THE ENGLISH ABROAD; OR, THE PRINCE OF SEIDLITZ POWDERS.

It is generally said that, in the good old times, when it was only your man of quality who made the grand tour, the name of our countrymen was in better repute than at present; and that, with the exception of that reputation for bull-dog ferocity, which Smollett tells us was always considered an excuse for laying violent hands on the police, we really passed for a decent, respectable people. To this opinion we, as democrats, cannot cordially incline. We remember the Milor Anglaise of a former day was, according to his description, little better than his tailor, who travels with his title in the present. Still without drawing comparisons, we admit the fact, that it is impossible now to visit a town or village on the Continent without having to blush for the grotesque caricatures that are disfiguring our nations! reputation. Only go to Calais or Boulogne, reader, and see the queer figures who are passing themselves off as models of English elegance! Just look at their pinched-up or broadened-out brimmed hats — their indescribably cut coats — their whiskers, their mustachios, their swagger, their ignorance, their insolence, and recollect that the costume and the ton, which would not be tolerated in the saloon at Covent Garden, is soberly considered by the good French people who have never crossed the channel as a fair specimen of the taste and breeding of their outlandish neighbours. Pass wherever you will on the Continent, and be sure if any thing very extraordinary, very ridiculous, very impertinent be done, that its perpetrator is an Englishman! If any man lives in a more scandalous indecency than the habits even of Italy will allow it is a citizen of the nation which prides itself on its morality and religion; if any lady is noted for a grosser freedom of language and a more unconscionable incontinency of conduct than another, it is one of a country which we are taught to believe is remarkable for the modest purity of its women. England abroad and England at home are two countries of as different characteristics as Kamtschatka and Otaheite. People of all sexes and all classes seem to take a pride in convincing the world that they change their skins with their climate; and that if they conduct themselves with decency and propriety in May Fair and Fleet Street, they can be guilty of every absurdity and indecorum within sight of the Champs Elysées or the Coliseum. We see no objection to transporting some of the stories, related of our countrymen on the spots where they have exhibited themselves, to one in which they quail beneath the lash of public opinion; and though we do not wish to be so hard upon the follies as upon the vices by which our travellers are distinguished, still there is one folly, which, partly of home growth, sprouts forth so ridiculously, and sometimes so fatally, abroad; a folly which makes our honest citizens and country gentlemen such frequent dupes and laughing-stocks — we mean the desire of mixing with people whom they imagine finer than themselves — that we shall not, when we find, be inclined to spare it.

