Supposing the curls had been false, how I should have felt!

I put on my head-dress again with the flowing tinsel threads, and, some one sending for a brush, I completed this exhibition by showing them how I curled my hair around my fingers and made this coiffure. I inclose the article about this supper which came out in the Figaro (copied into a New York paper).

The Emperor and Empress not unfrequently take a great liking to persons accidentally presented to them, invite them to their most select parties, make much of them, and sometimes rousing a little jealousy by so doing among the persons belonging to the Court. Of the ladies officially foremost, the reigning favorites are Princess Metternich, extremely clever and piquante, who invents the oddest toilettes, dances the oddest dances, and says the oddest things; the Marquise de Gallifet, whose past life is a romance, not altogether according to the French proverb (fitting school-girl reading), but who is very handsome, brilliant, merry, and audacious; and two others, the handsome and dashing wives of men high in the employment of the Emperor. These ladies spend enormous sums on their toilette, and are perpetually inventing some merry and brilliant nonsense for the amusement of the Empress. Among the persons from the "outside" most in favor just now, in the inner circle of the court, is a very handsome and accomplished American lady, the youthful wife of a millionaire, possessing a magnificent voice, a very amiable temper, and wonderfully splendid hair. After a very small and very merry party in the Empress's private apartments a few nights ago, the Imperial hosts and their guests sat down to an exquisite "little supper," this lady being one of the party. During the supper one of the Empress's ladies began playfully to tease Mrs. —— about her hair, declaring that no human head could grow such a luxuriant mass of lustrous hair, and inviting her to confess to sporting certain skilfully contrived additions to the locks of nature's bestowing. Mrs. —— modestly protested that her hair, such as it was, was really and truly her own; in right of growth, and not of purchase. All present speedily took part in the laughing dispute; some declaring for the opinion of the Lady of Honor, the others for that of Mrs. ——. The Emperor and Empress, greatly amused at the dispute, professed a strong desire to know the facts of the case; and the Emperor, declaring that it was clearly impossible to get at the truth in any other way, invited Mrs. M—— to settle the controversy by letting down her hair, and giving ocular demonstration of its being her own. The lady, whereupon, drew out the comb and the hairpins that held up her hair, and shook its heavy and shining masses all over her shoulders, thus giving conclusive proof of the tenure by which she held it. As Frenchwomen seldom have good heads of hair, it is probable that some little disappointment may have been caused to some of the ladies by this magnificent torrent of hair, displayed by Mrs. M——, but the gentlemen were all in raptures at the really beautiful spectacle, the lady's husband, who worships her, being as proud of her triumph as though his wife's luxuriant locks were his own creation.

March, 1864.

DEAR M.,—Auber, on hearing that the Empress had asked me to sing in the chapel of the Tuileries, offered to compose a Benedictus for me. The orchestra of the Conservatoire was to accompany me, and Jules Cohen was to play the organ. I had several rehearsals with Auber and one on the preceding Saturday with the orchestra. The flute and I have a little ramble together which is very pretty. The loft where the organ is, and where I stood, was so high up that I could only see the people by straining my neck over the edge of it, and even then only saw the black veils of the ladies and the frequent bald heads of the gentlemen. The Empress remained on her knees during the whole mass. The Emperor seemed attentive; but stroked and pulled his mustaches all the time.

My Benedictus went off very well. The chapel was very sonorous and I was in good voice. I was a little nervous at first, but after the first phrase I recovered confidence and did all that was expected of me. The Duke de Bassano came up to the loft and begged me to come down into the gallery, as their Majesties wished me and Charles to stay for breakfast. I was sorry Auber was not invited. We found every one assembled in the gallery outside the chapel. The Empress came straight toward me, thanked me, and said many gracious things, as did the Emperor. There were very, very few people at breakfast—only the household. I sat between the Emperor and the little Prince, who said, "I told mama I knew when you sang, for you said 'Benedictus'; we say benedicteus."

The Princess Metternich receives after midnight every evening. If one is in the theater or at a soiree it is all right, but to sit up till twelve o'clock to go to her is very tiresome, though when you are once there you do not regret having gone. It is something to see her smoking her enormous cigars. The other night Richard Wagner, who had been to the theater with the Metternichs, was there. I was glad to see him, though he is so dreadfully severe, solemn, and satirical. He found fault with everything; he thought the theaters in Paris horribly dirty, mal soignes, bad style, bad actors, orchestra second-rate, singers worse, public ignorant, etc. He smiled once with such a conscious look and scanned people's faces, as if to say, "I, Richard Wagner, have smiled!" But he can very well put on airs, for he is a genius. At Les Italiens, Patti, Mario, Alboni, and Delle Sedie are singing "Rigoletto." They are all splendid. Alboni is immensely fat and round as a barrel—but what a voice! It simply rolls out in billows of melody. The "quartette" was magnificent, and was encored. Patti and Mario are at daggers drawn, and hate each other like poison, so their love-making is reduced to a minimum, and they make as little as possible. In their fondest embraces they hold each other at arm's length and glare into each other's eyes. Mario is such a splendid actor one would think he could conquer his dislike for her and play the lover better. The Barbier de Seville is, I think, his best role; he acts with so much humor and sings so exquisitely and with such refinement. Even in the tipsy scene he is the fine gentleman. Patti sings in the singing lesson Venzano's waltz and "Il Bacio." Her execution is wonderful, faultless, and brilliant.

We went to a soiree given by the Marquise de Boissy, better known as Byron's Countess Guiccioli, who inspired so many of his beautiful poems; but when you see her dyed and painted you wonder how the blase Byron could have been all fire and flame for her. Fagnani, the painter, who did that awful simpering portrait of me, painted her, it being stipulated that he should make her look ten years younger than she is. He had a hard time of it! But now, being old and married to the senator, Marquis de Boissy, she has lost all claim to celebrity, and is reduced to giving forlorn soirees with a meager buffet.

Beaumont is a charming painter, and a friend of Henry's. When he comes here, as he does very often, he puts us all in a good-humor; even my father-in-law forgets to grumble at the reduced price of stocks and the increased rate of exchange. His picture of Circe charming the pigs is very pretty. Helen and I are both in it; he wanted her ear and hair and my eyes and hair. I am not Circe; I only stand in the background admiring a pig. To reward us he painted a fan for each: mine has arrows, doves, my initials, "Beware," and cherubim all mixed up, making a lovely fan.

Baroness Alphonse Rothschild sent me her box for the opera, and I asked the Metternichs and Herr Wagner, the composer, who was dining at the Embassy, to go with me, and they accepted. The Rothschilds' box is one of the largest in the opera-house. The Princess Metternich created a sensation when we entered—she always does—but Herr Wagner passed unnoticed. He sat behind and pretended to go to sleep. He thought everything most mediocre. The opera was "Faust," which I thought was beautifully put on the stage, with Madame Miolan Carvalho as Marguerite and Faure as Mephistopheles. They both sang and acted to perfection; but Wagner pooh-poohed at them and everything else. Abscheulich and graesslich alternated in his condemning sentences. Nothing pleased him.

He fidgeted about and was very cross during the fifth act, where the ballet is danced.

"Why did Gounod insert that idiotic ballet? It is banal and de trop." (France is the only place where this fifth act is performed.)

"You must blame Goethe for that," retorted the Princess Metternich. "Why did he make Faust go to the Champs Elysees if he did not want him to see any dancing?"

"Why, indeed?" grumbled Wagner. "Goethe had much better have let Marguerite die on her straw and not of send her up in clouds of glory like the Madonna to heaven, and with ballet music."

"Well," said the Princess, "I don't see any difference between a ballet in heaven and a ballet in Venusberg."

The Emperor has made a fine coup de popularite. He refused to have the new boulevard named after his mother, and cleverly proposed it to be called Richard Lenoir, the man who led his fellow-workmen in the Revolution.

We were invited to one of Rossini's Saturday evenings. There was a queer mixture of people: some diplomats, and some well-known members of society, but I fancy that the guests were mostly artists; at least they looked so. The most celebrated ones were pointed out to me. There were Saint-Saens, Prince Poniatowski, Gounod, and others. I wondered that Richard Wagner was not there; but I suppose that there is little sympathy between these two geniuses.

