It is a positive pleasure, independent of the amusement which may be derived from a closer examination, to cast the eye over the general effect produced by the consummate taste and skill thus displayed. Those curious affinities and antipathies among colours, which I have seen made the subject of many pretty experimental lectures, must, I am sure, have been studied and acted upon by the colour-master of each department; and the result is to my feelings productive of a pleasure, from the contemplation of the effect produced, as distinct from the examination of the design, or of any other circumstance connected with the art, as the gratification produced by the smell of an orange-blossom or a rose: it is a pleasure which has no connexion with the intellect, but arises solely from its agreeable effect on the sense.
The eye seems to be unconsciously soothed and gratified, and lingers upon the rich, the soft, or the brilliant hues, with a satisfaction that positively amounts to enjoyment.
Whoever may be occupied by the "delightful task" of fitting up a sumptuous drawing-room, will do well to take a tour round a room filled with sets of Sèvres porcelain. The important question of "What colours shall we mix?" would receive an answer there, with the delightful certainty that no solecism in taste could possibly be committed by obeying it.
The Gobelins and Beauvais work for chairs, screens, cushions, and various other articles, makes a great display this year. It is very beautiful, both in design and execution; and at the present moment, when the stately magnificence of the age of Louis Quinze is so much in vogue—in compliment, it is said, to the taste of the Duc d'Orléans,—this costly manufacture is likely again to flourish.
Never can a large and lofty chamber present an appearance of more princely magnificence than when thus decorated; and the manner in which this elaborate style of ancient embellishment is now adopted to modern use, is equally ingenious and elegant.
Some political economists talk of the national advantage of decreasing labour by machinery, while others advocate every fashion which demands the work of hands. I will not attempt to decide on which side wisdom lies; but, in our present imperfect condition, everything that brings an innocent and profitable occupation to women appears to me desirable.
The needles of France are assuredly the most skilful in the world; and set to work as they are upon designs that rival those of the Vatican in elegance, they produce a perfection of embroidery that sets all competition at defiance.
In pursuing my way along the rail which encloses the specimens exhibited—a progress which was necessarily very slow from the pressure of the crowd,—I followed close behind a tall, elegant, aristocratic-looking gentleman, who was accompanied by his son—decidedly his son,—the boy "fathered himself;" I never saw a stronger likeness. Their conversation, which I overheard by no act of impertinent listening, but because I could not possibly avoid it, amused me much. I am seldom thrown into such close contact with strangers without making a fancy-sketch of who and what they are; but upon this occasion I was thrown out,—it was like reading a novel, the dénouement of which is so well concealed as to evade guessing. The boy and his father were not of one mind; their observations were made in the spirit of different parties: the father, I suspect, was a royalist,—the son, I am sure, was a young doctrinaire. The crowd hung long upon the spot where a magnificent collection of embroidery for the seats and backs of a set of chairs was displayed. "They are for the Duke of Orleans," said the father.
"Yes, yes," said the boy; "they are fit for him—they are princely."
"They are fit for a king!" said the father with a sigh.