dance, and performed the most
fashionable ballets of their country, certainly in a manner very
creditable to the other world. And while these waltzed and quadrilled,
another set were entertaining themselves with elegant and fashionable
amusements, some were turning summersets upon a new grave; others
playing at whist upon a tombstone, and others again were jumping the
rope over a winding-sheet; when suddenly, they all gave a screech and
skulked into their graves; there was a flutter through the house, the
music announcing some great event, and at length, amidst a burst of
acclamations, Mademoiselle Taglioni stood upon the margin of the scene.
She seemed to have alighted there from some other sphere.
I expected to be little pleased with this lady, I had heard such
frequent praises of her accomplishments; but was disappointed. Her
exceeding beauty surpasses the most excessive eulogy. Her dance is the
whole rhetoric of pantomime; its movements, pauses, and attitudes, in
their purest Attic simplicity, chastity, and urbanity. She has a power
over the feelings which you will be unwilling to concede to her art. She
will make your heart beat with joy; she will make you weep by the sole
eloquence of her limbs. What inimitable grace! In all she attempts, you
will love her, and best in that which she attempts last. If she stands
still, you will wish her a statue that she may stand still always; or if
she moves, you will wish her a wave of the sea that she may do nothing
but--“move still, still so, and own no other function.” To me, she
appeared last night to have filled up entirely the illusion of the
play--to have shuffled off this gross and clumsy humanity, and to belong
to some more airy and spiritual world.
But my companion, who is a professor, and a little ecclesiastical, and
bred in that most undancing country, New England, was scandalized at the
whole performance. He is of the old school, and has ancient notions of
the stage, and does not approve this modern way of “holding the mirror
up to nature.” He was displeased especially at the scantiness of the
lady’s wardrobe. I was born farther south, and could better bear it.
The art of dressing, as I have read in the history of Holland and other
places, has been carried often by the ladies to a blameable excess of
quantity; so much so, that a great wit said in his day, a woman was “the
least part of herself.” Taglioni’s sins, it is true, do not lie on this
side of the category; she produced last evening nothing but
herself--Mademoiselle Taglioni in the abstract. Ovid would not have
complained of her. Her lower limbs wore a light silk, imitating nature
with undistinguishable nicety; and her bosom a thin guaze, which just
relieved the eye, as you have seen a fine fleecy cloud hang upon the
dazzling sun. But there is no gentleman out of New England who would not
have grieved to see her spoilt by villainous mantua-makers. She did not,
moreover, exceed what the courtesy of nations has permitted, and what is
necessary to the proper exhibition of her art.
They call this French opera, the “_Académie Royale de Musique_,” also,
the “Français,” in contradistinction with the “Italien,” finally, the
“Grand Opera;” this latter name because it has a greater quantity of
thunder and lightning, of pasteboard seas, of paper snow-storms, and
dragons that spit fire; also a gorgeousness of wardrobe and scenery not
equalled upon any theatre in Europe. It is certain, its “_corps de
ballet_” can outdance all the world put together.
Mercy! how deficient we are in our country in these elegant
accomplishments. In many things we are still in our infancy,--in dancing
we are not yet born. We have, it is true, our “_balancés_,” and
“_chassés_,” and _back-to-backs_, and our women do throw a great deal of
soul into their little feet--as on a “birth-night,” or an “Eighth of
January,” or the like;--but the Grand Opera, the Opera Français, the
Académie Royale de Musique! _ah, ma foi, c’est là une autre
affaire!_--You have read, and so has everybody, of the “dancing Greeks;”
of Thespis, so described by Herodotus, who used to dance on his head,
his feet all the while dangling in the air; of the “Gaditanian girls,”
so sung by Anacreon; of Hylas, who danced before Augustus; of the
“dancing Dervishes,” who danced their religion like our Shakers; of the
pantomimic dances, described by Raynal; and the Turkish Ulemas, by the
“sweet Lady Mary Montague,” (quere “sweet?”) and finally, every one has
heard of the “Age of Voltaire, the King of Prussia, and Vestris,”--well,
all this is out-danced by Taglioni and the Grand Opera.