Prince Metternich told me that Rossini had once said to him that he wished people would not always feel obliged to sing his music when they sang at his house. "J'acclamerais avec delice 'Au clair de la lune,' meme avec variations," he said, in his comical way. Rossini's wife's name is Olga. Some one called her Vulgar, she is so ordinary and pretentious, and would make Rossini's home and salon very commonplace if it were not that the master glorified all by his presence. I saw Rossini's writing-table, which is a thing never to be forgotten: brushes, combs, toothpicks, nails, and all sorts of rubbish lying about pell-mell; and promiscuous among them was the tube that Rossini uses for his famous macaroni a la Rossini. Prince Metternich said that no power on earth would induce him to touch any food a la Rossini, especially the macaroni, which he said was stuffed with hash and all sorts of remnants of last week's food and piled up on a dish like a log cabin. "J'ai des frissons chaque fois que j'y pense."

Not long ago Baron James Rothschild sent Rossini some splendid grapes from his hothouse. Rossini, in thanking him, wrote, "Bien que vos raisins soient superbes, je n'aime pas mon vin en pillules." This Baron Rothschild read as an invitation to send him some of his celebrated Chateau-Lafitte, which he proceeded to do, for "the joke of it," he remarked. "It is so amusing to tell the story afterward." Rossini does not dye his hair, but wears the most wiggy of wigs. When he goes to mass he puts one wig on top of the other, and if it is very cold he puts still a third one on, curlier than the others, for the sake of warmth. No coquetry about him!

Rossini asked me to sing.

"I will, with pleasure," I said. "I only wish that I knew what to sing, I know that you do not like people to sing your music when they come to your house."

"Not every one," he said, beaming with a broad smile; "but I have heard that you have an unusually beautiful voice, and I am curious to hear you."

"But," I mischievously answered, "I do not know 'Au clair de la lune,' even with variations."

"Oh! the naughty Prince," said he, shaking his finger across to where Prince Metternich was standing. "He told you that. But tell me, what do you sing of mine?"

Auber had told me to take "Sombre Foret," of "William Tell," in case I should be asked. Therefore I said that I had brought "Sombre Foret," and if he liked I would sing that.

"Bene! bene!" he replied. "I will accompany you."

I was dreadfully nervous to sing before him, but when I had finished he stretched out both hands to me and said:

"Merci! C'est comme cela que ca doit etre chante. Votre voix est delicieuse, le timbre que j'aime—mezzo-soprano, avec ces notes hautes et claires."

Auber came up flushed with delight at my success, and said to Rossini, "Did I say too much about Madame Moulton's voice?"

"Not enough," replied Rossini. "She has more than voice; she has intelligence and _le feu sacre—un rossignol double de velours_; and more than all, she sings my music as I have written it. Every one likes to add a little of their own. I said to Patti the other day: 'a chere_ Adelina, when you sing the "Barbiere" do not make it too '_strakoschonee_' [Strakosch is Patti's brother-in-law, and makes all her cadenzas for her]. If I had wanted to make all those little things, don't you think that I could have made them myself?'"

Auber asked me, "Do you know what Rossini said about me?"

"No," I answered, "I know what he ought to have said. What did he say?"

"He said," Auber replied, with a merry twinkle in his eye, 'Auber est un grand musicien qui fait de la petite musique.'"

"That was pure envy," I said. "I should like to know what you said about Rossini."

"Well, I said," and he hesitated before continuing, "I said that Rossini est un tres grand musicien et fait de la belle musique, mais une execrable cuisine."

Rossini adores Alboni, but deplores her want of confidence in herself. She has such stage frights that she swears that she will have to leave the stage. He has written "La Messe solennelle" for her voice. The "Agnus Dei" is perfectly wonderful. She sang it after I had sung. If she had been first, I never should have had the courage to open my mouth.

Auber asked him how he had liked the representation of "Tannhaeuser"? Rossini answered, with a satirical smile, "It is a music one must hear several times. I am not going again."

Rossini said that neither Weber nor Wagner understood the voice. Wagner's interminable dissonances were insupportable. That these two composers imagine that to sing is simply to degoiser the note; but the art of singing, or technic was considered by them to be secondary and insignificant Phrasing or any sort of finesse was superfluous. The orchestra must be all powerful. "If Wagner gets the upper hand," Rossini continued, "as he is sure to do, for people will run after the New, then what will become of the art of singing? No more bel canto, no more phrasing, no more enunciation! What is the use, when all that is required of you is to beugler (bellow)? Any cornet a piston is just as good as the best tenor, and better, for it can be heard over the orchestra. But the instrumentation is magnificent. There Wagner excels. The overture of Tannhaeuser is a chef-d'oeuvre; there is a swing, a sway, and a shush that carries you off your feet.... I wish I had composed it myself."

Auber is a true Parisian, adores his Paris, and never leaves it even during the summer, when Paris is insufferable. He comes very often to see me, and we play duets. He loves Bach, and we play Mendelssohn overtures and Haydn symphonies when we are through with Bach. Auber always takes the second piano, or, if a four-handed piece, he takes the base. Sometimes he says, "Je vous donne rendez-vous en bas de la page. Si vous y arrivez la premiere, attendez-moi, et je ferai de meme." He is so clever and full of repartees.

I do not think I ever talked with a wittier person than he is. I always wish I could remember what he says; but, alas! when he goes my memory goes with him.

Though so old (he must be over eighty) he is always beautifully dressed in the latest fashion, trim and neat. He says that he has never heard his operas seated in the audience; it makes him too nervous. He has his seat every night in the parquet of all the theaters in Paris. He only has to choose where to go. He once said: "Je suis trop vieux; on ne devrait pas vieillir, mais que faire? c'est le seul moyen de devenir vieux. Un vieillard m'a toujours paru un personnage terrible et inutile, mais me voici un vieillard sans le savoir et je n'en suis pas triste." He is not deaf, nor does he wear glasses except to "dechiffrer ma propre musique"— as he says. Another time he said: "I am glad that I never was married. My wife would now have been an old, wrinkled woman. I never would have had the courage to come home of an evening. Aussi j'aurais voulu avoir une fille (une fille comme vous), et elle m'aurait certainement donne un garcon."

I quote the following from a Paris newspaper:

Parmi les dames qu'on admire le plus, il convient de citer Mme Moulton.— C'est la premiere fois que nous revoyons Mme Moulton au theatre depuis son retour d'Amerique.—Serait-elle revenue expres pour la piece d'Auber.—On dit, en effet, que dans tous ses operas, Auber offre le principal role a Mme Moulton, qui possede une voix ravissante.

The Emperor once said to Auber: "Dites-moi, quel age avez-vous? On dit que vous avez quatre-vingt ans." "Sire," answered Auber, "je n'ai pas quatre- vingt ans, mais quatre fois vingt ans." Is he not clever? Some one was talking about the Marquise B—— and her friendship (sic) for Monsieur de M——, and said, "On dit que ce n'est que l'amitie." "Oh," said Auber, "je connais ces amities-la; on dit que l'amour et l'amitie sont frere et soeur. Cela se peut, mais ils ne sont pas du meme lit."

And another time (I am remembering all his witty sayings while I can), Prince Metternich, who smokes one cigarette after the other, said to Auber, "Vous me permettez?" wanting to put his ashes in Auber's tea- saucer. Auber said, "Certainement, mais j'aime mieux monter que descendre." In other words, J'aime mieux mon the que des cendres. How can people be so quick-witted?

Auber has given me all his operas, and I have gone through them all with him for his music. I sing the laughing song in "Manon Lescaut" and the bolero in "Diamants de la Couronne." These two are my favorite songs and are very difficult. In the laughing song I either laugh too much or too little. To start laughing in cold blood is as difficult as to stop laughing when once started. The bolero is only a continuous display of musical fireworks.

NEW YORK, May, 1864.

When we arrived in New York (we went to visit my sister and my mother) we were overwhelmed with invitations of all kinds.

