A Sunday's Fête at St. Cloud
A SUNDAY’S FÊTE AT ST. CLOUD.(1)
____________
IF, as some moralists hold, human beings are, generally
speaking, happy in proportion as they deserve to be so, the
French are the most virtuous people in existence. Let those
who dispute the proposition pay a visit to St. Cloud on a
Fête-day(2) in summer. I can promise them they shall not
repent of their journey, even though it should not solve a
problem in morals. If happiness is not symptomatic of some-
thing else, it is at least contagious in itself, to a certain
degree; and he who can witness the scene in question, and
not partake in its joy, must be a philosopher at least, if not
something worse.—But if one would join in this scene to
any good effect, he must not be a mere spectator; for such
a one cannot enter into, and therefore cannot feel, the true
spirit of it. And he must not be a critic of forms and rules,
lest he should be shocked by finding them forgotten or
violated at every turn. Least of all must he affect the gen-
teel;(3) for the persons among whom he will find himself are
all below the middle class, and moreover they do not under
stand even the word, to say nothing of the thing; it does
not exist in their language—I mean in our sense of it. The
French are the genteelest people in the world, without know-
ing it. It is the only good quality they possess that they do
do not over-rate themselves upon; and their unconsciousness
of this makes up for all their failings on the score of vanity
and self-conceit.—But to our Fête—one glance at the reali-
[Page 138]
[Page 138]
ties of which is better than all the mere reflections that can
be made to arise out of it. That we may lose no part of the
scene, and its characteristic appurtenances, let us join the
partakers in it early in the day, as they are setting out, in
couples or companies, from that grand starting point in the
race of Parisian pleasure, the Place de Louis Quinze.(4) The
splendid coup-d’œil,(5) formed by the unrivalled collection of
inanimate objects that surround us, must not be allowed to
withdraw our attention from the living picture that we are
about to form a part of. Yonder lies the road to St. Cloud,
along the elevated bank of the river, and beside the great
mass of trees forming the Champs Elysées.(6) From every
other point of entrance to this magnificent square, Paris is
pouring forth her gay streams of pleasure-lit faces and trim
forms, till here, in the midst, they cross and mingle with
each other, like bees in the neighbourhood of their hive on
a sunshiny day. Here, however, at the head of this long
string of cabriolets, the din is not so harmonious as that of
the scene to which I have just likened the one before us. It
is caused by the drivers disputing with each other for the
possession of the fares that keep arriving every moment, and
of the fares themselves disputing for the price they shall
pay—for a Parisian bourgeois thinks a sous(7) saved is worth
a century of words, even when pleasure is the purchase; and
a Parisian cabriolet(8) driver is not the person to lose a sous,
if talking will gain it. Many have agreed for their fare (of
from twelve to twenty sous each, according to the skill and
patience of the bargain-maker) and are taking their seats,
by the aid of that aged crone who presents her chair with an
air of anxious politeness, and is content with a half-penny
for assisting a whole party. Meanwhile, here rattles along
the “chaise and one” of a substantial tradesman of the Rue
the only place in which a Parisian tradesman may take pre-
“Gare!”(12) issues at intervals from the noisy vehicle;—not
to warn the pedestrians of their danger, but to apprise them
of the approach of their betters, which, in the bustle of the
scene, they might otherwise overlook. There lumbers along
slowly and heavily, a clean tilted cart; we cannot penetrate
its mysterious covering; but from the éclats de rire(13) that burst
from within at every jolt of the pavé,(14) we may judge that it
contains half a score of happy soubrettes;(15) scarce more happy
now while laughing at their play, than yesterday when sing-
ing at their work. If we could peep through that canvas
curtain at the back, we might chance to see some of the
prettiest faces that ever wore a mob-cap; for the waiting-
maids are incomparably the prettiest women in Paris. We
might amuse ourselves on this spot for half the day, but that
a scene still more attractive awaits us. In passing to it by
the side of the Seine, let us not forget to notice the defective
taste of the Parisians in respect to water excursions. Their
pleasant river winds gracefully through its rich banks to the
very gates of the park of St. Cloud—the scene of the Fête;
and yet scarcely fifty of the thousands that we shall meet
there will have come by water. The truth is, the French
are, by nature, the least courageous people in the world; and
they are actually afraid of the water; at least it gives them
an uneasy sensation of possible danger, which interferes with
their pleasure, and alloys it. This being the case, they are
wise to act as they do; but the fact, supposing it to be one,
is curious. They are cowards advisedly, and on principle.
