May 7th.
When I was just ready to go to London, what should have occurred but the king’s birth-day; it fell out exactly on the first of May, and I had to stay to see it; and I am going now to give you a brief abstract of its entertainments, to finish this letter; it is already long, but remember it is the last. At half-past five, P.M., the king made a bow, and the queen made one of the prettiest curtsies imaginable, from a gallery of the Tuileries; for we had all assembled there to listen to a concert served up, al fresco, in a hail storm. A platform was erected in front of the palace, and several hundred musicians were mounted on it; but a wintery rain from the north-east, mixed occasionally with snow, poured down the whole afternoon; and it rained, and rained, as if heaven had no ears for music. A howling storm, now and then, raved through an adagio of Mozart, and Jove descended on the fiddle-strings.
At the end of each piece there was a pause—not of the rain, but the music—and then came criticisms on all sides.—“Oh! that air of Bellini! said the lady; and then her eyes trotted about the garden. “Exquisite! said her cavalier, and took a pinch of snuff.—“Lafond? c’est un talent superbe.—Inférieur à Beriot? du tout, du tout, il n’y a que Pagga—(Une prise s’il vous plait.) Le Message du President est donc arrivé. What are they going to determine?—Determine?—To pay. (Dieu, quelle jolie femme!) On ne fait que payer dans ce pays-ci.” “As for the concerts of the Conservatory, I find them stupid beyond sufferance;”—the poor musician, in the mean time, turning up his eyes towards heaven, and, with supplicating looks, imploring mercy from the clouds.
I did not take off my hat and shout with the rest, when his majesty bowed. I was not quite sure whether the law of nations would justify me in making a bow, until he has paid the “twenty-five millions.” However, I said, quietly to myself, “Vive le roi!” He is, sans compliment, the most sensible head of a king that is in Europe; and I wish him, from the good will I bear the French nation, to live out his time.—But I did not let the paltry sum of “twenty-five millions” interfere with the respect I owed her majesty’s curtsey.
They have fire-works always ready made here for such occasions; and keep them by them in a closet. On this birth-day they were more sublime and beautiful, than is common, even in Paris. To look down from the terrace of the Tuileries, upon the immense crowd covered with its umbrellas, moving and whirling about in the twilight, all over the Place Louis XI., and its environs, was a fantastic spectacle, and worth seeing. Have you ever looked at a million of crabs in vinegar, through a microscope?—We remained, a long time, in expectation, and the mud. What a delightful thing a public fête is, especially when one is expressly ordered to be diverted ten days a-head, by ordinance of the Police.
Suddenly, ten thousand sky-rockets hissed through the air, and exploded in constellations of stars, pale, pink, and vermilion, which dropped down slowly towards the earth. This was the note of preparation. Then went off Mount Ætna, and Vesuvius, and Hecla; and a Niagara of liquid fire poured down in a cataract, covering up a little Herculaneum and Pompeii; and the whole Pyrotechnie was by degrees unfolded of Sieur Ruggieri, Ingénieur of Paris.
There were bouquets of all the flowers in the field, in their most brilliant and harmonious tints; and there was a fierce encounter of knights in the air, and lions ready to spring on you; and there was the devil on a pale horse; and, all at once, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, as large as life, stood blazing before us; its huge pillars, its pulpit, its sacristy, and a little fiery congregation, who exploded one after another; a lady went off, and then a gentleman; and, last of all, the priest went out at the altar, and suddenly all was night.—The atmosphere was sick with saltpetre, and the heavens wept tricoloured stars.—This was forty million times prettier than anything you ever saw in your life.
In the meantime, the illuminations blazed out through the town. The Madelaine stood in a basin of glimmering fire, and wore a garland of flaming beads upon her brows; and a belt of gas-lights, like sparkling diamonds, encircled the queen of streets, the Rue Rivoli; it was a mile long. The Pantheon too, and the Invalids, and the Arch of Neuilly, afar off, poured their ineffectual fires upon the thick night; and all the orchards of the Luxembourg, the Tuileries, and Champs Elysées, were bending under the load of their golden fruits.—How jealous the moon and stars would have been, if they could have looked out upon the French capital this night.—If we don’t get up such fêtes in America, it is not because we can’t, it is because we don’t feel in the humour, it is because —— in fine, it is because we don’t want to——
I had intended to pass over the recreations of the morning for want of room; but here is, unfortunately, room enough.—I generally walk out here, as in America, alone; for if one takes a companion one is obliged to walk his way; besides you can’t imagine what an effort it is to be always agreeable. I like sometimes, in a solitary walk, to think you all over; to stray with you by the Mill Creek and Tumbling Run, or to sit down on your piny eminence and overlook the village, and enjoy your nonsense, which is enjoyed nowhere else in such perfection. In a word, if alone, I can get into a reverie; alone, I can fight duels, rout armies, save ladies from ruin, and do things that are impracticable.
It was only this morning that I fought the battle of Waterloo over again, and beat Lord Wellington; and when I take a companion along with me, he puts me out. So I went out this morning alone. I was in rather an ill humour, and I had resolved not to be pleased, or to laugh at anything, much less this buffoonery of a jour de fête;—in this mood I arrived in the Champs Elysées.