I made a most (to me) interesting acquaintance at this soiree, a Mrs. Henry Fields, who I found out was the famous and much-talked-about "Lucie," the governess in the trial of the Duc de Praslin. Every one was convinced of her innocence (she pleaded her own case, refusing the aid of a lawyer). Nevertheless, she was the cause of the death of the Duchess, as the Duke killed his wife because she refused to give "Lucie" a letter of recommendation, and he became so enraged at her refusal that he first tried to strangle her, and then shot her. I had heard so much about this murder (it was along ago), and knew all the details, and, what was more, I knew all the children of the unhappy woman whose only crime was to love her husband too much, and to resent "Lucie's" taking away the love of her children from her! Warning to young women: Don't love your husbands too much, or don't engage a too attractive governess.

PHILADELPHIA, July, 1864.

DEAR AUNTY,—We came from New York a few days ago, and are staying with mama's friend, Mrs. M——, who is a very (what shall I say?) fascinating but a very peculiar person. She is a curious mixture of a poetess and a society woman, very susceptible, and of such a sensitive nature that she seems always to be in the hottest of hot water, and at war with all her neighbors; but she routs all her enemies and manages everything with a high hand.

Her daughter is just engaged to a Swedish naval officer. To celebrate the engagement they gave a big dinner, and, as the Sanitary Fair is going on just now, President Lincoln is here, and Mrs. M—— had the courage to invite him, and he had the courage to accept. It is the first time that I have ever seen an American President, and I was most anxious to see him, particularly as he has, for the last years, been such a hero in my eyes. He might take the prize for ugliness anywhere; his face looked as if it was cut out of wood, and roughly cut at that, with deep furrows in his cheeks and a huge mouth; but he seemed so good and kind, and his eyes sparkled with so much humor and fun, that he became quite fascinating, especially when he smiled. I confess I lost my heart to him.... The dinner, I mean the food part of it, was a failure. It came from Baltimore, and everything was cold; the pate de foie gras never appeared at all! When Mrs. M—— mentioned the fact to Mr. Lincoln, pointing to the menu, he said "the pate" (he pronounced it patty) has probably walked off by itself. Every one laughed, because he said it in such a comical, slow way.

After the gentlemen had smoked (I thought they were a long time at it) we were requested to go into the gallery, where all the gas-lights were turned up to the fullest and chairs placed in rows, and Professor Winter began to read a lecture on the brain—of all subjects! Who but Mrs. M—— would ever have arranged such an entertainment?

Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains (I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted 49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understand the half of what he said.

Another wonderful thing he told us was, that there are five thousand million cells in our brain, and that it takes about ten thousand cells to furnish a well-lodged perception. How in the world can he know that? I think he must have examined his own ten thousand cells to have discovered all this exuberance of material. The President looked bored, and I am sure everybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because they can't be facts) in the Red Sea.... After this seance manquee I was asked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music. I pitied him.

"None of your foreign fireworks," said Mr. Trott, in his graceful manner, as I passed him on my way to the piano. I answered, "Shall I sing 'Three Little Kittens'? I think that is the least fireworky of my repertoire." But I concluded that a simple little rocket like "Robin Adair" would kill nobody; therefor I sang that, and it had a success.

When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.

"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."

What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely song, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that.

Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often; but so far I only know two tunes."

"'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!"

"Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat."

"And the other one?"

"The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.

NIAGARA, August, 1864.

DEAR AUNTY,—My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.

We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed by the director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolent ladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at the penitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, that it would be a great and noble act.

I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should be entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no), and I accepted.

At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews, the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat through the usual Sunday exhortation.

The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.

Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not thought this out before coming?

French love-songs; out of the question.

Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the repertoire, but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.

I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds under the influence of drink.

I knew the words of "Home, Sweet Home," and decided on that. Nothing could have been worse. I attacked the squeaky melodion, pushed down a pedal, pulled out the "vox humana" stop—the most harmless one of the melodion, but which gave out a supernaturally hoarse sound—I struck the chord, and standing up I began. These poor, homeless creatures must have thought my one purpose was to harass them to the last limit, and I only realized what I was singing about when I saw them with bowed heads and faces hidden in their hands; some even sobbing.

The director, perceiving the doleful effect I had produced, suggested, "Perhaps something in a lighter vein." I tried to think of "something in a lighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?"

"First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing—good" emphasizing the word good by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I started off again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared no better than "Home, Sweet Home." When I sang "Oh; darkies! how my heart grows weary!" the word weary had a disastrous effect, and there was a regular breakdown (I don't mean in the darky sense of the word, the penitents did not get up and perform a breakdown—I wish they had!); but there was a regular collapse of penitents. I thought that they would have to be carried out on stretchers.

The poor warden, now at his wits' end, but wishing to finish this lugubrious performance with a flourish, proposed (unhappy thought) that I should address a few words to the now miserable, broken-hearted crowd. I will give you a thousand guesses, dear aunty, and still you will never guess the idiotic words that issued from your niece's lips. I said, looking at them with a triumphant smile (I have no doubt that, at that moment, I thought I was in my own drawing-room, bidding guests good night)—I said (I really hate to write it): "I hope the next time I come to Rochester I shall meet you all here again."

This was the first speech I ever made in public—I confess that it was not a success.

PARIS, 1865.

The Princess Mathilde receives every Sunday evening. Her salons are always crowded, and are what one might call cosmopolitan. In fact, it is the only salon in Paris where one can meet all nationalities. There are diplomats, royalists, imperialists, strangers of importance passing through Paris, and especially all the celebrated artists.

She has great taste, and has arranged her palace most charmingly. She has converted a small portion of the park behind it into a winter garden, which is filled with beautiful palms and flowering plants. In this attractive place she holds her receptions, and I sang there the other evening.

Rossini was, as a great exception, present. I fancy that he and his wife had dined with the Princess; therefore, when the Princess asked him to accompany me, saying that she desired so much to hear me sing, he could not well refuse to be amiable, and sat down to the piano with a good enough grace. I sang "Bel Raggio," from "Semiramide," as I knew it by heart (I had sung it often enough with Garcia). Rossini was kind enough not to condemn the cadenzas with which Garcia had interlarded it. I was afraid he would not like them, remembering what he had said to Patti about hers.

I was amused at his gala dress for royalty: a much-too-big redingote, a white tie tied a good deal to one side, and only one wig.

He says that he is seventy-three years old. I must say that this is difficult to believe, for he does not look it by ten years. He never accepts any invitations. I know I have never seen him anywhere outside his own house, and it was a great surprise to see him now. We once ventured to invite him and his wife to dinner one evening, when the Prince and Princess Metternich were dining with us; and we got this answer: "Merci, de votre invitation pour ma femme et moi. Nous regrettons de ne pouvoir l'accepter. Ma femme ne sort que pour aller a la messe, et moi je ne sors jamais de mes habitudes." We felt snubbed, as no doubt we deserved to be.

Gounod played most enchantingly some selections from "Romeo et Juliette," the opera he has just composed. I hear that he wants Christine Nilsson to sing it. The music seems to me even more beautiful than "Faust." Rossini talked a long time with Gounod, and Auber told me that Rossini said, patting Gounod on the back, "Vous etes le chevalier Bayard de la musique."

Gounod answered, "Sans peur, non!"

Rossini said, "Dans tous les cas, sans reproche et sans egal."

Gounod is, I think, the gentlest, the most modest, and the kindest-hearted man in the world. His music is like him, gentle and graceful. Princess Mathilde asked me to sing again; but, as I had not brought any music, Auber offered to accompany me in the "Song of the Djins," from his new opera, which I had so often sung with him. It was not the song I should have selected; but, as Auber desired it, I was glad to gratify him, and was delighted when I saw Rossini compliment Auber, who (like the tenor before the drop-curtain, who waves his hand toward the soprano as if all the merit of the performance was due to her) waved his hand toward me, which suggested to Rossini to make me a reflected compliment.

This was a great occasion, seeing and hearing Rossini, Gounod, and Auber at the same time. I shall never forget that evening. I wonder that I had the courage to sing before them. Among the guests was an Indian Nabob dressed in all his orientals, who in himself would have been sufficient attraction for a whole evening, had he not been totally eclipsed by the three great artists. The Nabob probably expected more homage than he received; but people hardly looked at him.