When under the immediate influence of excitation, they are
capable of the most rash and fool-hardy exploits; and under
great circumstances they can “skrew their courage to the
bravery and self-devotion. But left to themselves, and in
the common concerns of life, they are cowards on the same
principle as Falstaff was—namely, one of pure good sense.(17)
They are too happy in the possession of their life, and too
fond of it, to tolerate the bare idea of risking it when they
see no occasion. But when death comes, and there is no
avoiding it, like Falstaff again they receive it graciously,
and “babble of green fields” with their last breath.(18) If their
happy hearts do not prove them to be the most virtuous, they
impel them to be the wisest people in the world, and perhaps
the terms are nearly convertible. One thing I’m sure they
are too wise as well as too happy to do—namely, to babble
of wisdom and virtue in the midst of describing a Fête-day
at St. Cloud—as I am doing now. But I’m an Englishman
still, though writing under a foreign sky; and may easily be
forgiven. Let me forget this, and at once transport myself
and the reader to the bridge of St. Cloud.(19) Here, after
twelve o’clock, no carriage is allowed to pass. This regula-
tion is established to prevent the confusion and danger likely
to arise from the immense throng of vehicles, of different
kinds, that would otherwise be collected in the village. The
Fête being as yet scarcely commenced, let us make our way
through these lines of booths on the outside of the park-
gates, and leaving that to the left, take half an hour’s stroll
through the splendid gardens of the Chateau.(20) An abrupt
descent, through an opening at one corner of the court-yard,
brings us to a low level opposite the grand garden front of
the Chateau, which is divided from the grounds by a circu-
lar sheet of water confined in a wrought marble bason. From
this level you look up a lofty ascent of platform above plat-
form, crowned by a circular tower at the top, and clothed in
smooth green turf, studded by clipped box-trees in regular
rows, and lined on each side by a lofty artificial wood. The
[Page 141]
[Page 141]
whole of this view, on a sunshiny Sunday (and I think all
the Sundays are sunshiny in France) enlivened and orna-
mented as it is by groups of gaily dressed people, seated in
circles on the slopes of turf, or wandering in couples among
the trees, exactly resembles one of Watteau’s pictures;(21) and
it cannot well resemble any thing more gay and characteris-
tic in its way. Ascending these slopes to the terrace where
the tower is placed, and mounting, if we please, the tower
itself, we may gaze upon one of the finest views in existence,
of an artificial kind. In front, immediately beneath the per-
pendicular height of the terrace on which we stand, and slop-
ing from the very edge of it down to the borders of the river
below, lay a mass of richly foliaged trees, over the flat tops
of which we look to the plain beyond. In the midst of this
plain, divided from the river by an interval of vineyards and
corn-fields, lies Paris, its white walls stretching themselves
into the distance on either side, and its innumerable spires,
domes, and turrets, lifting themselves up as if to enjoy the
air and the sunshine in which the whole seems basking. On
one side, on the highest point of ground in the city, the grave
Pantheon(22) rises and overlooks its subject buildings, like a
king on a watch-tower; and on the other side, the gorgeous
dome of the Invalids flaunts and glitters in its gilded robes,
like a queen at her coronation.(23) To the left of the city the
river stretches away windingly into the blue distance; and on
the right, the noble hill on which the Chateau of St. Cloud
stands, encloses the scene to a great extent, every where
sloping its richly wooded sides into the plain below. No-
thing can be finer than the striking contrast afforded to this
richly varied scene in front, by turning for a moment to that
which completes the circle behind. With the exception of
the view down the gardens to the palace front, it consists
entirely of an interminable mass of immense forest trees,
[Page 142]
[Page 142]
intersected at regular intervals by six narrow vistas which
have been cut through them, and which are so long that, by
the laws of perspective, they close up, like the points of a
star, before the eye can reach to the end of them. I repeat,
turning from this grand effect of art, to the scene I have
described as forming the opposite view from the tower, the
effect of each upon the other is altogether unique; and per-
haps upon the whole it is as fine as that of any purely natu-
ral scenery that can be contemplated; for unquestionably
what it loses in some respects by comparison with a view of
the latter kind, it gains in others.
