THE METROPOLITAN. No. LXXVIII. OCTOBER, 1837. PARIS IN LIGHT AND SHADE.* BY A DISTINGUISHED resident. OUR last Parisian sketch concluded with a promise to touch upon the private entertainments of the French capital; in fulfilling which engagement we must "lightly tread, 'tis hallowed ground" to all save those who, like Cleophas, survey the social scene by preternatural permission. To enter a man's house by invitation in the ordinary way, preimposes a padlock on his lips.. We must be permitted, there fore, as far as possible, to generalize in our comments on, and descriptions of, Parisian society. don housekeeper's room. Let it not be supposed, meanwhile that these ill light. ed, ill-dressed coteries, however cheerful, are more emancipated from etiquette than our own brilliant assemblies. French people stand as much on the ceremony of introduction as ourselves; they waste the same breath in ceremonious inquiries after health and absent friends; the same dull whisper prevails, and, on the whole, a far stricter regard to the laws of biensé ance. As is the case in all corrupt states of society, the surface of the Parisian beau monde is without spot or blemish. There are no forward, flirting young ladies: no coquettish married women parading their liaisons as a feather in their caps. A French girl rarely appears in society exFirst, then, there cannot be a greater cept in a ball-room; where she is allowed mistake than to attribute ease or anima- to smile, dance, and look pretty, but not tion to French society. The English have to open her lips. A marriage is arranged so long been taxed by Europe with social for her by her family, proportionate to her dullness, that they think to disarm their pretensions, not according to the whims attackers by anticipating the accusation. and fancies of men whom she is permitWe are the first to protest, on all occa- ted to exert her powers of captivation to sions, that nothing can exceed the stu- enslave; and on re-appearing in the world pidity of the English people, or the mo- as a married woman, either she is virtunotony of their parties; summing up our ous and modest, or, if irregular in her diatribe with encomiums upon the easy conduct, shelters herself under the cloak and vivacious good breeding of French and mask of strict decorum. A French Society. Yet nothing can be more cere- woman who has a liaison, appears in monious than a Parisian circle of the public scrupulously with her husband, higher class; nothing more formal than studies his tastes and caprices, and keeps the address of high-born French people. up only a cold and formal acquaintance Their amusability is their true point of with the person whose familiarity would superiority, which is chiefly proved in the be a reproach to her in the eyes of sociefact that they are content to meet together ty. English people love to make their in the coldest, flattest manner, without the excitement of refreshments, lights, or gay attire; to meet, in short, for the mere purpose of gossipping, as they do in a Lon pecadillos as public as possible. With us the bonds of decency are of such iron texture, that once broken, we feel it impossible to rivet them up again. Aware that all is over, we fancy it as well to leap at once into the gulf! Frenchwomen, on the contrary, admit Immense distinc tion between those who outrage society mack's-going, crowd-sulking beauty, finds by the parade of their frailties, and those it a sorry exchange for the heated, fullwho redouble their merits and amiabili- dressed mobs of London, with all their ties as an atonement for the vertu de noise, high-pressure flirtation, and dismoins. They are, in short, admirable play. To Englishwomen, there is somehypocrites; but this pretence to prudery thing of constraint in such parties, where establishes considerable dulness in so- the sprinkling of guests have nothing to ciety. do but to observe-and overhear each other. The Parisians are unconscious of any such gêne; being too busy chattering, either to listen or notice. A Frenchwoman does not sit envying her neighbour's dress, but enters into a complimentary discussion on the subject: a Frenchman does not wait till he is drawn out into conversation, but feels it a social duty to contribute his quota to the entertainment of his companions. The season at Paris is much shorter than the season in London, commencing on the 1st of January, and ending on Shrove Tuesday with the carnival. The first day of the year is invariably commemorated at court by the first drawing room; which is held at night, and attended by all the court-going world. Then come the royal balls-the balls of the ministers and ambassadors-the balls of the Préfet de la Seine-(a polite and perma nent edition of your Lord Mayor)-the balls of the principal bankers and leading personages of fashion. Than these fêtes nothing can be more magnificent. They stream with a blaze of light-they resound with the music of well-composed orchestras-they