I was presented to him, and he seemed glad to speak English, which was not of the best, but far better than his French. He told me a great deal about his journey, the attractions of Paris, and about his country and family.

I asked him, by way of saying something (I was not particularly interested in him or his family), how many children he had. He answered, "Quite a few, milady."

"What does your Highness call a few?" I asked.

"Well, I think about forty," he replied, nonchalantly.

"That would be considered quite a large family here," I said.

The Nabob, of course, did not appreciate the profundity of this remark.

A few days after, the Princess Mathilde sent me a lovely fan which she had painted herself, and Mr. Moulton is going to have it mounted. I am very happy to have it as a souvenir of a memorable evening, besides being an exquisite specimen of the Princess's talent as an artist. The Princess is what one might call miscellaneous. She has a Corsican father, a German mother, and a Russian husband, and as "cavaliere servente" (as they say in Italy), a Dutchman. She was born in Austria, brought up in Italy, and lives in France. She said once to Baron Haussmann, "If you go on making boulevards like that, you will shut me up like a vestal."

"I will never make another, your Highness," he answered.

Every one is very much excited about a young Swedish girl called Christine Nilsson, who has walked right into the star-light, for she really is a star of the first magnitude. She has studied with Wachtel only one year, and behold her now singing at the Theatre Lyrique to crowded audiences in the "Flute Enchantee." Her voice has a wonderful charm; she sings without the slightest effort, and naturally as a bird. She has some phenomenal high notes, which are clear as bells. She makes that usually tedious grand aria, which every singer makes a mess of, quite lovely and musical, hovering as she does in the regions above the upper line like a butterfly and trilling like a canary-bird. A Chinese juggler does not play with his glass balls more dexterously than she plays with all the effects and tricks of the voice. What luck for her to have blossomed like that into a full-fledged prima-donna with so little effort. I have got to know her quite well, as Miss Haggerty, who was at some school with her in Paris, invites her often to lunch and asks me to meet her.

Nilsson is tall, graceful, slight, and very attractive, without being actually handsome. She acts well and naturally, and with intelligence, without exerting herself; she has the happy faculty of understanding and seizing things au vol, instead of studying them. She has a regal future before her. A second Jenny Lind! Their careers are rather similar. Jenny Lind was a singer in cafes, and Nilsson played the violin in cafes in Stockholm. She is clever, too! She has surrounded herself by a wall of propriety, in the shape of an English dame de compagnie, and never moves unless followed by her. This lady (Miss Richardson) is correctness and primness personified, and so comme il faut that it is actually oppressive to be in the same room with her. Nilsson herself is full of fun and jokes, but at the same time dignified and serious.

Christine Nilsson gave Mrs. Haggerty a box at the Theatre Lyrique, where she is now playing "Traviata" (I think it was the director's box), and I was invited to go with her and Clem. The box was behind the curtain and very small and very dark. But it was intensely amusing to see how things were done, and how prosaic and matter-of-fact everything was. If ever I thanked my stars that I was not a star myself it was then.

Everything looked so tawdry and claptrap: the dirty boards, the grossly painted scenery, the dingy workmen shuffling about grumbling and gruff, ordered and scolded by a vulgar superior. Of course the stars do not see all these things, because they only appear when the heavens are ready for them to shine in.

The overture, so it sounded to us, was a clash of drums, trumpets, and trombones all jumbled together. After the three knocks of the director, which started up the dust of ages into our faces until we were almost suffocated, the curtain rose slowly with great noise and rumbling.

The audience looked formidable as we saw it through the mist of cloudy gas-light, a sea of faces, of color and vagueness. The incongruity of costumes was a thing to weep over. If they had tried they could not have made it worse. The lady guests, walking and chatting, in a soi-disant elegant salon, were dressed, some in Louis XV. splendor, some in dogesses' brocades, some in modern finery, with bows and ribbons and things looped up any way. Nilsson was dressed in quite modern style—flounces, laces, and fringes, and so forth, while Alfredo had donned a black velvet coat a la something, with a huge jabot which fell over a frilled shirt-front. He wore short velvet trousers, and black-silk stockings covered his thin legs without the least attempt at padding.

The "padre" was in a shooting-jacket, evidently just in from a riding- tour. He held a riding-stick, and wore riding-gantlets which he flourished about with such wide gesticulations that I thought he was going to hit Nilsson in the face.

We could not hear the singing so well from where we sat; but the orchestra was overpowering, and the applause deafening, like peals of thunder.

I laughed when the gang of workmen rushed on to the stage as soon as the curtain came down, and began sweeping and taking down one set of furniture and putting on another; especially in the last act, when Violetta's bed came on and the men threw the pillows from one to the other, as if they were playing ball. They hung up a crucifix, which I thought was unnecessary, and brought in a candlestick. I wondered if they were going to put a warming-pan in the bed. A mat was laid down with great precision. Then Nilsson came in, dressed in a flounced petticoat trimmed with lace, a "matinee," and black slippers, and got into the bed.

After the performance was over the curtain was raised and the artists came forward to bow; the stage was covered with flowers and wreaths. And Nilsson, in picking up her floral tributes, was wreathed in smiles; but they faded like mist before the sun the minute the curtain was lowered, and she looked tired and worn out. Her maid was there, waiting with a shawl to wrap around the shoulders of the hot prima-donna, and the prim Miss Richardson ready to escort her to her room, while the army of shirt- sleeved men invaded the stage like bees, with brooms which, though anything but new, I hope swept clean. Then everything was dark and dismal, lit only by one or two candles and a solitary lantern. All that was so brilliant a moment before was now only a confused mass of disillusions.

Nilsson and her duenna drove to Mrs. H——'s and had supper with us. One would never have dreamt that she had been dying of consumption an hour before, to see her stow away ham, salad, and pudding in great quantities. Then she embraced us all and drove off in her coupe. The star was going to set. I went home, glad that my life lay in other paths.

PARIS, March, 1865.

DEAR M.,—Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M—— wrote, I was really in danger of a fluxion de poitrine. I am sorry she worried you unnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road to recovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I had they would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enough to come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (the traditional "you must be careful"), I had my chaise-longue moved down into Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in the world, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse and divert me.

Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come. Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont, not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced his intention of finishing an already commenced landscape.

Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists, reclining on a chaise-longue, a table with tisanes and remedies near by, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape; Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his graceful ladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted. Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and used a great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted rather finically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used few brushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and the pictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the four pictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the "pleasant days in the studio."

Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio," which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me as a souvenir of the day I sang the Benedictus in the chapel of the Tuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on one side the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and on the other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.

We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was very much appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the Duchess cut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before that she was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braids to keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a concierge in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice. We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music- room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no other incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to your voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals (he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and, to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle for everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There were inkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smoked cigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been black bread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-worn embroidered slippers, a velvet calotte, the tassels of which swayed with each of his emotions, and a dilapidated robe de chambre which opened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing duty for a collar.

On my telling him that I desired to take some lessons of him, he asked me to sing something for him. Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il etait nuit deja," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air leger apportait jusqu'a nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de l'oranger." I said to myself, "... no one could 'sentir un oranger' in this room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco."

He begged me to sing something else.

"Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There are certain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. This is one of them! You feel yourself, don't you, that it is absolutely necessary for you to clutch something when singing this? A weak chord or a too powerful one struck in a wrong place would spoil entirely the effect, and even the best accompanist cannot foresee when that effect is going to be produced." I think this is so clever! "'Voi che sapete' can be accompanied by any school girl," he continued. "It is plain sailing; but in 'Medje' the piano must be part of the singer and breathe with him." I sat down at the piano and sang. When I came to "Prends cette lame et plonges la dans mon coeur," he stopped me short, and pointing to a horrible picture on the wall indicating bloody murder and terror (No. 6), he cried, "Voila l'expression qu'il faut avoir." I sang the phrase over again, trying to imagine what Medje's lover must have felt; but I could not satisfy Delsarte. He said my voice ought to tremble; and, in fact, I ought to sing false when I say, "Ton image encore vivante dans mon coeur qui ne bat plus." "No one," he said, "in such a moment of emotion could keep on the right note." I tried again, in vain! If I had had a dagger in my hand and a brigand before me, I might perhaps have been more successful. However, he let it pass; but to show that it could be done he sang it for me, and actually did sing it false. Curiously enough, it sounded quite right, tremolo and all. There is no doubt that he is a great artist. One can see that Faure and Coquelin (the actor) have both profited by his unique teaching. He assured me that there is no art like that of making people believe what you want them to. For instance, he pretends that he can sing "Il pleut, il pleut, bergere," and make you hear the patter of the bergere's heels on the wet sod, or wherever she was trying to rentrer ses blancs moutons. He sang it with the fullest conviction, and asked me what I thought of it. I shut my eyes and tried to conjure up the bergere and her heels. My head began to whirl with all this talk, and, on taking leave of my new master, I promised him that I would try to sing false until the next lesson. Another thing he said was: "Never try to accompany yourself when the accompaniment is difficult. There is nothing so painful as to see a singer struggling with tremolos and arpeggios." How right he is!