Let us now descend from our height (and perhaps it may
be not amiss if we leave our high words at the top) into the
heart-stirring scene that awaits us below. We will not plod
back along the beaten road, but will follow those errant
groups that are making their way down yonder acclivity,
through the thick of the wood. We shall thus come upon
the gay scene suddenly and at once.
Emerging from the wood, here we stand on the bridge
which surmounts the principal water-works. From the fixed
appearance of the orderly crowd below, and the happy anxi-
ety that lights up all their faces, young and old, we may be
sure that the waters are on the point of commencing their
strange freaks. And see!—the gentle bubblings, that move
at the same moment round the mouths of the thousand jets,
“give note of preparation.”(24) And now, in an instant, the
waters rush forth from their secret prisons with a sound as
of many winds; and, shooting their free sparkles into the
sunshine, quiver and glitter for a moment above the tops of
the highest trees, and then fall through the air in silver
showers into the basin below. Meanwhile, after a momen-
tary burst of delighted admiration, the till now motionless
crowd move about in all directions, their gay attire shining
[Page 143]
[Page 143]
through the falling mist like notes in a sun-beam, and their
happy voices blending with the music from the booths and
the rushing of the waters.
Descending to the bottom of this sloping alley, containing
the principal water-works, we shall find ourselves in the very
heart of the scene that we have come chiefly to witness and
partake in. Along this great line of smooth gravelled path-
way, occupying the principal extent of the park, are erected
on each side the booths of the players, the jugglers, the gri-
maciers,(25) the exhibitors of wonders in nature and art, the
games, sports, and in fact the usual accompaniments of a
fair in England. But this, be it understood, is the sole point
in which a Fête at St. Cloud resembles an English fair: the
discordant din of noises, the confusion, the mobbing, the
debauchery, the indecency, and the crimes of the latter, are
all wanting; and in their place we have music and dancing,
that would not disgrace a fashionable assembly—gaiety of
heart that need not be repressed, because it never oversteps
the bounds of decorum—and feasting and revelry that may
safely be indulged in, because they never lead to riot or end
in shame.
But it is time that we partake in a little of this feasting
ourselves; and for this purpose let us repair to one of yon-
der little trelliced alcoves looking on the principal avenue
of the Park, and order our repast. But we must not be very
fastidious. We are not at Beauvillier’s now;(26) as we shall
soon find in more than one particular. But what we lose in
one way we shall gain in another; so we must not complain.
And besides, we have been in the open air all day; and plain
fare and homely wine will perhaps content us as well as the
best, and be more in keeping with the scene about us. We
laid aside our gentility when we determined on coming here;
and for my part I feel in no hurry to put it on again. It is
[Page 144]
[Page 144]
very pretty wearing in towns and cities, and is not without
important uses on many occasions; but among trees and
flowers it is not the thing; and, in a scene like this, it is a
mere impertinence. So let us seat ourselves cosily at this
vacant table, between this group of pretty paysannes and
their bons amis on one side,(27) and these trim Parisian sou-
brettes and bonnes on the other,(28) and forget that there are
such places as St. James’s and the Chaussée d’Antin in the
world.(29) From this spot we can see all that is going on in
the Park below; and a gay and busy scene it is. Observe,
in that little turfed vale between the trees yonder, that group
of “children of a larger growth,”(30) preparing to mount the
hanging chairs and flying horses of that round-about, and
engage in the game of Riding at the Ring.(31) Father and
mother, young men and lasses, girls and boys, bonne and all,
enter into the sport with equal spirit and eagerness; for
why should what pleases the one fail to please the other?