Once upon a time, and since the year 1815, there was an English family that had taken up its abode at Paris. The family was a respectable one, as far as an honest sufficiency and a decent genealogy could constitute it such. It consisted of a gentleman and lady and their two daughters. The gentleman was an excellent, good-hearted man, entirely led by his wife, who, after having impaired his fortune by an ostentatious vulgarity in England, now carried him a passive victim to France in order to economize. Even when in London he knew little — and interested himself about little — beyond the local relations of his county. He knew, for instance, — no one better, — the number of acres possessed by his neighbours, the capabilities and soil of those several acres, and the time at which they fell into the possession of the family they belonged to. He was also fairly qualified to say whether Lord Bombast’s or Viscount Truppington’s preserves afforded the best sport; and whether Sir John Stepfast or Sir Thomas Freebooter had the best chance for the county. An inactive magistrate, a good-natured and easy man, he enjoyed a quiet popularity, which, when anything happened to disturb, the fault was attributed to his lady. Such a gentleman, transported to Paris, had only to inquire where he could find an English newspaper, and a quiet rubber of whist; and these points once ascertained, but few occasions could afterwards occur for the exercise of his loquacity. It was a very different case with Mrs. Broughton: accustomed to angle for a lord to adorn her dinner-table, and even to make a fuss in order to get a baronet to her ball, the whole animation of her nature was aroused when she found herself in a sphere where chevaliers, counts, and barons were as plentiful as truffles; and the acquaintance of even a duke or a prince might be attained with a little manoeuvring. She ate and drank not, neither did she sleep, until she had placed herself in that position which she thought most advantageous to her social views. An apartment, with a good salle à manger and two excellent sitting-rooms, was taken. It is true the bed-rooms were bad in proportion — but nobody saw them; and if Mr. Broughton was crammed into a closet, what did that signify, since Mr. Broughton was just that kind of man who did not care where he was put! A good cook, too, was procured, and carriage-horses were hired for six months in the year; as for the other six, since nobody need know where they were, or how they lived, a pony chaise and a kitchen-maid and a cottage in the country would be quite sufficient. Thus established, Mrs. Broughton was ready to commence her Parisian career. In order to get a proper letter to the ambassador, Mr. Broughton, who had hitherto been from family recollections a whig, was made to promise his votes and interest to the Honourable Charles Turnspit, the Tory candidate for his county, and son of the Lord Lieutenant, who was himself first cousin to Lady Caroline Politic, the ambassadress. In consequence, Lady Caroline, who felt deeply, as every great lady does for the success of her cousin, became, since the event of the contest was doubtful, peculiarly civil to the Broughtons: such an opportunity was not to be lost; Sir Charles and Lady Caroline Politic were boldly invited to dinner, and did not refuse. Mrs. B. knew what she was about, and now very properly considered the whole matter easy. It is true she knew no one to ask to meet her distinguished guests; but it was a different thing for a Mr and Mrs. Broughton to ask anybody simply to dine with them, or to ask anybody to dine with them to meet Sir Charles and Lady Caroline Politic “Fanny, you are going to the Embassy to-night, if you look hard at the young Prince Tomotowski, he’ll ask you to dance; and if he does, my love, ask him for next Friday to dine here and meet the ambassador. Mr. Broughton you know that tall old gentleman, who always stands by the fire-place to the right in the second room — it’s the Duc de St. Germains; go and stand by him, and when you have got into conversation, which you can easily do, observe the ambassador is a very charming man, and then say, just accidentally, in going away, will your Excellency come and meet him at dinner on Friday? Remember, Mr. Broughton, on Friday!” Mr. Broughton, who was used to these kind of missions, and was too old-fashioned and simple-hearted to think that he was taking a liberty in asking any one to dine with him, particularly a Frenchman, fulfilled his commission. The polite Frenchman thought he must have met the odd English gentleman somewhere when he was an émigré, and tapping his chased snuff-box, and offering it to Mr. Broughton, said, “Qu’il serait charmé.” Miss Fanny had not been so successful. The heart of the Prince Tomotowski was occupied that evening with a new actress, and stood consequently proof against all her modest allurements. At length came the ominous Friday, big with the fate of the Broughtons. Sir Charles Politic could not come, being particularly engaged with a danseuse and despatches; and the whole dinner-party, notwithstanding various well-directed efforts to obtain recruits, was confined to Lady Caroline and the Rue de St. Germains. We also had been asked to dinner, but only went in the evening; and never shall we forget Mrs. Broughton’s joyous and embarrassed appearance, as, seated at the piano-forte between her two victims, she looked like a small spider, who had caught two large blue-bottles, with whose possession it was delighted, though it hardly knew what to do with them.

This ridiculous failure, however, answered as well to Mrs. Broughton as the most perfect success could have done. Lady Caroline Politic and the Duc de St. Germains were personages both too great in their way to be very intimate; and each supposed their hostess to be the particular friend of the other. None, in fact, but a particular friend could be asked to a tête-à-tête dinner of that description; and Lady Caroline went away, thinking, that though certainly Mrs. Broughton would be thought exceedingly vulgar in England, still she seemed very intimate with the best French society; while Monsieur le Duc made many sensible and philosophic reflections on the variety of breeding which passed for the best in different countries, so that, “I dare say,” said he, softly, “that vulgar woman whom I have just left may appear charming to Madame l’Ambassadrice.”

From this evening, then, Mrs and the Miss Broughtons were firmly launched in society at Paris, and their salon and their dinner-table as crowded as they chose to make them.

The Miss Broughtons, Fanny and Caroline, were really very amiable and pretty young persons; and had they been blessed with another mother, and a different education, there would have been no reason for their being supremely ridiculous. As it was, their accomplishments were confined to singing badly, dancing well, speaking French fluently, and, moreover, English: a qualification which, though her birth fairly entitled her to it, Mrs. B. was never able to obtain. The conversation of this lady was governed by a learned rule which we dare say many of our readers will remember —