This opera has seats for two thousand spectators, besides an immense
saloon (two hundred feet by fifty) where a great number of fashionables,
to relieve their ears from the noise of the singing, promenade
themselves magnificently during the whole evening, under the light of
brilliant lustres; and where the walls, wainscotted with mirrors,
multiply their numbers and charms to infinity.--May I not as well
continue dancing through the rest of this page?
Dancing, you know, is a characteristic amusement of the French; and you
may suppose they have accommodations to gratify their taste to its
fullest extent. There are elegant rotundas for dancing in nearly all the
public gardens, as at “Tivoli,” “Waxhal d’Eté,” and the “Chaumière de
Mont Parnasse.” Besides, there are “Guinguettes” at every Barrière; and
in the “Village Fêtes,” which endure the whole summer, dancing is the
chief amusement; and public ball-rooms are distributed through every
quarter of Paris, suited to every one’s rank and fortune. The best
society of Paris go to the balls of Ranelagh, Auteuil, and St. Cloud.
The theatres, too, are converted into ball-rooms, especially for the
masquerades, from the beginning to the end of the Carnival.
I hired a cabriolet and driver the other night, and went with a lady
from New Orleans to see the most famous of the “Guinguettes.” Here all
the little world seemed to me completely and reasonably happy, behaving
with all the decency, and dancing with almost the grace, of high life.
We visited half a dozen, paying only ten sous at each for admission. I
must not tell you it was Sunday night: it is so difficult to keep Sunday
all alone, and without any one to help you. The clergy find a great deal
of trouble to keep it themselves here, there is so little encouragement.
On Sunday only, these places are seen to advantage. I am very far from
approving of dancing on this day, if one can help it; but I have no
doubt that in a city like Paris the dancers are more taken from the
tavern and gin-shops than from the churches. I do not approve, either,
of the absolute denunciation this elegant amusement incurs from many of
our religious classes in America. If human virtues are put up at too
high a price, no one will bid for them. Not a word is said against
dancing in the Old or New Testament, and a great deal in favour. Miriam
danced, you know how prettily; and David danced. To be sure, the manner
of his dancing was not quite so commendable, according to the fashion of
our climates. In the New Testament, to give enjoyment to the dance, the
water was changed into wine. If you will accept classical authority I
will give you pedantry _par dessus la tête_. The Greeks ascribed to
dancing a celestial origin, and they admitted it even amongst the
accomplishments and amusements of their divinities. The Graces are
represented almost always in the attitude of dancing; and Apollo, the
most amiable of the gods, and the god of wisdom, too, is called by
Pindar the “dancer.” Indeed, I could shew you, if I pleased, that
Jupiter himself sometimes took part in a cotillon, and on one occasion
danced a gavot.
Mεστοισιν δ’ωρχειτο πατηρ ανδρωντε Θεωντε.
There, it is proved to you from an ancient Greek poet. I could shew you,
too, that Epaminondas, amongst his rare qualities, is praised by
Cornelius Nepos for his skill in dancing; and that Themistocles, in an
evening party at Athens, passed for a clown, for refusing to take a
share in a dance. But it is so foppish to quote Greek, and to be talking
to women about the ancients. Don’t you say that dancing is not a natural
inclination, or I will set all the savages on you of the Rocky
Mountains, and I don’t know how many of the dumb animals--especially the
bears, who, even on the South-Sea Islands, where they could not have any
relations with the _Académie Royale de Musique_, yet always express
their extreme joy (Captain Cook says) by this agreeable agitation of
limbs. And if you won’t believe all this, I will take you to see a Negro
holiday on the Mississippi. Now, this is enough about dancing; it is
very late, and I must dance off to bed.
It is necessary to be as much in love with dancing as I am to preach so
pedantically about it as I have in this postscript. Its enormous length,
when you have seen Mademoiselle Taglioni, needs no apology. When you do
see her, take care her legs don’t get into your head; they kept capering
in mine all last night.