He has one theory about the trembling of the chin. It certainly is very effective. When in "Medje" I say, "Tu n'as pas vu mes larmes, tout la nuit j'ai pleure," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once," pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome." I have tried it and have seen the effect. But I am letting you into all Delsarte's most innermost secrets.

PARIS, July, 1865.

DEAR M.,—You must forgive me if I have not written lately; but we have been on a visit to the Duke and Duchess de Persigny for the past week. I did not have time to do more than dress for driving and drive, dress for afternoon tea, dress for dinner, and dine.

The estates of Chamarande are beautiful, the chateau itself is very magnificent and arranged with the Duchess's taste, which is perfect though ultra-English.

The chateau has a moat around it, over which is a stone bridge which leads to the entrance on the side opposite the broad terraces bordered by cut trees, as in Versailles. The park is very large, filled with beautiful old trees, and most artistically laid out.

The Duke de Persigny is perfectly delightful, genial, kind, and certainly the cleverest man of the day, with a temper which is temper-proof. I never saw him out of it, and, well as I know him, I have never seen him ruffled in any way, and sometimes there were occasions, goodness knows!

The Duchess is still handsome and attractive; her pronounced originality lends her a peculiar charm. She has many admiring friends who are true to her, and I must say that when she is a friend she is a true one, and never fails you. Her originality frequently leads her beyond conventionality; for instance, the other day she took it into her head to dine out of doors. If she wanted to picnic al fresco, why did she not choose some pretty place in the park or in the woods? But no, she had the usual elaborate dinner served directly outside the chateau, and on the gravel walk. The servants, powdered and in short breeches as usual, served us in their customary solemnity; but they must have wondered why we preferred to sit on the gravel, with a draught of cold air on our backs, when we might have been comfortably seated in a big and airy room with a carpet under our feet. However, such was the wish of the chatelaine, and no one dared say a word, not even the Duke, though he protested meekly.

Later on the Duke had his revenge, for in the midst of our breezy repast there came a downpour of rain, accompanied by lightning and peals of thunder, which necessitated a hasty retreat.

The Duchess, who is very timid in thunder-storms, was the first to rush into the house, the guests following pell-mell, and our dinner was finished indoors.

After our return to Petit Val we had the visit of Auber's protege, a young man called Massenet. One day, in Paris, two months ago, Auber said to me:

"I am very much interested in a former pupil of the Conservatoire who took the Grand-Prix de Rome, and has just come back from his four years' musical studies in Rome. As he is more or less a stranger in Paris, I should be very thankful if you would interest yourself for him. He really is a genius; but, as so often happens, geniuses don't have pocket-money."

I answered: "Please tell him to come and see me. I have some music I wish to have transposed. Do you think that he would be willing to do it?"

"Certainly; he would be glad to do anything," was the answer.

The next day a pale young man presented himself. "You are Monsieur Massenet?" I inquired.

"Yes, Madame," came the gentle answer.

Thereupon I gave him the music, and I showed him to a quiet little room in the upper part of the house, which contained a piano, writing-table, pen and ink, etc., and left him to his fate. He came two or three times before I heard him play, and then it was only by chance that I passed through the corridor, and imagine my astonishment at hearing the most divine music issuing from the room where the young man was working. I rushed in, saying:

"What is that?"

"Nothing," he answered.

"Nothing!" I exclaimed. "I never heard anything so exquisite, Do play it again."

"It was simply something that passed through my head," he answered.

"Then let something else pass through your head. I must hear more." I said. Then he played, and I sat and listened to the most bewildering and beautiful music that I ever heard. From that moment there was no more copying. What a genius he is! I wish you could hear him improvise!

We have invited him frequently, and when we are at Petit Val he comes often out to see us, and luxuriates in the repose and comfort of our life here. He has already written some lovely songs under its influence. He composed one called "l'Esclave," and dedicated it to me for my birthday. He accompanies me as no one has ever done before.

Auber, who drives out occasionally, is delighted to see that "Our Massenet," as he generally calls him, is getting color in his pale cheeks and his bright and eager eyes are brighter than ever, and he is actually getting fat.

PARIS, January, 1866.

We have just returned from Nice and Cannes, also from a very disappointing yachting cruise in the Mediterranean, which proved to be a complete fiasco. I must tell you about it. Lord Albert Gower had invited us to go to Spezia on his beautiful yacht. From there we were to go to Florence, and later make a little trip in Italy. We had all been asked to a dinner at the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa at Cannes, and some of us to spend the night there.

The evening before we started there was a large dinner at the prefect's given in honor of the Austrian Ambassador, Prince Metternich, who had come on an official visit concerning an archduke, at which Lord Albert proposed that we should take Cannes en route, spend the night there, and start the next day for Spezia.

I thought that I was going to have a beautiful time when we left Nice. The sun was shining brightly, and there was every prospect of a good breeze, and I settled down on deck with books and work, thinking how delightful it was all going to be, and how pleasant it was to get away from the fatiguing gaieties of Nice, where there had been a perfect avalanche of dinners, balls, and theater-parties which even surpassed Paris.

Well! A dead calm set in about an hour after we had started, and only a vestige of a breeze wafted us along on our way, and we never arrived at Cannes till seven o'clock, just in time to disembark, jump into a carriage, and reach the Duke de Vallombrosa's villa. I thought that I was very expeditious over my toilette, notwithstanding which I found myself half an hour late for dinner. Fortunately, however, our hosts were lenient and accepted my excuses.

Lord and Lady Brougham, Duke de Croy, and many others were there. And who else do you think? No less a personage than Jenny Lind! You may imagine my delight at seeing her—"the Goddess of Song," the idol of my youth—about whom still hung a halo.

She is neither handsome nor distinguished-looking; in fact, quite the contrary: plain features, a pert nose, sallow skin, and very yellow hair. However, when she smiled, which was not often, her face became almost handsome.

After dinner the Duchess de Vallombrosa begged her to sing; but she flatly refused, and there was no other music, thank heaven! I was presented to her, in spite of her too evident dislike for new acquaintances; but when she heard that I sang she seemed more amiable and interested. She even asked me to come to see her the next day. "That is," she said, "if you can climb my hill." I told her that I was sure I could climb her hill, and would, even if I had to climb on all fours.

After having been on the glaring Mediterranean all day I could hardly keep my eyes open, and retired before the last carriage had driven away. The next morning I looked out of my window and saw our yacht dancing on the sparkling waves. We expected to leave for Spezia that afternoon.

At eleven o'clock, the hour appointed, I commenced my pilgrimage to the hill of the "Swedish nightingale," with what emotion, I can hardly tell you! I left the carriage at the foot of the hill, and climbed and climbed, until I reached the heaven where the angel lived. It was the reverse of Jacob's dream. His angel climbed down to him, whereas I had to climb up to mine. She always used a donkey for her climbings.

She received me very cordially, saying, "I welcome you to my bicoque," and led me through a few badly furnished rooms with hay- stuffed sofas and hard, uncompromising chairs and queer-looking tables painted in red and green out on to the veranda, which commanded a magnificent view over the sea and the Esterel Mountains.