are crowded with lovely women, attired in that excelling elegance of Parisian toilette, which gives the law to all the vanities of Europe. London people, who visit Paris at this bonbon giving epoch, are enchanted with the royal, ministerial, and diplomatic fêtes. They fancy that the giddy scene will keep whirling and blazing on; and are amazed, at the close of five or six weeks, to find din ners, balls, and concerts, suddenly at an end the satin fauteuils covered up, the diamonds consigned to the jewel-case, the velvet and brocade to the wardrobe; and, with the exception perhaps of a fancy ball at the Mi Carême. and a few déjeuners dansants at different foreign ambassadors, all is over in the way of fete till the following year. But it is precisely when the fêtes are brought to a close, that what may properly be termed the society of Paris comes into play. Parisian society consists in evening visiting; every family of consideration having one night of the week set apart to receive their friends, as their "at home." At ministerial and diplomatic houses, these weekly meetings are prepared for, with lights and refreshments; but in houses of a moderate calibre, nothing is done but to have the door opened for the amusement of guests: the only entertainment provided is causerie. At these evening visits, moreover, finery is inadmissible. From Easter to Christmas, a Parisian eschews everything approaching to full dress. No jewels are worn-no satins-no blonde--no any thing tawdry or magnificent. Every article of the toilet must be light, fresh, and gay; muslins, sarsnets, and chip-hats, are the order of the hour. But while a genuine Frenchwoman delights in this studied simplicity, and the eternal chit-chat which fills up the evening, your regular Al One grand cause of this readiness of colloquiality, is temperance. They are not half so long at table as ourselves; they eat, if not less, at least less heavy viands; and drink a fourth part of the fermented liquors swallowed by the English. The great mixture of wines in which we unconsciously indulge, renders our brains as heavy as lead. Instead of the three or four glasses of light claret, and one of champagne, which form the libation of a Frenchman, we co-jumble port, sherry, madeira, hock, champagne, grâve, sauterne, claret, and perhaps ale, besides malmsey and liqueurs, all tainted with drugs, and rendered fiery with alcohol. Though amended of the brutalization of actual drunkenness prevalent thirty years ago, the greater number of Englishmen devote the two hours following a dinner party, to obscene conversation and a snooze. They are still half asleep at the moment the French diner-out jumps into his carriage, and is off to some soirée, where he is neither slumberous himself, nor the cause of sleep in others. Dinner produces neither an increase nor a diminution of his powers of pleasing. But it is not alone at evening parties we discern the love of conversation so remarkable in the French. At all times and places the steam is on. They are always ready to talk, and almost always able to talk well. French people are seldom fond of reading or writing. Their preference and excel lence is causerie. A Parisian's notion of taking a walk, is to sit on a chair in one of the alleys of the Tuileries, gossiping with a friend. From the moment the fine weather sets in, all who remain in Paris devote a couple of hours a day, either in the morning or evening, to the airy conver sazioni. Again, in selecting a country-house, they do not inquire, like the English, for a sequestered spot and rural scenery. They like some little anthill swarming with human creatures, such as Montmo rency, St. Cloud, or a bathing-place; and if so unfortunate as to possess a fine park, set about dotting it round with villas, to secure a little pleasant society. As in Paris, they adopt the system of dwelling | many months in the year: the remaining in communities, (a dozen families in every months they are contented to be lightlarge house,) in order to accommodate hearted and cheerful, to take things as their moderate means by a common en they find them, and give them as they trance, and a private servant the less, so can. also they replace the onerous English system of a country-house full of company, by surrounding their seventy-four gunship with nut-shells. With the exception of some half dozen great families, who fancy themselves Anglicizing by prolonging their sojourn in the country till Christmas, October beholds Paris re-peopled for the winter; the moment bad weather renders the country cheerless without doors, they return to the in-door pleasures of the capital. From the opening of the Italian Opera in October, the half season commences, id est, the season of society. No balls or concerts, indeed, but weekly réunions which are numerous and gay in proportion to the deficiency of more showy assemblies. For a non-foxhunting population, the sum mer remains summer, the