and why should we refuse to seek pleasure where others can
find it? So thinks the Parisian bourgeois, and so he acts;
and let none but those whose wisdom makes them more
happy than his folly (as they may if they please call it)
makes him, presume to laugh at him. Another group, of a
similar kind, are taking their turns to shoot at a mark with a
school-boy’s cross-bow. It well becomes us, no doubt, to
sneer at their harmless amusement; though we shall do well
not to doubt that it is amusement to them: but what will it
become them to do in return, if they should chance to meet
us in the fields to-morrow shooting at the happy birds there?
Listen to yon band of Savoyard musicians.(32) You’ll not easily
meet, between this and the gates of Calais, with a more
piquante(33) figure than that singing girl. Her kerchiefed head,
with the little insidious curl peeping out on each side—
apron strapped over the shoulders—the confidently modest
air—the shrill sweetness of her out-of-door voice—and her
naïve expression of the wild Tyrolean(35) air she is singing—are,
altogether, not to be resisted. And see—she’s coming up
to us, with her little wooden waiter, to solicit payment for
her song. We must not pay such prettiness with ugly cop-
per; but must ensure another air, and a smile and curtsey
to boot, by a little ten sous piece. Somehow I never touch
one of these little pieces without feeling as if I wanted to
give it away. I think they were made for the purpose—
and for pretty Savoyard singers in particular. But here’s a
character of a very different description; in some respects
as distasteful and repulsive as the other was attractive. But
as he represents a characteristic feature of a French fête,
and as none ever take place without him, we must not let
him pass by unnoticed. This is the celebrated grîmacier
whom they call Le Marquis.(36) Observe how he skips about,
like a parching pea.(37) He seems to have borrowed Kehama’s
power of ubiquity.(38) He is here, there, and everywhere, at
the same moment. This man is one of the most striking
and remarkable persons I ever saw. In scenes of this kind
he haunts you like a spectre. He appears before you, with-
out your knowing how he came there—smirks and smiles as
if to welcome himself—dances his jig—plays his tune on
the violin—insinuates his paper of songs into your hand—
and is gone again before you know where you are. He
moves about as if the ground burned his feet. He is more
like the Goblin Page(39) grown old than any thing else. And
yet you cannot fancy him to have ever been any younger
than he is, or that he will ever grow older. There is a kind
of rattlesnake fascination about this man’s look that is un-
accountable; it unites the opposite principles of attraction
and repulsion. I never see him, or lose sight of him, but I
VOL. II. L
[Page 146]
am tempted to pronounce two lines in an old love song—
“Why did he come? Why did he go?”(40) And I’m obliged to
repeat this twenty times in an hour; for he’s like the Irish-
man’s passion—he no sooner comes than he goes—but then
he no sooner goes than he comes again. He’s a perfect
Jack-a-lantern—a Will-o’-the-wisp.(41) What is very extraor-
dinary, his face is handsome and his person good, and yet
the one gives you the idea of perfect ugliness, and the other
of extreme deformity. This seems to arise from the tricks
he is perpetually playing with them, and the distortions he
throws them into. And yet they have that hard, cut, angu-
lar appearance, that they seem as if they could never move
out of their present position, whatever that may be. His
dress has a no less non-descript(42) air than his person, and yet
that too is perfectly regular and in costume; being an old
worn-out court suit, ruffled, painted, and embroidered—
dirty white stockings—large paste buckles to his shoes and
knees—and a white flaxen pig-tailed wig, which lies on the
top of his head, and covers scarcely any of his grey hairs.
He never wears a hat.
The Marquis seldom addresses any one personally; and
when he does, it is always in a fixed formula, directed to the
ladies of the party. However often he may come in contact
with the same party, he invariably offers them a copy of his
songs. If it is received, he smirks, bows, skips away, and
says nothing. If it is refused, he lays it down on your seat,
or table, making a profound obeisance, and saying, “Jamais
je ne manque au respect que je dois à la sexe.”(43) I never
heard him utter any words but these. He is never importu-
nate for money. If, when he presents his little waiter,(44) you
give him any thing, he bows and is gone in a moment; if
you give him nothing, he bows equally low, and is gone as
soon.
