National sports and pastimes may be said to arise out of circumstances of climate and government; just as certain plants and trees are indigenous to the soil. Few of them will bear transplantation to other latitudes. The Montagnet Busses, so appropriate to the frozen hills on the banks of the Neva, soon ceased to please, when represented by pullies and deal planks in the Jardin Beaujeu; nor do the cricket-matches, made up by the English residents at Rome, assimilate better with the fervid skies of Italy. Still less appropriate are the al fresco diversions we have introduced from southern climes into our own pluviose island; the London edition of Tivoli too often betrays us ‘To raillery and a wet Vauxhall!’
But of all the sins of taste now epidemic in Europe, commend us to the Anglomania of Paris! A French Duke, with the ‘ribands’ in hand, and ‘a team,’ such as might evoke the shade of Sir John Lade to behold, cuts, if possible, a still more absurd figure than an English Duke shuffling through the graces of his Cavalier seul; while a second-rate French dandy, squaring his elbows to do the honours of a tilbury (that rattles along the Avenue de Neuilly louder than any Bath stage that ever rumbled over the stones of Brentford) might afford a model for Liston when next he ‘jarveys’ Mrs Orger over the boards of the Olympic theatre. Just now, too, when the thermometer stands at 28° ( Reaumur) and even the ices of Tortoni, like his Britannic Majesty’s Lower House, have lost their consistency, the Parisians, understanding that steeple-chases are common in the neighbourhood of London during the month of May, must needs institute a hurdle-race in the Bois de Boulogne. The hurdle-races of Paris, be it known to the uninitiated, are matches performed upon the hardest gravel-road to be found within reach of the badauds of the French metropolis; a space of about two miles being marked out for the course, across which, at stated intervals, barriers are erected, about five feet in height. A hurdle-race, therefore, is simply a gallop along a turnpike-road, intersected by five-barred gales. Nothing can be more disagreeable,, more dusty,, more dangerous! The French exquisites, who usually visit London about the season of Epsom races, to make a bid at Tattersall’s and lounge in the Park (things which they imagine to constitute the chief occupation of an Englishman de bonne compagnie (!) having observed the rush that takes place from Tattenham corner to the winning stand among the sporting amateurs of the Derby, think it necessary to gallop as close as possible to the heels of the running horses in the hurdle-chase; nay, the dust thus raised appears to constitute part of the pleasures of the day. The britchkas and caliches of the belles of the Chaussee d’Antin, ranged in file at the extremity of the course, become white as meal-carts; and the prettiest hat, imagined for the occasion by the immortal Herbault, is at length powdered like the touffes of her Excellency Madame le Hon, the Belgian Ambassadress.
In the Hurdle Chase that took place on Wednesday last, four horses, three of which were English, started for a sweepstakes of 1,000 francs each. Lord Henry Seymour’s (milord Sémourd as he is written down in Paris) came in first; Monsieur de Normandie’s, rode by that gentleman himself in a style that Ducrow might have envied, second. It is highly amusing, by the way, to observe with what sedulous care the dandies of the Cafe de Paris assume the ‘complement extern’ of some distinguished Englishman. At one of Madame Appony’s balls you will find, at least, ‘two Richmonds in the field, ‘two Castlereaghs, and four Cecil Foresters; in the Bois de Boulogne, you will fancy yourself following Lord Wilton or Lord Edward Thynne, instead of Gustave de This, or Alfred the other. Last year, the model of universal fashion was borrowed from that bequeathed by Count d’Orsay and Charles de Mornay ; but this is now exploded, or has descended inclusively to the clercs de notaire and commit de coiffeur;, all Paris is, just row à la Anglaise. The very women have adopted the little straw bonnets which set the Court of France in a titter when introduced, twenty years ago, upon the head of the Duchesse d’Angouleme; with the exception, that, being now united with the immense sleeves and farthingale dresses in vogue, they are ten times more ridiculous than when forming part of the English costume of 1814,, the taie d’oreiller robe, avec manches collantes. Dine at the Rocher, or the Café de Paris, and you will hear the jeune elegant at present termed ‘un fashionable,’ calling for a petit verre de Bitter, instead of the Parfait Amour, the ‘bottled velvet’ so enthusiastically described by Tommy Moore; or go into Bennis’s library (which has entirely superseded Galignani’s), and you will find the young litterateurs and flaneurs asking eagerly for ‘De Cort Shornal’ (the Court Journal). After all, the imitation approaches almost as near the original as that of certain Englishmen of rank, who have resided so long within reach of the Academic Royale, as almost to have forfeited their national identity, more especially as it is their rule to dress after the model of the last attaché, imported via Downing street, whether from Stockholm or Rio Janeiro.
The gardens of the Tuileries and Tivoli, and all the pleasure grounds in the environs of Paris, have been latterly rendered insupportable by swarms of beetles and cockchaflers, which are considered by the natives as de très mauvaise augure; every pestilence or epidemic on record having been preceded by a similar plague. Among the vineyards, a premium per bushel is offered for their destruction, as they are particularly injurious to the fruit. Strawberries have been abundant for the last fortnight; but the gardens predict a total failure of the later fruits.
During the much regretted absence of Lady Granville, the gay circles have been revived by the arrival of the Marchioness of Londonderry, Mrs Dawson Darner, and several other distinguished member’s of the English world of ton. The Hotel de Bristol, as well as those of the Rue Rivoli and Castiglione, are overflowing with English; and on the nights when ‘Gustave’ is represented, the opera is as full as in the month of February. Falcon is becoming almost as great a favourite as Taglioni; and Vaque-Moulin (who failed in England three seasons ago) excites universal enthusiasm. The favourite piece at the minor theatres, next to those in which his Majesty the Citoyen des deux Mondes is caricatured,, is ‘Le Camarade de lit;’ in which the present King of Sweden figures most royally drunk upon the stage, and ‘Vive la République’ is found tattooed upon the Royal arm of Bernadotte! Leontine Fay has not appeared in Paris since her marriage, and Madame Albert is just now absent. But a very clever actress, with whom the London public is at present unacquainted, Madame Dejazet, constitutes the attraction of the Theatre du Palais Royal. With the exception of a somewhat defective voice, this lady approaches nearer to Mrs Jordan than any comic actress it has been our fortune to see. Her Sophie Arnould is the most perfect thing of its genre , its genre, however, like that of all the pieces recently successful, being that of the grossest immorality.
Such are, at the present moment, the ‘Pastimes of Paris.’ Of its graver follies, its political squabbles and editorial proces, let others treat at leisure. The grippe, which, though prevalent, has been much less fatal than in London, having found its way into the Salle de Conseil. Les affaires ne marchent pas quite so smoothly as usual. The Court is gone to Neuilly ; the Marchesa Ettore di Lucchesi-Palli is to be transported for life to Italy;, et puis, nous verrons!
The Court Journal. Gazette of the fashionable world. 25.05.1833, No. 213.