“Accusativus pluralis tertia personâ singular! gaudet;” so that “them that is,” was a turn of expression in which she much delighted. Neither was she craniologically endowed with the organ of perception: hard words she was rather apt to confuse, and had once been known to ask a gentleman to come and see the Diarrhoea on the Boulwards, who excused himself on the plea of having a diorama in his bowels. But to these slight grammatical peculiarities her foreign acquaintance were perfectly insensible; so that, what with the good apartments, the good cook, the pretty daughters, and the quiet, whist-playing husband, the society of the Broughtons became in great repute with the Parisians, and, as a rendezvous for good French society, was equally sought by the English. Mrs. Broughton then had gained her point: true — she could not help being universally accounted an ignorant, vulgar woman, but still her house was a club to the best company, and this had been the summit of her ambition. She was ridiculed, as all such people are, by those who did her the honour of visiting her; but this she did not see, or did not care for, the whole powers of her mind being now bent upon finding proper matches for her dear girls; and as none of the old habitués of her salon seemed that way inclined, all the new comers were anxiously inquired after, and whenever they possessed wealth and title, their acquaintance as eagerly secured. But four or five years had rapidly whirled away, and no offers, such as to Mrs. B.’s exalted views appeared eligible, had been made, when a very distinguished stranger was rumoured to have arrived at Paris. He was announced by Mr. Carlton, the Secretary of the English Embassy, to be a man in the middle age of life, with curly hair and dark mustachios, a nose half Grecian, half Roman, a peculiarly fascinating eye, and a remarkably melancholy and interesting expression of countenance. “This expression, indeed,” said Mr. Carlton, “may be partly attributed to a recent misfortune. A wife, whom he adored, has lately fallen a victim to consumption; and, it is, in a great measure, to distract his mind from her remembrance, and in some measure also,” said the Secretary, “to supply her place — for it was necessary to give his noble house an heir — that the Prince de Seidlitz Powders had come to Paris.”

“What a very sad story!” said Miss Fanny. “What a very interesting person!” said Miss Caroline. “Is he very rich?” asked Mrs. Broughton. “Immensely,” replied the Secretary. “His family, as you know, Mrs. Broughton, is semi-royal — (here Mrs. B. nodded assent) — the Seidlitz Powders are of the same line as the Wolfenhangers, who were derived from the Bearbietzers, who descended from the Foxbanoeni, who were but ten degrees removed from the Hapsburghs; — but who is so well acquainted with the ‘Almanac de Gotha,’ as you, Mrs. Broughton? As for his wealth, you may judge of it, when I tell you it consists in mines of that invaluable medicine called after his title, and which has now spread his princely name through every pharmacopoeia in Europe.” Mrs. Broughton seemed particularly delighted at the last phrase, as it contained a hard word, which she was not acquainted with, but which, she had no doubt, was to be found in the aforesaid “Almanac de Gotha.”

“Does he play at whist?” said the father. “Does he waltz?” said the daughters. “Does he dine out?” said the mother. “That is the worst of the business,” continued Mr. Carlton, replying to Mr. Broughton, “hardly ever: the Prince is a man of very intellectual pursuits, and of a very concentrated character. He is now about to publish a work from which Goethe, who was born on his estate, was allowed to take the Faust, which formed a mere episode in his wonderful romance. It is spoken of by those who have seen it, as the most extraordinary performance of ancient or modem genius; and being thus occupied, and travelling for the sake of marrying and being amused, he never goes anywhere where he is not assured that he is likely to find a wife, and is certain not to meet a bore. He lives indeed in perfect retirement; and his only reason for receiving me is, that my uncle and his brother had once the same mistress, which he is polite enough to say constitutes a kind of relationship between us.” The Miss Broughtons blushed, and Mrs. Broughton, tapping the Secretary on the arm, told him not to be incontinuous in his language. Her meditated attack on the Prince of Seidlitz Powders she reserved for another opportunity, and determined in the meantime to make inquiries. Two of Mr. Carlton’s friends, attachés to the English Embassy, shortly afterwards called, and also M. Chanulier, of the Russian Embassy. The two first spoke of the Prince, whom Mr. Carlton had introduced them to, in raptures. The latter moderated his praise by saying that he was “tin tacré liberal,” and supposed by his talent to nave almost sufficient influence to upset the Holy Alliance. In short, Mrs. Broughton had more than her usual number of visitors that day, and but one person was in the mouth of all— “the Prince de Seidlitz Powders.” Some had seen him, some had only heard of him; some had only heard of his large black bear, which he fed upon ice and biscuit Never was curiosity and interest more powerfully awakened in the female breast than in the bosoms of Mrs and the Misses Broughton.

The next morning as the ladies were looking out of their window in the Rue Royale, Mr. Carlton passed them on a beautiful curvetting Arab. He (the Arab) was singular for his beauty, but still more singular for his colour. The muzzle of his nose and the lower part of his head were jet black, as were his ears, his mane and tail were of a bright gold, and the rest of his body was a spotless white. The ladies tried to catch the Secretary’s eye, but could not. They met him in the evening,— “Whose beautiful horse were you riding this morning?”