I wish you could have seen her! She was dressed in a white brocade trimmed with a piece of red silk around the bottom, a red, blousy waist covered with gold heads sewed fantastically over it, perhaps odds and ends of old finery, and gold shoes!

Just fancy, at eleven o'clock in the morning! We talked music. She hated Verdi and all he had made, she hated Rossini and all he had made; she hated the French; she hated the Americans; she abhorred the very name of Barnum, who, she said, "exhibited me just as he did the big giant or any other of his monstrosities."

"But," said I, "you must not forget how you were idolized and appreciated in America. Even as a child I can remember how they worshiped Jenny Lind."

"Worshiped or not," she answered, sharply, "I was nothing more than a show in a showman's hands; I can never forget that."

We sat on her veranda, and she told me all about her early life and her musical career. She said she was born in 1820, and when only ten years old she used to sing in cafes in Stockholm. At seventeen she sang "Alice" in "Robert-le-Diable"! Then we talked of our mutual teacher, dear Garcia, of whom she took lessons in 1841 and whom, for a wonder, she liked.

At the Rhein-fest given for Queen Victoria in 1844 she said that she had had a great success, and that Queen Victoria had always been a friend to her since that time.

I asked her when she first sang in London.

"I think it was in 1847, or thereabouts," she replied. "Then I went to Paris; but I do not wish to speak of that horrid place."

"Is Paris such a horrid place?" I asked. "I wish you would come while I am there."



"Never, never!" she cried. "They treated me so abominably I vowed that I would never set foot in Paris again, and although they have offered me every possible inducement I have always refused."

"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "Would you not like to see the Exposition in Paris next year? I think it might interest you."

"Yes, that might interest me; but Paris! Paris!"

"Do you know Auber?" I asked.

"Auber. No, I have always wanted to know him, but have never had an opportunity."

"If you will come to Paris, I will arrange that you meet him."

"I will! I will! And then I will sing for him!" she said, with almost girlish glee.

How delighted I was to think that I might be the medium to bring them together.

She asked me a great many questions about my singing. Suddenly she said, "Make a trill for me."

I looked about for a piano to give me a note to start on. But a piano was evidently the thing where the Goldschmidts had drawn the line. I made as good a trill as I could without one.

"Very good!" said she, nodding her head approvingly. "I learned my trill this way." And she made a trill for me, accentuating the upper note.

Pointing her finger at me, she said, "You try it."

I tried it. Unless one has learned to trill so it is very difficult to do; but I managed it somehow.

Then she said, in her abrupt way, "What vocalizes do you sing?"

I replied that I had arranged Chopin's waltz in five flats as a vocalize.

"In the original key?" she asked. "I know it well. It is one of Goldschmidt's favorite concert pieces."

"Not in the original key. I have transposed it two notes lower, and put some sort of words to it. I also sing as a vocalize the first sixteen bars of the overture of Mendelssohn's 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"I don't think that I could do that," she said.

"I am sure you could," I answered, upon which she tried it. She sang it slowly but perfectly, shutting her eyes as if feeling her way cautiously, for the intonations are very difficult.

Twelve o'clock sounded from a cuckoo-clock in the next room, and I felt that my visit, fascinating as my angel was, must come to an end. I left her still standing on the veranda in her white brocade, and as I walked off she made the trill as an adieu.

I reached the villa in time for breakfast, after which our hosts drove us down to the pier, where the little rowboat was waiting to take us out to the yacht.

I said that our trip was a failure! It was more than a failure. It meant a gale, thunder, lightning, and sudden death, and everything in the Litany, and we finished ignominiously by taking refuge in the first port we could reach, and going on to our destination by train.

PARIS, February 12, 1866.

DEAR AUNTY,—There has been a regular deluge of balls in Paris this winter. The Minister of Marine gave a gorgeous one, the clou of which was the entrance at midnight precisely of Les Quatres Continents, being four long corteges representing Europe, America, Africa, and Asia.

I was quite provoked that they did not ask me to be in the American cortege. I should have loved to have been an Indian squaw, except that a blanket is a rather warm toilette de bal. They wanted me to take a costume of a Spanish lady in the cortege of Europe, but I refused; if I could not be in the American I did not want to be in any of the others.

Taking part in the cortege meant waiting till midnight before appearing, and then, being in it, you did not see it. I had a banal and not a correct costume of an Amazone Louis XIII., and stayed in the ballroom all the evening, and saw the procession when it came in. It was very interesting and really beautifully arranged.

Africa (Mademoiselle de Sevres) was brought in on a camel fresh from the jungle of the Jardin des Plantes, and followed by quantities of natives of every variety of shade, from sepia to chocolate, as near to nature as they dared go without spoiling their beauty. Some of the costumes were very fantastic. Ladies dressed in skirts made of feathers, and beads hanging everywhere, copied after well-known pictures, and especially after the costumes of "l'Africaine," of the Opera. The men wore enormous wigs made of black wool, and black tricots, blacker than the most African of negroes.

Asia (Baronne Erlanger) was standing on a platform carried by menials hidden from view and smothered under tiger and other skins. She was poised with one foot on the head of a tiger, one hand was clutching a date-tree, and the other hand clinging to the back of a stuffed leopard, it must have been difficult for her to keep her balance; her platform seemed very shaky, and the date-tree waved as if it had been in a tornado. The natives who followed her were more beaded and feathery and multicolored than the Africans, otherwise they looked much alike.

America was represented by a pretty girl (a Miss Carter, of Boston). She was brought in reclining in a hammock of gay colors. The American natives were not of the kind one meets in New York and Boston; they were mostly the type taken from the most popular books. There was the sedate Puritan from Longfellow's "Evangeline"; the red Indians from Cooper's books; Hiawatha and Pocahontas, of course; and the type most beloved in the European market, that of the plantation tyrant who drags his victim to the whipping-post with pointed stakes and cudgels, a la Oncle Tom, and lastly the Mexican types with slouched hats and picturesque shirts and leather leggings, pistols bulging from their belts.

Europe (Madame d'Arjuson) was seated in a Roman chair, and looked very comfortable, in comparison with the other Continents; the platform on which she sat was loaded with flowers and dragged in on wheels. All the national costumes of Europe were extremely pretty and varied. The German peasants in great variety, the Italian ciociara, the Spanish toreador, and the Dutch fisherwoman with her wooden shoes—all were complete.

Worth and Bobergh had not slept for nights, thinking out the different costumes and worrying over the details. Worth had the most-brain work, and Bobergh was the sleepy partner.

The cotillon was superb; it commenced at two o'clock and finished at the break of day. The favors were of every nationality, imported from all over the world, and tied up with every imaginable national color. I danced with the Count Voguee, who is by far the best dancer in Paris. He got masses of favors and gave them all to me, and I also received a great quantity; so that when I went to the carriage I almost needed a dray to carry them.

PARIS, March, 1866.

DEAR M.,—I think of your sitting in your Cambridge home and reading this account of the frivolities of your daughter. While the scene of last night is just in my mind, I will tell you about it.

Yesterday was Count Pourtales's birthday, and Prince Metternich thought out a wonderful scheme for a surprise for Count Pourtales and the rest of us. Princess Metternich and Countess Pourtales were the only ones taken into his confidence.

There was a dinner at the Pourtales' in honor of the occasion, and the guests were Baron Alphonse Rothschild, Count and Countess Moltke, Prince Sagan, the Duke de Croy, and ourselves.

On arriving at seven o'clock we were ushered into the salon, and later went in to dinner. All the lights were placed on the table, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. The servants seemed to me principally butlers with the traditional side-whiskers, or chasseurs with beards or mustaches. I thought that they might be extra servants brought in for the occasion.

The first course was served. A little awkward spilling of soup on the table-cloth was not remarked upon. The dish came on with its sauce. A startled cry came from a lady on receiving some drops of it on her bare neck, to which no one paid any particular attention. Then, a few moments later, some wine was carelessly spilled on one of the gentlemen's heads. These things can so easily happen, no one said anything.

The filet was handed to me, and at the same time the sauce-dish was uncomfortably near my neck, and directly under my nose. This was too nonchalant, and my surprise was still greater when the servant, in an unnatural and gruff voice, said, "Do you want any of this stuff?" I looked up at the man, and recognized a twinkle in a familiar eye, and as the twinkle was accentuated by a powerful wink I began to understand and held my tongue.

