It is probable that, at some time or the other, you have been at a fête in Paris.
Because if you have, you will recollect the gay “Bal de Paris” that was lighted up so tastefully when it became dark. You will recall the order that reigned there, so different to the vulgar jostling and dreary riot of the “Crown and Anchor” at Greenwich Fair. If you have not been there, figure to yourself an enormous tent, say one hundred feet long, supported by gilt pillars, with pretty festoons, and surrounded by trophies and tricoloured flags, of red, blue, and white calico all round. The floor is neatly boarded; and in the centre, an excellent orchestra, of a dozen musicians, performing all the most popular quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas of Paris. Five sous is charged for entrance, and an extra demand of five sous is made each time you dance; when you are not considered as transgressing etiquette in asking any fair one that your choice may fall upon. The utmost order prevails. Indeed, the municipal guards in attendance with their fierce mustaches and tiger-skin helmets, will soon march you off between them if you overstep decorum.
With respect to the refreshments, there is not the immense bar which we see at the Greenwich Fair and Moulsey Race-course dancing assemblies, covered with cold boiled-beef, ham, fowls, bottled-porter, pipes, and crockery; but then there is a small tent aside from the grand one, for lemonade, sirop de groseilles, wine, coffee, and Rheims biscuits, which has an air of refinement never met with in England at meetings of this kind. Dancing is the sole object of the company; and dance they do; and so did we, too, once upon a time (as soon as we got over our thorough English idea that every body was looking at us), and we can safely say we enjoyed ourselves much more there than we had done at any dashing evening parties in London. And then the practice in French conversation which it affords! You can speak so easily, so fluently, to a pretty grisette in the middle of a dance, and under the influence of a bottle of vin ordinaire, at twelve sous; it beats all the masters, believe us; and we speak from experience. But all this by the way. All have their hobbies, and pretty grisettes are ours.
Few have watched these agreeable dances without lamenting the absence of such things from our English festivals: we believe it is the Gents alone who have proved the obstacles to their proper introduction. For they would never keep quiet, and simply enjoy themselves. They would think it necessary to “have a spree;” and could not exist ten minutes without surreptitiously lighting a cigar, for any consideration. He would think that he was not “nobby” if he did not have some wretched champagne: and this miserable mess, getting into his head, would lead him into all manner of offensive behaviour. For no Gent can stand much wine, at any time; and Gent’s wine in particular, such as Casino champagne, fearfully upsets them.
When we first heard that M. Laurent was going to start a shilling concert and dance we were much disquieted; for we knew at what a rampant pitch Gentism would arrive there. But it was somewhat gratifying to see that the sensible behaviour of a few strong-minded visitors somewhat awed them into propriety. Still there are many who still assemble; and the use of this chapter is, that you may be shown how to know and avoid them.
The Casino Gent especially likes a white over-coat, short, with large buttons; and under this he disposes a gay shawl, so as to look like the collar of a waistcoat. He carries a short stick, and this he never parts with under any pretence; but in a polka you will see it high in air above the whirling confusion of dances, and by this signal may trace his progress about the room.
His polka is not of the first order; it savours more of the dancing academy than the drawing-room; and he has scarcely yet given up the fandango atrocities before alluded to, that disgraced the polka on its first introduction into England. Hence you will at times still see him “kicking up behind and before” in an absurd manner, that “Old Joe,” of Ethiopian celebrity, could scarcely have outdone.
