And so the scene continues from eight o'clock in the evening, to two and a half in the morning, interrupted only by the entrance of a liquid, called grog-Washingtonians need not be alarmed-it tastes of nothing but sugar and water, though, on a close examination, by the olfactories, the presence of a slight homœopathic dose of some kind of spirit is detected.

On inquiry, it is discovered, that at this réunion, there is a Portuguese, a German, a Scotchman, and an American. Our hostess is fond of lions, and she has got together a collection of birds, who warble different tongues; the consequence is, that, confined in so small a cage, all are uneasy and ennuyé. I inquired of several the names of their neighbours-none knew. Introductions are not thought of.

You who live in a city, which has once had its ballroom in a grave yard, will not be surprised, if you find in this letter but a single step between my description of a dance and that of a funeral. Such is actual life. The house of feasting is often the very next door to the house of mourning. One cannot have had his eyes open in travelling along through the world, who has failed to observe that painful and startling intermingling of comic and tragical events, so vividly depicted by the masterhand of Shakspeare.

To-day I chanced to be passing the Church of St. Sulpice, just as a funeral procession was leaving its portals. A few days ago I witnessed a similar scene. There is nothing remarkable in either of these events; nothing can be more common than they were. It is this very commonness which makes them penetrate the thoughtful soul so deeply, and renders them worthy of notice. The pageant, which is now passing before me, is the funeral of a rich man. A long line of black carriages, drawn by black horses, and driven by coachmen in black, followed a hearse in the same sombre colour, with numerous curtains, adorned with silver lace and tassels, ostrich plumes, and other bravery. The noble horses, fretting under the bit, tossed their heads, richly decked with feathers, in the air. The sexton, in his long official robe, with cocked hat in hand, opened the coach doors for those who were to follow the honourable dead to the cemetery of Mount Parnassus; and with nu❤

merous bows, apparently regardless of crumpling his snowy neckcloth, ushered them in. The portals of the church were concealed by an ample curtain, similarly embellished; and within, immediately before the altar, was erected a temporary mausoleum of black hangings to the memory of the deceased.

The poor man's way to the grave contrasts very sadly with all this pompous marshalling of the opulent to his marble tomb. Nothing, in fact, can differ more, unless it be their several journeys through the perpetual hard toil, and boundless gratifications of their respective lives. It is not enough, it seems, to maintain these distinctions while they live; but they must be thrust as far as possible into the silent mansions of the departed; and, if it were practicable, the humble dead would be left literally "to bury their dead." We shall see in the other funeral occasion, to which I alluded, how nearly, in some places, they have approached the point of requiring the deceased poor to walk to the grave themselves.

It was the obsequies of a-nobody-evidently not "a feather in the cap" of any undertaker. A priest, in his long black robe and cocked hat, hurries along, as fast as possible, with his prayer-book under his arm, He threads the crowded street, dexterously dodges the numerous obstructions in the way, occasionally slipping on the muddy pavement, in his haste to finish the small job, which he has undertaken, of burying a poor man. After him, but scarcely able to keep equal pace with the holy man, encumbered as he was with his burden, came a person, with a rough unpainted box upon his shoulder, containing the remains of mortality. This sweeting porter was in his shirt-sleeves, which, unfortunately, for the credit of the funeral procession, were not clean. No matter. Nobody but myself observed it. Finally, came the mourners. I should speak more correctly in the singular, for there was but one, who strode along, his sabots keeping time with the clinking of the living hearse before.

"Death cuts down all,
Both great and small.”

as the Primer beautifully saith.

D

VII.

Musard. Mardi-Gras. Pere Goriot. Louis Philippe. Bastringues. Traiteurs. Feasts. Clergy. Confession. Order of the "Holy

Cross."

THE Carnival, with all its pleasures, extravagances and absurdities, is at length finished. The masked balls are suspended. The numerous crowds of joyous beings no longer throng the theatres and other dancing saloons. The reign of "Musard the Great," the distinguished composer of quadrilles and dances, is at an end. At one of the last balls at the Grand Opera, where he officiates as conductor of the two hundred musicians collected there, a number of the giddy dancers, making their way through their midst, penetrated to his throne, and taking him thence, bore him in triumph around the theatre, which rang with the voices of some six thousand persons, shouting vive Musard, le Roi de la Danse. The greatest excitement prevailed for some length of time in spite of the efforts of the soldiers and municipal guards, always present in all public assemblies, to prevent disturbance.