Things might have gone on longer if one of the waiters had not been too bold, and on serving Countess Moltke, a very pretty American lady married to a Dane, pushed her arm a little roughly, and in an obviously disguised voice said, "Better take some of this, you won't get another chance."

She called out in an indignant voice, "Did you ever hear the like?" Count Pourtales seemed dazed, while his wife looked as unconcerned as if there was nothing unusual. Then the insolent waiters began talking across the table to each other. One said, "Don't you see that lady with the rose has not got any salad?" The other answered, "Attend to your own affairs." Count Pourtales, crimson with mortification, was about to get up and apologize, when he was suddenly pulled back into his seat, and the absurd waiters began throwing pellets of bread at him.

Imagine his feelings! To be treated in this way in one's own house, by one's own servants! Every one of them must have suddenly gone crazy, or else they were drunk. For a moment consternation was depicted on all the countenances; we thought the end of the world had come.

When things had gone so far, Prince Metternich stood up and made a pretty little speech for the host, and we all drank his health, and the waiters all took off their wigs and false beards and waved them in the air.

Six of the most fashionable young gentlemen of Paris had been serving us! The Pourtales' own servants, who had kept aloof, now came in, and the ci-devant waiters drew up chairs between those at the table, and the dinner finished amidst great hilarity.

PARIS, August, 1866.

DEAR M.,—We were invited to go out to Fontainebleau yesterday for dinner. We found it a very hot ride from Paris, and really suffered in the crowded train. When we arrived at the station we found a coupe from the Imperial stables waiting for us, and an extra carriage for the maid, the valet, and the trunk, which contained our change of dress for dinner. I wished that the coupe had been an open carriage. I love to drive through those lovely avenues in the park. Princess Metternich suggested that we should take some green corn with us, as the Empress had expressed the wish to taste this American delicacy, and I took some from Petit Val.

On reaching the palace we were met by the Vicomte Walsh, who led the way to the apartment of the Baroness de Pierres, one of the dames d'honneur of the Empress (an American lady, formerly Miss Thorne, of New York), who was expecting us.

You may imagine my astonishment at seeing her smoking—what do you think? Nothing less than a real common clay pipe, and you may imagine her surprise at seeing me, followed by my servant, who carried a large basket containing the corn. I told her about it, and that I had brought some at the instigation of the Princess Metternich, in order that the Empress could try it. She seemed to be delighted at the idea, and exclaimed, "We must get hold of the chef at once and tell him how to cook it." She rang her bell and gave the order. Promptly Monsieur Jean appeared in his fresh white apron and immaculate jacket and white couvre-chef. Baroness de Pierres and I surpassed ourselves in giving contradictory directions as to the cooking of it. She thought it ought to be boiled a long time, while I maintained that it required very little time.

"You must leave the silk on," said she.

"Has it got silk?" asked the bewildered chef.

I was of the opinion that the husks should be taken off. "By no means!" she declared, and explained that in America the corn was always served in the husk.

The chef, trying to analyze this unusual article of food, lifted one of the ears from the basket and examined it.

"En robe de chambre, alors, Madame!" said he, and looked dismayed at these complications.

"Yes," she replied, "just like a potato—en robe de chambre."

We could hear him as he left the room, followed by the basket, muttering to himself, "Soie! robe de chambre! Soie! robe de chambre!" in his most satirical tone. I began to feel a little nervous about it myself, and wondered if for this broth there had not been too many cooks.

We went out before dinner to see the famous carp; I looked in vain for the one with the ring in its nose.

At dinner, besides the Household, were the Princess Mathilde, Monsieur Ollivier, Monsieur Perriere, the Duke de Persigny, Baron Haussmann, and several statesmen.

The corn came in due time served as legume.

I was mortified when I saw it appear, brought in on eight enormous silver platters, four ears on each. It looked pitiful! Silk, robe de chambre and all, steaming like a steam-engine. Every one looked aghast, and no one dared to touch it; and when I wanted to show them how it was eaten in its native land they screamed with laughter. Baron Haussmann asked me if the piece I was playing (he meant on the flute) was in la-bemol?

I looked to the Baroness de Pierres for support; but, alas! her eyes refused to meet mine and were fixed on her plate.

I tried to make the corn less objectionable by unwrapping the cobs and cutting off the corn. Then I added butter and salt, and it was passed about; first, of course, to the Emperor, who liked it very much; but the Empress pushed her plate aside with a grimace, saying, "I don't like it; it smells like a baby's flannels."

The Emperor, seeing the crushed look on my face, raised his glass and said, with a kind glance at me, "Here's to the American corn!" I reproached the Princess Metternich for having suggested my taking it there.

COMPIEGNE, November 22, 1866.

DEAR A.,—You know it has always been my wish to see the life at Compiegne, and behold, here I am!

We received the invitation twelve days ago. It reads thus:

MAISON DE L'EMPEREUR

_Palais des Tuileries, le 10 Novembre 1866.

Premier Chambellan_

Monsieur,

Par ordre de l'Empereur, j'ai l'honneur de vous prevenir que vous etes invite, ainsi que Madame Charles Moulton, a passer huit jours au Palais de Compiegne, du 22 au 29 Novembre.

Des voitures de la Cour vous attendront le 22, a l'arrivee a Compiegne du train partant de Paris a 2 heures 1/2, pour vous conduire au Palais.

Agreez, Monsieur, l'assurance de ma consideration tres distinguee.

Le Premier Chambellan. V'te de Laferriere. Monsieur, Madame Charles Moulton.

This gave me plenty of time to order all my dresses, wraps, and everything else that I needed for this visit of a week to royalty.



I was obliged to have about twenty dresses, eight day costumes (counting my traveling suit), the green cloth dress for the hunt, which I was told was absolutely necessary, seven ball dresses, five gowns for tea. Such a quantity of boxes and bundles arrived at the house in Paris that Mademoiselle Wissembourg was in a blue fidget, fussing about, boring me with silly, unnecessary suggestions, and asking so many useless questions that I wished her at the bottom of the Red Sea.

A professional packer came to pack our trunks, of which I had seven and C—— had two; the maid and the valet each had one, making, altogether, quite a formidable pile of luggage. As we saw it on the wagon driven from the house, it seemed an absurdly large amount for only a week's visit.

We arrived at the St. Lazare Station at 2.30, as indicated on the invitation.

We found the Vicomte Walsh (the Chamberlain of the Emperor) waiting to show the guests where the train was. It would have been rather difficult not to have seen it, as it was the only one in the station, and was marked "Extra and Imperial."

There were several large salon carriages with large, comfortable fauteuils, and some tables covered with newspapers and journaux illustres to beguile the time. It would take too much time to tell you the names of all the people I recognized at the station; but in the carriage with us were the Duke and Duchess Fernan Nunez, Madame de Bourgogne (whose husband is Equerry of the Emperor), the two Princes Murat, Joachim and Achille, Monsieur Davilliers, Count Golz (the German Ambassador), Baron Haussmann and his daughter, and Mr. de Radowitz of the German embassy, who immediately stretched himself out contentedly in a comfortable arm-chair and fell fast asleep.

I should say there were about fifty or sixty guests.

We actually flew over land and dale. I never traveled so fast in all my life; but then I had never been in an Imperial train before. We did not stop until we reached the station of Compiegne.

I think the whole twelve thousand inhabitants of Compiegne were gathered there to stare at us, and they did stare persistently, until we had mounted the many equipages waiting for us and had driven away.

It certainly must have been very entertaining for them to see the long procession of carriages, the hundreds of trunks, the flurrying maids, and the self-important valets.

There were two landaus: one for the Metternichs and one for the German Ambassador.

The chars-a-bancs, of which there must have been at least ten, were dark green outlined with red, each with four prancing horses whose tails, jauntily braided with red cords, were tied to the saddles.

Each carriage had two postilions, who looked very trim in their short velvet jackets embroidered with gold and covered with endless buttons. They wore white breeches, long top-boots, black-velvet caps over their white wigs, and their little pigtails, tied with a black bow, hung down their backs, flapping up and down as they galloped.