[Page 147]
[Page 147]
This singular person is to me a perfect study—a never-
failing source of reflection; and accordingly, I never meet
him in a scene like this without his marring, for a moment,
the careless gaiety that would otherwise entirely possess me.
There is something in his air, look, and manner, no less af-
fecting than it is repulsive. His perpetual smiles seem put
on to hide the indications of a sick heart; and his ceaseless
change of place seems an unconscious endeavour to escape
from himself. This man would have made a figure in the
world, if fortune would have let him. But perhaps it was
in kindness to himself as well as the world that she pre-
vented this; for there is that in his face which says that he
is fit for any thing—for much that is good, but for more that
is evil. The gossips of Paris say that Le Marquis is a spy
of the Government; and one would not hastily contradict
such good authority! But, if he is a political tool at all, I
should take him to be intended as a walking libel on the old
regime, started by the Liberals! But let us hope that he will
not turn out to be either of these; for he’s quite low enough
in the scale of humanity already, considering that he was
evidently intended to be higher.
Having finished our somewhat homely repast, let us again
mingle with the crowd below, that we may have a better op-
portunity of observing the constitution of it; for it is this
that gives the character to the scene. The professional part
of it we need take little farther notice of; for shewmen and
their shews are pretty much alike all over the world. And
first let us admire that sweet knot of peasant girls. What
can be a prettier antithesis than those gaudy silk aprons—
blue, green, pink, and lilac—and those snow-white quaker-
like dresses, and plain mob caps? They look like inhabi-
tants of a rainbow, newly alighted on the earth! And their
fresh unworldly faces, and sparkling eyes, do not belie the
[Page 148]
[Page 148]
fancy. See how they thread their way through the crowd,
linked arm in arm, as if they did not belong to it! And
now they are lost among the trees. But we shall meet them
again anon. There are several of these groups in the Park;
and the costume is the prettiest I have seen for many a day:
a rich silk apron of some one gaudy colour, spread over a
perfectly plain snow-white robe, without a single flounce,
furbelow, or frill, of any kind whatever; with a white mob.
cap, equally devoid of ornament. There is no nation in the
world in which the lower classes of the females have any
pretensions to vie for a moment with the French, as to taste
in dress. They display an infinite variety of costume, ac-
cording to their different station, age, province, district, &c.
but each is, generally speaking, curiously finished and per-
fect in itself, and appropriate to its wearer, without being in
the slightest degree fantastical, affected, or recherché. The
only one I remember, to which these latter qualities can be
imputed, is the cauchoise, peculiar to a certain district in
Normandy.(45) And this, if it is something too gorgeous, glit-
grand in itself, and so becoming to the noble race of crea-
tures who wear it, that it must by no means be made an
exception to the rule. What, again, can be more exqui-
sitely neat, simple, snug, and appropriate, than the dress of
those fine hale-looking(48) middle-aged dames, the wives of the
small proprietaires(49) in the neighbourhood?—the snow-white
robe; black silk apron; small crimson kerchief, folded over
in front, and coming down to a point at the waist behind;
and the close-eared fly cap, trimmed with three or four rows
of rich Valenciennes lace,(50) and the whole stiffened and quil-
led into one invariable form, year after year, and from gene-
ration to generation. This is another admirable piece of
taste in the classes of which I am speaking. They never ape
[Page 149]
[Page 149]
the class above them, as all classes, except the very highest,
do in England; but keep fixedly to their own mode and style:
which has thus the double advantages of being exclusively
their own, and of preventing “odious” comparisons and idle
emulation.(51)
By this time the dusk of the evening is beginning to draw
on, and the dancing has commenced. This is another of
the characteristics of these fêtes; and it is perhaps the
pleasantest of all, and the most peculiar to them. A set of
grooms and kitchen maids dancing quadrilles(52) in the open
air, in a style of ease, grace, and self-possession that would
not discredit a fashionable ball-room, may be sought in vain
elsewhere than in France; but there it almost universally
takes the place of the drinking, quarrelling, and debauchery
that are the natural and (as it would seem) the necessary
finish to every festal meeting of the same class of persons
in England and other countries. Under the lofty trees which
line the grand avenue of the Park, orchestras are erected,
filled with good musicians; lamps are suspended from the
branches above; an open space is cleared on the sward or
the smooth dry soil below; and numerous parties, consist-
ing of the lowest classes of those who have been partaking
in the fête during the day, finish the evening by dancing for
two or three hours in the manner I have described. Those
of the class above, who think their dignity would be com-
promised by joining in the dance with the mere canaille,(53) do
not, however, refuse to gratify their passion for it in imagi-
nation, by forming gay circles round the dancers, and atten-
tively looking on.
