screen, disguising themselves in a thousand various ways, turning an honest man into ridicule before a whole company, &c.

"It is the bon ton, to neglect all the other ladies, and only to crowd about the handsomest, to stare at and almost stifle her. About two o'clock in the morning comes a dancer par excellence, and everybody then calls out la gavotte, la gavotte!

"The piano-forte is put in tune, a circle is formed, the company mount upon the chairs; they clap their hands, and the young man who dances with the lady of the house, with much self-complacency receives, as a tribute due to him, the compliments of the company. He takes the precedence of old and young people, never hands a chair to a lady, talks at random of theatres, literature, and the fine arts, turns some clever learned man into ridicule by a calembourg, interrupts the most interesting conversation upon solid subjects by impertinent trifles, dashes out into mystics, were it even against his own father, boasts of having hissed the most recent theatrical performance, and plays a thousand other such tricks à-la-mode. "Of the waltz he gives a definition, having first laughed at himself, saying,It is a familiar dance, which requires the amalgamation of both dancers, and which flows like oil upon smooth marble.' If at supper he espies one of those apple-cakes which the French call Charlotte, he very wittily observes: I should indeed like to be the Werter of this Charlotte.' There are people that are apt to get into a passion at such a conceited young coxcomb; it has been my own case before now. I have, however, for this long time past hit upon an excellent remedy, by reflecting upon the figure such a creature is

likely to make at the expitation of ten or fifteen years. Pity then immediately takes the place of indignation. The ton of freedom which prevails in all places of public resort, where all classes of people are mixed, naturally attracts thither a multitude of young people, who are absolutely impatient of every kind of restraint, and here they find their school of politeness. Madame Recamier, once going to Frascati, where she dearly paid for the pleasure of being handsome, really excited pity, if you saw her swimming in the crowd, tossed to and fro, and vainly endeavouring to make good her retreat. People got upon the chairs to look at her; every neck was stretched out; the hindmost pushed the foremost; and in all likelihood the object of this oppressive admiration would have been suffocated at last, had not her agility and dexterity afforded her an opportunity in a few minutes to escape.

"Let nobody imagine he will find real pleasure in public places of this kind. The Parisian plunges into a crowd, because he is a stranger to the quiet joys of domestic privacy. The word plaisir for him is only an expresssion à façon de parler. He has the pleasure to see you, to hear you, to speak with you; but to him who has this pleasure you are nevertheless perfectly indifferent. He had the pleasure of dining with such a one, where he felt terrible ennui. You give him an invitation, he tells you he receives it with great pleasure, but he never comes. You ask leave to lay hold of his arm

With a great deal of pleasure, madame; and all the while he mutters a curse between his teeth, for he has a mortal aversion to such

a restraint.

"The

The taste for what is called fees champetres is much upon the decline, for the places where these rural feasts used to be given, multiplied to infinity; and it was ridiculous To see a person that planted a small bit of ground with a couple of espalier trees, created a meandering little puddle, or raised a shabbylooking fountain, give to them the high sounding names of Isle de Venus, Jardin de Paphos, d' Apollon, Elysée, Frascati, les Grands Maronniers, la Chaumière Indienne, &c. &c. "The fire-works, particularly Ruggiere's, are a very popular amusement, and the best play will never attract such a concourse of people. Of the theatricals of amateurs little more is now heard. The young men play at Ranelagh, as long as the weather permits, the jeu de barres (cricket); and as there is always a number of ladies who come to be spectators, it may easily be supposed that here too vanity officiates as president.

"The public balls, which are always pompously advertised, are truly insignificant. Here it is a Casino Venetien, a Salle de Terpsichore, &c.; there a grand orchestra; there again a mise décente (decent dress) is made a condition sine qua non of admittance; and if a stranger, trusting to all this bombast, come in well dressed, he is sure to find a heap of ill-bred clowns in boots, with round hats on their heads, and the grand or chestra consists of five poor creatures, one of whom is a black man, beating an oblong drum with one hand, and playing on a fife with the other; between the dances they give flourishes on the Frenchhorn. Neither nature nor art lends charms to the fair-sex here; and as to modesty, I could no where meet with it. A rare refinement I found

in several dancing-rooms. A profile painter sets up his stall in one of the corners, and in an instant, at a moderate price, furnishes profiles. A lover, who has perhaps seldom an opportunity of seeing the object of his affections, may here contrive so as to make her for a moment stand in the stall, where she will at least leave him her shade.

"Formerly education was remarkable in France for its salutary rigour; but now such a method would be called pedantry. Formerly, labour was the custom, earnest application the guide of studies; and mathematics, the antient languages, the sciences, and the fine arts, the objects of the learner's pursuit. A young man just coming out of school could certainly not cut a figure upon entering into company, and it was the task of the ladies gradually to give him the polish of genteel refinement. But now the dear child is kept above all things, from overfatiguing himself with study; the antient languages are deemed superfluous; and the fine arts, which were before mere collaterals, now form the main object. What was then called the classis is now abolished, and there are only courses of public lectures, where the ladies and strangers numerously attend, and occupy the seats of honour.

