Habits and men, with remnants of record touching the makers of both

by Dr. Doran

In Paris, feathers and head-dress extended so outrageously, both in a vertical and a horizontal direction, that a row of ladies in the pit stalls, or in the front row of the boxes, effectually barred the “spectacle” from an entire audience in the rear. The fashion was suppressed by a Swiss, who was as well known in the Paris theatres as the celebrated critical trunk-maker once was in our own galleries. The Swiss used to attend, armed with a pair of scissors; and when he found his view obstructed by the head-dresses in front, he made a demonstration of cutting away all the superfluous portions of the head-dresses which interfered with his enjoyment. At first, the result was that the ladies made way for him, and he obtained a front place; but overcome by his obstinate warfare they at length hauled down their top-knots, and by yielding defeated the Swiss,—for he never got a front place afterwards.

I will take the liberty of adding here, that the fans used by Queen Elizabeth were usually made of feathers, and were as large as a modern hand fire-screen, with all sorts of devices thereon, such as would have singularly delighted an astronomical Chinese philosopher. Sir Francis Drake gave her one of this description, and she used to leave fans of a similar description at country houses as memorials of her visits; as, for instance, when she left Hawsted Hall, she dropped her silver-handled fan into the moat. Happy of course was the lucky man who got it thence. But to get back to France.

Carlin, the famous French harlequin, once excited universal laughter by appearing on the stage, not with the usual rabbit’s tail in his harlequin’s cap, but with a peacock’s feather, and that of such length, that the stage was hardly high enough for him. If the laughter however was universal, there was not wanting something of indignation, for lofty feathers formed a fashion in which Marie Antoinette very much rejoiced, and old royalists thought that Carlin ought to be sent to prison for his impertinence; but Carlin had not ventured on the caricature but by superior order, and the King would not consent to his being molested.

The fashion deserved to be caricatured, for feathers and head-dresses had raised themselves to such an outrageous elevation, when Mdlle. Bertin, the milliner, and Marie Antoinette set a fashion between them which ruined many a family, that they who followed the mode to the extreme were compelled, as they rode in carriages, either to hang their heads out at the door, or to set on the floor of the vehicle.

When Hardicanute lived at the house of Osgod Clappa, the Clapham district, which took its name from the chief, was not half so obsequious in copying the costume and carriage of the royal dandy, as all France was in transforming themselves into multiplied copies of the consort of Louis XVI.

And what a cruel ceremony was the dressing of that same Queen! When Marie Antoinette, in the days of her cumbersome greatness, stood of a morning in the centre of her bed-chamber, awaiting, after her bath, her first article of dress, it was presented to her, or rather it was passed over her royal shoulders by the “dames d’honneur.” Perhaps, at the very moment, a princess of the blood entered the room (for French Queens both dressed and dined in public), the right of putting on the primal garment of her Majesty immediately devolved upon her, but it could not be yielded to her by the “dame d’honneur;” the latter, arresting the chemise de la Reine as it was passing down the royal back, adroitly whipped it off, and, presenting it to the “première dame,” that noble lady transferred it to the princess of the blood. Madame Campan had once to give it up to the Duchess of Orléans, who, solemnly taking the same, was on the point of throwing it over the Queen’s head, when a scratching (it was contrary to etiquette to knock) was heard at the door of the room. Thereupon entered the Countess de Provence, and she being nearer to the throne than the lady of Orléans, the latter made over her office to the new-comer. In the meantime, the Queen stood like Venus as to covering, but shaking with cold, for it was mid-winter, and muttering “what an odious nuisance!” The Countess de Provence entered on the mission which had fallen to her; and this she did so awkwardly, that she entirely demolished a head-dress which had taken three hours to build. The Queen beheld the devastation, and got warm by laughing outright.

As England had its “macaronies,” its “bloods,” its “bucks,” its “dandies,” and its “exquisites,” so France had its “hommes à bonnes fortunes,” its “petits-maîtres,” its “importuns,” its “élégans,” and last of all, its “lions.” With us, variety of names scarcely indicated variety of species; the “macaroni” and the “exquisite” were simply the fast and fashionable men of their respective times; their titles were conferred by the people, not arrogated by themselves.

It was otherwise with our neighbours. The “hommes à bonnes fortunes” assumed the appellation, and therewith became the terror of fathers and husbands. His glory was to create a “scandal”—to be ever mixed up with the coteries of the women, and to be for ever fighting the men. Compared with him, the “importuns,” who took the Duc de Beaufort for their Magnus Apollo, and the “petits-maîtres,” who swore by their great master, the Prince de Condé, were simply harmless fops.

The “elegant” was the first of the butterfly race who exhibited a calmness of bearing. He smiled rather than answered, when spoken to; never gazed at his reflection in a glass, but concentrated his looks upon his own proper person. He was in a continual calm ecstasy at the sight of so charming a doll, so admirably dressed.