This, then, is offered as a slight sketch of a few of the
characteristic features of a Sunday’s Fête at St. Cloud; and
if it has given the reader a tenth part of the pleasure the
[Page 150]
[Page 150]
writer of it experienced the first time he partook in the de-
lightful scene which it endeavours to depict, it will not have
been made in vain. But if it has failed to interest him, the
reader is welcome to attribute the deficiency (as he safely
may) to any thing rather than a want of attractiveness in the
subject matter itself.
EDITORIAL NOTES
EDITORIAL NOTES
[1] Saint Cloud is a town near Paris, famous for the park where the Château de Saint-Cloud – “Chateau” in the piece – used to be before 1870.
[2] I.e., holiday.
[3] The quality of exhibiting exaggerated or affected refinement or respectability.
[4] Today’s Place de la Concorde, in Paris. In 1789, the revolutionaries pulled down the equestrian monument to Louis XV and erected the guillotine in its place. The Square was named “de la Concorde” in 1795, but at the time of writing, and since 1814, the name had been changed back to Place de Louis Quinze.
[5] I.e., glance.
[6] The Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris.
[7] The French coin, originally called “sol” (from the Latin solidus), then “sou”.
[8] “A light two-wheeled chaise drawn by a single horse, having a large folding hood and usually an apron to cover the lap and legs of the occupants”, OED, “cabriolet (n.)”.
[9] Probably a reference to Alexander Pope, “The First Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated”, (London: Dodsley, 1737), 154-58: since the word “chaise” already meant a carriage for pleasure drawn by one horse, the phrase “chaise and n” was more commonly used for vehicles drawn by two, four, or six horses. But Pope’s “poor”, who cannot afford more expensive vehicles, nonetheless hire and “run / (they don’t know whither) in a Chaise and one”. In Horace’s epistle, the poor Roman would do likewise on a hired boat, the humble equivalent of the rich’s trireme. Pope satirises the fickleness of the poorer classes, who spend ostensibly beyond their means to “ape the classes above them”, a vice of which Smith accuses “all [English] classes, except the very highest” (see pp. 148-9). Smith finds the small French proprietors innocent of said vice (pp. 148-9), but apparently not the “substantial tradesman of the Rue St. Honoré” who provokes the reference to Pope.
[10] I.e., children.
[11] The exact meaning of mouton in this sentence is obscure. Possibly, it stands for a mouton coat or sheepskin blanket, or for a docile companion or follower, i.e., the coachman.
[12] I.e., “A cry of warning: Look out!”, OED, “gare (v. & int.)”.
[13] I.e., bursts of laughter.
[14] I.e., paving stone.
[15] I.e., waiting-maids.
[16] William Shakespeare, Macbeth, I.vii.70.
[17] Sir John Falstaff, the fat, jolly, braggart knight in William Shakespeare’s 1 and 2 King Henry IV and The Merry Wives of Windsor. See, for instance, 1 Henry IV: “the better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life” (V.iv.122-3).