winter, winter; or to speak more clearly, the summer and the country may be enjoyed together, the winter and the town. It is to this exercise of social wisdom that Paris is indebted for the brilliant assemblage of foreign ers which every winter scatters gold on the pavement of the Rue de la Paix. English people who have no country-seats, conscious that London in winter is a wilderness-that throughout the squares of Grosvenor, Berkeley, and St. James's, not three houses have their shutters open to the soot and fog-fly to the recreations of Paris: and after enjoying its two or three extra months of operas and balls, are ready to re-commence, with the commencement of the London season, their career of frivolity. At the close of the carnival, opera singers and dancersball-orchestras and figurantes-hair-dressers and milliners, migrate from Paris to London. prolonging their profits from three months to six, precisely as their patrons and customers prolong their pleasures. In England, on the contrary, those who cannot emulate the splendor of the Marquis of Westminster, with his hundred of thousands per annum, or the grandeur of Woburn Abbey or Belvoir Castle, prefer giving nothing at all. They are ashamed to offer to their friends an entertainment that costs them neither trouble nor expense. Willingly do they waste their over-time, and that of their acquaintance, (which they justly estimate of little value,) by an eternal rou. tine of morning visits, the bane of all rational pursuits. But a sociable evening visit, when, wearied by business or study, the human mind is naturally disposed to unbend-is out of the question. They would blush to receive their friends in the ordinary dress, by the light of an ordinary lamp. It is indispensable to be arrayed in finery, and to "light up," in order to enjoy the society of those whose intimacy would brighten the dullness of their days, and whose conversation would strike out sparks illumining the obscurity of their minds. Unless they have inconvenienced their households and made themselves as uncomfortable as possible, they cannot think of receiving their friends. The little world of London loves to set out its card-taples, and cause its young ladies to mangle concertos on the piano, by way of making an evening pass agreeably. If an uninvited visitor were to knock at any door of the West-end, after dinner, orders would instan ly be issued to the servant to announce them not at at home." If accidentally admitted, the guest would probably be asked "if any. thing was the matter," to account for his strange inroad into thelr domestic privacy. If a house be blest with daughters, they would conclude the intruder must come to make a proposal: in one less forAfter all, the grand secret of the discre- tunate, that he was come to borrow mopancy in the forms of society between Eng-ney. If too wealthy for such an imputaland and France, consists in difference tion, that he was at all events canvassing of fortune. In Paris, there are no Dukes for a vote. of Devonshire or Sutherland. The lar "You may laugh," quoth the domestic gest French fortune cited, consists in Englishman, "but this apparent churlishtwenty thousand a year; and there are ness arises from our attachment to our not twenty households in Paris whose in- friends-from our love of the sanctities of comes amount to eight thousand. Two private life." Now admire in what conthousand a year is considered a hand-sists his enjoyment of these vaunted sancsome fortune, and equal to five in Lon- tities. In monopolizing the best corner of don. With such limited funds at their the fire place-dozing in his arm-chairdisposal, it would be impossible for spending half the evening in drinking tea, French people to prolong their hospitali- the other half in reading the papers or a ties beyond the carnival; or to fill their country-houses with the eternal round of guests-the Gargantuan mouth of whose accompanying valetocracy has eaten so many respectable Great-British families out of house and home. The French can afford to be smart and brilliant only so pamphlet, a monotonous silence prevailing at the work-table of the female portion of his family, in compliment to his slumber or his studies. But then, "it is home!" The fire and the elbow-chair are his own. The tea is poured out by his own wife or daughter, and brought up by a domestic In Paris, there are only three clubs; two of them of unquestioned and the third of probably English origin. The first in importance is the "Club Anglais," a handsome establishment, at the corner of the Boulevarts and Rue de Grammont, conducted in the style of the best London clubs. To this the ambassadors and leading men of the fashionable and diplomatic circles habitually resort. It has its permanent and honorary members; the latter consisting of the eminent foreigners temporarily visiting Paris: the former, chiefly of Carlists, between whom and the rising men of the day a constant warfare of blackballing