The Princess Metternich had fourteen trunks and two maids; the Prince had his private secretary and valet, and a goodly number of trunks. This will give you a vague idea of the amount of baggage which had to be transported in the fourgons.

Don't you think we must have made a very imposing spectacle, as we rattled through the quiet town of Compiegne, over its old stone pavement, the postilions blowing their horns, cracking their whips, the horses galloping full speed, the chars-a-bancs filled with handsomely dressed ladies, and after this long procession came the maids and the valets and mountainous piles of baggage?

When we entered the grande cour (inclosure), the sentinels grasped their guns and saluted, as we passed by them, before we pulled up in front of the grand staircase of the chateau, where an army of lackeys were waiting to help us alight.

The Grand Chamberlain received us at the head of the stairs with pleasant cordiality and waved us toward a huissier, who, dressed in a black livery with heavy chains around his neck, looked very important. He, in his turn, passed us on to the particular valet allotted to us, who pompously and with great dignity showed us the way to our apartments.

Our names were on the doors, and we entered the brilliantly lighted rooms, which, after our journey, seemed most welcome with their bright fires and cheerful aspect.

Tea and chocolate were on the table waiting us, and I regaled myself while the soldiers (who seem to be the men-of-all-work here) brought in the trunks and the maid and valet were unpacking.

I must describe our rooms. We have a large salon, two bedrooms, two servants' rooms, and an antechamber. In the salon there are two long windows which reach to the floor and overlook the park. The walls are paneled with pink and mauve brocade. The covering of the furniture and the curtains are of the same stuff.

My bedroom is furnished in white and green with a delightful chaise longue and large fauteuils, which to me are more inviting than the stiff Empire style of the salon.

I made my toilette in a maze of excitement; my maid was confused and agitated, and I thought I should never be ready. I think you will be interested to hear what I wore to-night. It was light-green tulle, embroidered in silver, the waist trimmed with silver fringe. If one could see the waistband, one would read WORTH in big letters. I thought it was best to make a good impression at the start, so I put on my prettiest gown.

On leaving our apartment, a little before seven, we found the lackey waiting to show us the way to the Grande Salle des Fetes, and we followed his plump white calves through the long corridors, arriving at last at the salon where the company was to assemble.

Here we found more white calves belonging to the gorgeous liveries and the powdered heads of the lackeys, who stood there to open the doors for all comers. We were not the last, but of the latest, to arrive.

The salon seemed immense to me. On one side the windows (or rather the doors) opened on to the terrace; on the opposite side of the walls, between the pillars, were mirrors resting on gilded consoles. At one end of the room was the statue of Laetitia Bonaparte (Madame Mere), and at the other end was one of Napoleon I. Banquettes and tabourets of Gobelins tapestry stood against the walls. The ceiling is a chef-d'oeuvre of Girodet—style Empire.

The Vicomte de Laferriere and the Duchesse de Bassano, the grande maitresse, came forward to receive the guests.



My first feeling, when I entered the room, was that I knew no one in this numerous assemblage. There must have been a hundred people at least; but gradually the faces of my acquaintances loomed one by one out of the mist, and among them I recognized the lovely Marquise de Gallifet, who kindly beckoned me to come and stand by her, for which I felt very grateful.

The chamberlains—there were many of them—bustled about, constantly referring to some papers which they had in their hands, in order to tell each gentleman which lady he was to take in to dinner.

The Grand Chamberlain glanced round the room with an all-comprehensive look, and seemed intuitively to know when we were all present. He then disappeared into his Majesty's private salon.

There was an ominous hush, a flutter of agitation, a stiff attitude of expectancy, the guests arranging themselves according to their own consciousness of their rank; and presently the doors of the salon were quietly opened and their Majesties entered. The gentlemen bowed reverentially; the ladies courtesied very low, and the sovereigns, responding with a gracious inclination of the head, advanced toward us.

The Empress turned to the ladies, the Emperor to the gentlemen, speaking a word of welcome to as many of the guests as the time allowed. Fifty or sixty bon soirs and charme de vous voir's occupy some time; but their Majesties kept their eyes on the Grand Marechal, and he kept his eye on the clock.

The Empress looked lovely. She wore a beautiful gown, a white-spangled tulle, with a superb tiara of diamonds, and on her neck a collier of huge pearls.

The Emperor was in white culottes courtes, white-silk stockings and low shoes, as were the rest of the gentlemen. He wore the ribbon of the Legion d'honneur, and on his left breast the star of the same.

The Grand Marechal, waiting his opportunity, approached his Majesty, who went up to the Empress and gave her his arm. The Grand Marechal then led the way slowly and with due stateliness to the banqueting hall.

The gentlemen offered their arms to their respective ladies, and we marched in procession through the long gallery, trying to prevent ourselves from slipping on the waxed floor, and passed between the splendid Cent Gardes, who lined both sides of the entire length of this enormous hall. Their uniforms are magnificent and dazzling; they wear light-blue coats under their silver cuirasses, white breeches, and high, shiny top-boots; and on their heads silver helmets, from which flow long manes of white horsehair that hang down their backs.

There the men stood, motionless as statues, staring stolidly before them, without so much as a stolen side-glance at the beauty and elegance passing before their eyes.

This procession of ladies glittering with jewels, the officers and diplomats in their splendid uniforms covered with decorations and gay- colored cordons, made a sight never to be forgotten; at least, I shall never forget it.

When their Majesties entered the dining-room they separated, and took their places on opposite sides of the table, half-way down its length and exactly facing each other. The Emperor had Princess Metternich on his right hand, and the Duchess of Fernan Nunez on his left. The Empress had the Austrian Ambassador, Prince Metternich, on her right, and the German Ambassador, Count Golz, on her left.

The other invites were placed according to their rank and position: all the gros bonnets were in their right places, you may be quite sure. I was such a little bonnet among all those great people that I was practically nowhere, and at the tail end of everything except the members of the Household and the ladyless gentlemen, who, of course, were below me.

There must have been about one hundred persons seated at the table. I never saw such a tremendous long stretch of white linen.

The flowers, stiffly arranged at intervals, alternated with white epergnes filled with bonbons, and larger fruit-dishes filled with the most delicious-looking fruit. All along the whole length of the table were placed, at regular intervals, the groups of pate tendre representing the Hunt. These, as my cavalier (Count de Bourgogne) told me, are made only at the Sevres manufactory, expressly for the French sovereigns. They were designed in the time of Louis XV. by an artist called Urbain, and have been reproduced ever since. It would seem as if nothing had been found worthy to replace them.

The service de table was of white Sevres porcelain with only the letter "N" in gold surmounted by the Imperial crown; many of the courses were served on silver plates, in the center of which were engraved the arms of France.

A strip of red velvet carpet laid over the polished floor surrounded the table. On the outer side of this carpet were the chair, to be pushed forward as soon as people were ready to sit down. The lackeys stood in a line all the way down the room, making a very imposing sight in their red- and-white liveries; there must have been forty or fifty of them at least. The Emperor's chasseur always stands behind his chair and serves him, and him alone, taking a dish of each course, as it is brought in, from the maitre d'hotel. No one but this privileged chasseur can hand anything in the way of food to his Majesty. When the Emperor has served himself, the chasseur hands the dish back to the maitre d'hotel, who passes it on to the other servants, who then serve the guests. The Empress is served in the same way.

I suppose this custom dates back to the time of the Borgias, when, in order to save their own lives, they were willing to risk those of their trusty menials by making them taste the food before it was put on the table.

A military band played during the dinner. It was placed in a large circular loggia having windows opening on to a courtyard, thus serving two purposes: to let in the air and let out the music, which, fortunately, it did, otherwise we could not have heard ourselves speak.

The dinner lasted about an hour. (The Emperor dislikes sitting long at table.) It seemed almost impossible that so much eating and drinking and changing of plates—in fact, such an elaborate repast—could be got through within such a short time. But it was!

When their Majesties had finished they rose, and everyone followed their example. All the chairs were drawn from under you, tant pis if you were in the act of eating a pear and had not yet washed your fingers; but, no matter, you had to skip across the red carpet in order to let their Majesties pass.