The streets of Paris have, since sunday last, exhibited a very singular appearance to the eye of an englishman. The carnival is now begun; and the people, being permitted by the present government to return to all their old habits, are celebrating this season of the year with that gayety, whim, and eccentricity, which it has long been a kind of religious duty, in catholic countries, to display on such occasions. From six in the morning till midnight, the principal streets are crowded with masks of every description; and while a certain number are contented with exhibiting their fun and their dresses on foot, others are mounted on horses, attended by servants, also in costume, and some are seated in carriages of every description. In short, Paris has been one continued scene of jubilee, and it is difficult to pass through the principal avenues of the town, on account of the vast crowds of singular figures, who press forward on every side, and arrest the attention of spectators. Harlequins, Columbines, beaux, abbés, lawyers, and monks, present themselves every where; and while they circulate in detached parties, mamalukes, turks, and indian savages, correctly dressed, well mounted, and attended with bands of music, move in numerous bodies. These, and motley groups of masks of all kinds, filling the inside, top, and every part of hackney coaches, landaus, sociables, curricles, cabriolets, and german waggons, form lengthened processions on the Boulevard, in the rue St. Honoré, and in the neighbourhood of the Palais royal; while the latter, the Thuilleries, and Champs Elisées, are filled with pedestrian and motley coloured wits, who, attacking each other with poissard eloquence, amuse not a little the surrounding multitude.
It is difficult to convey an idea of the show, variety, and eccentricity of the dresses. In the extraordinary processions, which I have already mentioned, several handsome carriages were employed, drawn very frequently by four, sometimes by six, and, in more instances than one, by eight horses. Caricatures of all sorts were exhibited; and it was curious to see the costumes of friars, nuns, full dressed marquis, powdered abbés, and mitred prelates, appearing as masquerade disguises in those streets, where, twelve years before, the same dresses excited the serious respect of every one.
The people showed considerable fun in many of the grotesque figures which they assumed; and I was particularly pleased with a fellow, who, imitating our english print, was dressed as a monk, and literally carried on his back a young girl enclosed in a truss of straw, with these words written on his burden, “Provision pour le convent[50].” Besides innumerable Eves, beautiful Venusses, and handsome legged damsels, dressed as boys, Diana had many a fair representative, clad in flesh coloured pantaloons, and gracefully perched on the edge of a coach box, embracing with one arm a Hercules, and with the other an Adonis. I think you will admire, as I did, the admirable choice of such a dress, and such a posture, for the goddess of Modesty. The moral conduct of each lady was, doubtless, not less appropriate than her outward appearance to the character which she assumed.
This amusement has already continued some days, and will, I am told, last at least ten more. It is difficult to ascertain how the body of the people, who alone take part in these sports, can support both, the loss of time, and the expense which the dresses, carriages, &c. must necessarily occasion. It is indeed reported, that the government pays the whole cost, and that the principal characters are hired to amuse the mob; but a respectable gentleman, who was intimately connected with the minister of police under the old régime, assures me, that the same thing was said at that time; and that nothing was more false, though the masks were then as splendid and as numerous as they are at present. I believe, the truth is simply this, that the french are so fond of pleasure, of amusement, and spectacles of all kinds, that there is no sacrifice which they will not endure, in order to be able to indulge this favourite passion. A parisian will dine for six days on a sallad, that he may go on the seventh to a ball or a play; and I have no doubt that the emperors, caliphs, and janissaries, whom I have seen to day in such oriental splendour, have many of them still, like good christians, begun to mortify the flesh, even before the commencement of Lent. This necessary sobriety, united to the regulations of the police, which are admirable, prevents any disorder or riots in the streets; and notwithstanding the swarms of idle masqueraders, who wander at present about this great city, I have not yet heard of a single accident, or of the slightest disturbance.
The carnival is celebrated in the same manner by the higher classes in the evening; and there is a masquerade every night at the opera house. I went there yesterday, and observed more gayety among the persons assembled, than I have yet seen in France. The pit being joined to the stage, gave a large space, which was entirely filled. The gentlemen do not usually wear masks, and their persons are only covered with a domino. It is one of the privileges of the ladies to conceal their faces, and to attack, without being known, the beaux of their acquaintance. This custom takes from the splendour of the masquerade, as very few persons are fancifully dressed, and almost all are occupied in seeking adventures. Nor was the conversation livelier than on such occasions in England: the small number of individuals who pretended to assume characters, trusted to their dresses, rather than their wit, for the support of their parts. There were “english jockies,” who had never heard of Newmarket, and who could speak no language but the french; haughty dons, who could not answer a question in Spanish; actors, who could not repeat a single line either of Racine, Corneille, or Voltaire; beys of Egypt, who knew not the course of the Nile; grand signors, who heard, for the first time, that wine was forbidden by the Koran; and monks, who did not know to what order they belonged. Yet, notwithstanding these little defects, the evening was lively; and though there was no form, there was no disturbance.
Whatever improprieties might have privately taken place, no indecency shocked the public eye; no drunken persons made their appearance; no woman was insulted, and no quiet inoffensive man dragged into a quarrel.
This is, indeed, the great and striking characteristic of a public place in France, that it may be visited in safety; and if the parisian spectacles are less amusing than those of London, the former have, at least, the negative merit of not exposing those who frequent them to riot, rudeness, or inconvenience.
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