Mardi-Gras, or the fourth of February, being the last day of the Carnival, is the great holiday of the season. Into this is crowded more of folly and mirth, than any other day in the year. The whole community are permitted on this occasion to appear masked in the street, and under cover of this license to commit a thousand extravagances, which amuse this easily excited people. On the Boulevards-the fashionable promenade-crowds of people throng the trottoirs to witness the maskers, who, dressed in every colour and fashion, rode through the streets in open vehicles. One I saw striding a poor old horse, whose every bone was distinctly visible through his shaved skin. The window of a victualer in the vicinity, attracted a large crowd. In it was displayed an immense turkey, apparently of some thirty pounds weight, stuffed with truffles. On it was affixed a label,

stating that it was to be sent to the Duke of Wellington at a cost of one hundred dollars.

Mardi-Gras is the gala-day of the butchers; and the principal object of attraction is the procession, which is formed by them. It is but the remnant, however, of a great ceremony of olden times. The progress of modern refinement has gradually been detracting from the interest formerly attached to it, and soon, like others of these customs, it will fall into disuse, and finally be entirely neglected. From the fact of an ox, the largest and fattest that can be found, being led around the city in triumphal procession, and afterwards slaughtered, I have thought, that it might be the remnant of some religious solemnity, and that the ox was sacrificed to Jupiter, or some of the other heathen divinities. As it is, I will attempt a slight description. In order to make the entire circuit of the city, to visit the numerous public slaughterhouses, two days are employed; Mardi-Gras or Shrove Tuesday, and the Sunday preceding. They visit the King, the Ministers of State, and other functionaries. I was present at the Palace of the Tuilleries on the visitation of Louis Philippe. First, sedately marched a detachment of the Municipal Guards, then a band of musicians, each in a different dress of the most fantastic character, playing the popular airs of the day. Thesewere followed by a detachment of young butchers on horseback, whose garbs represented the fashions of the courtiers of by-gone days. Surrounded by six or eight athletic men, bearing axes and other implements of this kind with wreaths upon their heads, who might be called the pall-bearers, came the colossal ox-the renowned Père Goriot, as he is styled-having a velvet mantle trimmed with gold lace upon his back, and his silvered. horns glistening in the sunbeams. For a wonder the sun shone brightly for the first time during many weeks. In fear that he might be unable to walk two days in this procession, this place was filled on Sunday by one of the five others, who were competitors for the honours of Mardi-Gras. After him came a triumphal car, drawn by four horses in gorgeous trappings, in which were eight or ten of the butchers, apparently representing the mythological divinities. In their midst was a young child of some five years of age, who is called "l'Amour." He

was clothed in a white muslin frock, with short sleeves. Around his head was a wreath of roses. I pitied this child, for the day was very cold. On the Sunday previous his little arms were purple, and he trembled involuntarily. Enveloped in a cloak and in my thick clothing, I was uncomfortable on this, one of the coldest days of the season. In the court-yard of the palace the procession halted. The King, Queen, and the young Count of Paris, the heir to the throne, came out upon the balcony, and saluted the dense crowd, which filled the place. It grieved me to notice the feeble shouts of the people at the appearance of the King. I longed to hear those old walls ring, and his ears to be regaled with such huzzas as greet Daniel Webster, or any of our great men, when coming before the people. I was sorry to see another proof of the little appreciation the people have for a monarch, the wisest in the world, who consults with great tact the best interests of France.

At a sign from the King, the cortége dismounted, and while some danced the Polka to the fine music of the band, others, at his particular invitation, entered the palace, bearing with them "Love," who probably was not sorry to have an opportunity to warm his chilled members. During this interview, an incident worthy of notice occurred. While the attention of the royal family was otherwise directed, one of the butchers, in the garb of a courtier of the time of Louis XIV., made his appearance in the balcony, which a short time previous had been occupied by the King. He was received by the crowd with great cheering. A liveried menial, authoritatively striking him upon the back, soon brought him to his proper place. The interview finished, they returned to their proper stations, the cortége again commenced its march, the King retired, and shortly after the courtyard was empty. The poor ox too soon finished his journey, and duly killed and dressed, was eaten, a portion by the royal family of France, another portion forwarded to London, formed a part of the Lent dinner of Queen Victoria and her spouse-Marshal Soult and the other ministers shared the remainder-and thus ended the days of the Père Goriot of 1845.

The evening of this day was spent by many of the inhabitants of Paris, in attending the masked balls, of