"The real pupils must sit behind, just like the rabble in the juridical ceremony of the marriage of Figaro. The sweet prattling, and the killing looks of the ladies, prepare the children for their lesson: at last, the gallant professor makes his appearance; but he is no longer a dull pedant as formerly; he is known in every social circle, he is a member of all the lyceums, genteel, tonish, in short, a delicious

man. He is received with a glad murmuring, and modestly snuffs in the incense with his nose, walking in a bending attitude through the hall. In order to teach the pupils to read, the professor reads, and what?—a satire of Boileau, or a song of Gresset's Vert-vert, or perhaps a few words on some antient author. His end is entertainment, and not instruction; he, therefore, skips over every thing serious, concluding with the reading of his own verses, amidst the loudest clapping of hands on the part of the audience: thus a twelvemonth passes, and the prizes are distributed. This formerly took place with pompous solemnity, but is now performed in one of the most fascinating circles. All the belles attend, because concerts and balls are given; they little think about the prizes: here too the pu pils make a brilliant figure, and they prophesy that this or that one will soon become a capital dancer.

"This kind of solemnity is still more scrupulously and nicely observed in the boarding-schools for young ladies. There plays are acted, in which the girls stifle the fascinating coyness of innocence, in order to please by their graces, and afterwards in dancing, to rival the most expert women in coquetry.

"Formerly a young lady would have taken it very ill, had any body told her that she danced like a stageplayer; but now it is the only encemium that can be worthily bestowed on a good dancer.

"The youthful fair are now likewise amateurs of the arts. A girl scarcely fifteen years old will stand before David's painting, and, at tentively gazing through her opera glass at the stark-naked Sabine, will observe, that such a muscle is

full of energy, but such a one like nothing. She will talk of the tibia, of the abdomen, and heaven knows of what more. As the pretty ac complishment of holding a fan be fore one's eyes was not to be entirely suppressed, but was, however, found troublesome, recourse has been had to the medium of fixing the opera-glass between the fansticks; which is a complete remedy.

"Both mother and daughter now dress alike, they thou one an other, and if they wrangle, neither will give way. Both dance la gavotte; they sing, play at cards, ride home, separately commit follies, intrust them to one another, they scold each other, and both domineer in the family. The only thing in which they differ is, that the mother wears diamonds, and the daughter flowers.

"A young man from the country came on a visit to a young lady betrothed to him; he found her tête-à-tête with a young artist, hav ing before her an academie (a small statue of plaster of Paris): to learn drawing, she took lessons in ana tomy. We are just now,' said her master, upon the muscles of the loins, let us for the present get to the abdomen:' thus the fancy of this girl was jumping from muscle to muscle. Her lover asking where her mother was, 'O,' replies she,

6

the little rake! she was waltzing too much last night.'-After this, she requested her intended spouse to accompany her to the ridinghouse, where, on her arrival, she jumped upon a brisk horse, and, galloping away like lightning, left the poor country lout staring openmouthed at the disappearance of his vision.

"From the riding-house she went to the swimming-school, (école de natation) where the gentle bride

entered

entered a closet, and soon after appeared in a large bathing-shirt; which having dropt, she stood exposed to view in nankeen waistcoat and pantaloons closely fitting her body, and with these she jumped into the water. Her bridegroom, who never hoped to see all these charms before the wedding day, let her swim, hastened home, help ed himself to put his horses before the carriage, and with the utmost precipitancy, nay, even without taking leave, returned to the country.-I must frankly confess here, that the above observations are not entirely my own, but that a very nice observer has contributed a few.

"The modern devotion of the Parisians appears to me, as every thing of theirs does, mere fashion. I was present at the chanting of a solemn high mass at the church of Notre Dame, which was crowded with flocks of the pious. I very closely observed them, and could discover but little devotion, for all of them had brought nothing but their play-house looks. The vocal music was excellent, but too feeble for such a large edifice. The entrance into the choir costs sixpence.

"Boards were suspended on the arches, announcing the prices to be paid for the chairs let for hire. If a Te Deum was chanted, I found them the dearest, probably because a Te Deum must first be purchased at a dear rate. I heard a bell belonging to the steeple, which has a most awful, tremendous sound, and is called Bourdon.

"Louis XVI. and Marat, in short, all the venerable as well as the worthless victims of the revolution, are so completely sunk in oblivion, that all my pains to discover the church-yard de la Made1804.

laine, where they are buried, were fruitless; my loquais de place pretended to know nothing at all about it. At last I was informed, that this church-yard had been sold to a smith, who had converted it into a garden. I instantly repaired to the spot, but the smith was not at home; the people in the house would not vouch for the correctness of my information, but were of opinion, that not a single trace of graves remained in their garden; for the quicklime, thrown into the holes in which the corpses had been buried, had consumed them all. To be brief, I was obliged to withdraw, however much I had wished to stand on the spot where the bones of unfortunate men and ruffians remain mixed together. A lady afterwards assured me that the spot was not only still to be found, but that it was even planted with three lilies: the owner, however, owing to the too great crowd of visitors, had shut his garden to every body.-In this he was perfectly right.

"The Bois de Boulogne, where the iron-eaters are strolling about, and where the beaux are lolling in their cabriolets, is not a wood, but a collection of shrubs and bushes, which has nothing of an attractive nature; a number of paths cross each other. Having once entered it, a person may ride as far as the palace of la Bagatelle, formerly belonging to the count d'Artois, where every thing is confined within a very narrow space. The entrance to it bears this inscription, Parva sed apta. It is now kept by a restaurateur, who takes fifteen sous for admission, and fifty more for a small glass of paltry Madeira. The prospect is charming, and the park romantically wild. Some rooms still conI

tain