[18] Much has been written about this elusive line of Shakespeare’s and its reading (’a babbled, a Table, ’a talked?). It suffices to say here that Smith is quoting Lewis Theobald’s version “’a babbled of green fields”, meaning that Falstaff, before dying, mumbled incoherently about bliss in heaven.
[19] A series of drawings and watercolours by J.M.W. Turner (about 1833) portraying the bridge of St. Cloud, the town, and the surroundings give an idea of the panorama described by Smith.
[20] The Château de Saint-Cloud, former residence of Napoleon, was destroyed during the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian War (1870).
[21] Jean-Antoine Watteau (1684-1721), French Rococo painter, famous for his fête galante (“gallant entertainment”) paintings, such as the 1719 Fêtes Vénitiennes.
[22] The Panthéon, built atop the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, was built between 1758 and 1790.
[23] The Hôtel des Invalides is a monumental complex, originally intended as a hospital and home for veteran soldiers. Its dome was completed in 1706.
[24] Adapted quotation from William Shakespeare, Henry V (IV.Chorus.15).
[25] I.e., one who makes grimaces, or distorts his face.
[26] The Beauvillier are a very ancient French family. The expression means, by antonomasia, in a residence of French nobility.
[27] I.e., peasant women and their sweethearts.
[28]I.e., waiting-maids and housemaids.
[29] St. James’s is a district in London renowned, at the time, for its gentlemen’s clubs. The Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin is a street in Paris which at the time of writing would be, in Balzac’s words, the heart of the city.
[30] John Dryden, All for Love (1677), 4.43.
[31] “A circlet of metal suspended from a post which each of a number of riders attempted to carry off on the point of a lance. Chiefly in ‘to ride at the ring’”, OED, “ring (n.1)”. Of course, in the passage, the game will not be played on horseback but from the round-about, a sort of carousel.
[32] “A native or inhabitant of Savoy, now a region of south-eastern France […] Formerly sometimes with reference to the Savoyards’ traditional association with the role of itinerant musician”, OED, “Savoyard (n. & adj.)”.
[33] I.e., fascinating, charming.
[34] Actually “tournure”, i.e., the contour, the shape of a body-part.
[35] Typical of “former crown land of Austria-Hungary, embracing the present Austrian province of Tyrol and parts of northern Italy”, OED, “Tyrolean (adj. & n.)”.
[36] Several contemporary engravings portraying French grîmaciers (see n. 592 above) match the ensuing description of Le Marquis, also called marquis des rues, a dancing and singing street-artist who also plays the violin.
[37] I.e., like a pea that is being dried or roasted in a pan.
[38] In Robert Southey’s Curse of Kehama (1810), the evil priest Kehama acquires increasing powers before becoming a god.
[39] “Distorted like some dwarfish ape” and capable of uncannily fast movement, the goblin or dwarf page appears in Sir Walter Scott’s The Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805), a narrative poem set in 16th-century Scotland (See Canto II, 355-70).
[40] The refrain in “Heigho!”, a song sung by Mrs. Maria Dickons, “Claudine”, in the second scene of T. Dibdin, Two Faces under a Hood: a Comic Opera, performed at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden in 1807.
[41] “A phosphorescent light seen hovering or floating at night over marshy ground”, OED, “will-o’-the-wisp (n.)”. Sometimes imagined as a person or spirit.
[42] I.e., Lacking distinctive qualities.
[43] I.e., “I never disrespect the fairer sex”.
[44] I.e., a salver, a small tray.
[45] Literally, typical of the Pays de Caux, in Normandy.
[46] I.e., eccentric, extreme.
[47] “A style or fashion of attiring the head and dressing the hair”, OED, “coiffure (n.)”.
[48] I.e., vigorous and healthy.
[49] I.e., proprietors, someone who owns and works his land.
[50] A variety of lace originally manufactured at Valenciennes.
[51] See n. 576 above.
[52] “A square dance, typically performed by four couples, containing five sections or figures each of which is a complete dance in itself”, OED, “quadrille (n.1)”.
[53] I.e., the common people, the masses.
Ultimo aggiornamento
20.09.2025