is kept up. As in the London clubs, games of chance are prohibited; but whist suffices as a pretext for tremendously high play. This club maintains, meanwhile, a high reputation; and it is worthy of remark that, on the occasion of the disgraceful London exposure last year, not only was the name of Lord De Roos struck off the list of members, but one of the witnesses on the trial, who admitted that he had seen his lordship cheat, but considered the exposure no affair of his, was requested to withdraw his name, which had been previously proposed for ballot. animal wearing livery. Is not this better | family should keep up that intercourse than sting in the hired seat of a pub ic with each other by fraternising at clubs, theatre, to laugh at Liston, or applaud which the female portion endeavour to Farren? Is it not better than admitting a maintain by the gossiping of morning vifriend or two to share the warmth of the siting. fire, and bring a few more tea-cups into action; at the expense of being obliged to keep awake, hear one's favourite dogmas disputed-endure the labour of argument, and run the hazard of having the work-ta ble find the visitor wiser and more agreeable than oneself? By such plausible selfishness is the narrow-minded dulness of English domestic life exalted into a virtue. In Paris, meanwhile, there is much less admixture of castes than in the olla podrida of Babylonian London. Society is still ranged after the fashion of a botanic garden; and with the exception of the fungi of the monied aristocracy, a genus which social science has scarcely yet reduced to order, there is no confusion of classes. It is true, that this arrangement savours of the nursery-garden intended to preface the perfected glory of the parterre; and infers a less advanced stage of civilization. But literary people who associate chiefly together, are more susceptible of emulation; and scientific men who are in constant communion, strike out new paths to knowledge; while the literary man who shines at a fashionable dinner, is intent upon dazzling rather than in refining his ideas and communicating refinement to others; and the savant lies on the surface of an aristocratic party, like a lump of rich ore upon a barren moor. Among artists, dramatists, men of letters, and learning, excitement is promoted by collision. The Parisians show themselves practically susceptible to this advantage; but the Eng. lish, of any express denomination, such as lawyers, divines, literati, physicians, merchants, actors, make proof of their calling by scrupulously receding from the society of all others belonging to the same. It is true, that of late years a superabundance of clubs have started up upon the confederation principle. But these regard the interests of the pocket rather than the mind. Englishmen are content to eat their sandwiches and read their newspapers at a cheaper rate, even at the sacri. fice of eating or reading in the same room with their professional colleagues. But after all, the only clubs where anything like fellowship exists are the dandy ones of Crockford's, White's, and the Traveller's; the glittering arid particles of those useless sandbanks, being indurated into something resembling substance only by their want of sympathy with any other ex isting body. These clubs of London, however, afford a useful safety-valve to society. The idle, the frivolous, and the undomestic, mutually attract each other; opinions are exchang ed, prejudices rubbed off; and since, positively resolved against socialising at home, it is better that the male part of a The second in importance is the "Jockey Club," founded by Englishmen and French Anglo-maniacs-the name of the club explaining their common bond of union. The house, also on the Boulevarts, is splendid, and the cellar and establishment important. But French sportsmen overdo their sportsmanship, and are apt to degenerate into slang. The tone of the Pari sian Jockey-Club is rather of brass than Corinthian bronze. It is an excellent gathering place for that very flash generation the dandies of the Boulevarts and Bois de Boulogne, to toast Dejazet and sigh for Duvernay; but will never attract the well-bred Englishman of fashion from the select set in the Rue de Grammont. The third club is the "Cercle," a heterogeneous assemblage: house, household, eating and drinking excellent: the restas it may be. The establishment of these clubs has been advantageous in thinning the fashionable crowd at the Salon, the privileged gambling house; which, per aid of costly gratuitous dinners twice a week and nightly suppers, contrives to attract flocks of unhappy muttons to be fleeced and roasted. At the Salon, infamy assumes its most orderly and respectable form: a hell is legally organised under the superintendence of commissaries, wearing ribbons at their button-holes, and titles on their visiting cards; and croupiers who, in the intervals of rouge et noir and hazard, are received |