“Horse, horse — I don’t remember that I did ride; — oh, yes,” after a pause, “it was a pony of the Prince de Seidlitz Powders.”

“What a strange odd colour!”

“Oh, that’s his breed — he has twenty now at Paris just the same: they are brought up in the mines, and never eat anything but vegetable marrow.”

“Only think what a singular man the Prince of Seidlitz Powders must be, Mamma, to have a bear that feeds on ice and biscuit, and twenty white horses with black noses and ears, and golden tails and manes, which live entirely on vegetable marrow!” The next morning, Mr. Carlton indefatigable, as it would appear, in obliging his friend the Prince, was seen again passing the windows, not, however, on horseback, but in a large cart, containing a kind of platform of beautiful aromatic flowers. This time, he immediately saw the ladies, who laughingly inquired into the nature of his pursuit. “Devil take the Prince!” said he, “by heavens he has so bewitched me, that I don’t know what I shan’t do next to please him! — I am airing his flowers.”

“Airing his flowers — nonsense!” said Miss Fanny; “You don’t mean it?” said Miss Caroline. “Why,” said the Secretary, approaching nearer to the window, which was exceedingly near the ground, “it is rather a long story, but if you’d like to hear it”— “Oh, yes!” said both ladies at once. “Well then, you must know, that when the Prince’s wife died, he had not even a picture of her: some token of remembrance he wanted; and his poetical imagination suggested that nothing could bring the idea of her perfections so clearly before his senses, and appeal so powerfully to his memory, as the odour of a variety of appropriate and carefully selected flowers. This platform which you see there is the Princess’s picture, which the Prince always carries about with him; and finding by his exquisite organs and his profound knowledge, that all female plants, such as these, of course, are, require constant amusement and recreation, in Order to preserve their fragrance, he sends them every day, when it is fine weather, into the country in order to breathe the fresh air, and see their relations and friends; and the lady who usually escorts them being unwell, and the Prince himself in the fervour of composition, he begged me to accompany them on their excursion.”

“Oh, I see you are quizzing us,” said both the young ladies at once. “Nobody ever heard of a picture of flowers. You’re very clever, but it won’t do, Mr. Carlton.”

“Quizzing you!” said the astonished Secretary, most seriously: “Ask your mamma, nobody’s reading on these subjects is more extensive.” Mrs. Broughton nodded her head. Ask your mamma, whether in Greece, in Germany, in Morocco, and Mesopotamia, songs are not composed, letters written, and serenades sung all by the means of flowers? As for pictures of flowers, they are the commonest things id the world; the only difficulty is to take a correct likeness. Now, anybody who ever saw the Princess says that this platform is her perfect image: au reste, you may ask the Prince yourself, if you come to the Champs Elysées to-day, when, if you like it, I’ll have the honour of introducing him to you.” The proposition was, as might be expected, eagerly accepted, and the ladies’ minds, once turned in that direction, became too much occupied with imagining the dresses they could appear in that morning to the best advantage, to continue the conversation.

To the Champs Elysées then they went For the first hour every gentleman, who at a distance was seen to have curly hair and dark mustachios, was eagerly eyed; for the second hour, the Secretary was as anxiously looked for; the last was passed in a state of alternate fury and despondency.

Miss Fanny knew that Mr. Carlton would not be there — he took a pleasure in teazing. Miss Caroline suggested that if the Prince was of melancholy habits he might have expected to meet them in the more private parts of the Bois de Boulogne. Mrs. Broughton told them not to be impatient; for impatience disordered the stomach, and the complexion depended on the digestion.

“How provoking!” exclaimed the three ladies at once — joy, however, sparkling in all their eyes — as the porter put Mr. Carlton’s card and a beautiful piece of pasteboard into their hands, on which was exquisitely engraved the name of “The Prince de Seidlitz Powders”—” Hôtel de Castille” was written, in a small hand, in the corner; — perhaps the Prince’s own hand!

The porter was examined as to the gentleman who had left the card, and the equipage he had come in.

All he knew was, that a very splendid carriage had stopped at the door, and that a chasseur, in a magnificent costume, had asked if the ladies were at home; and, on hearing they were out, had left the card in question.

Mr« Broughton had received his orders to call the next day at the Hôtel de Castille, and if he saw the Prince to invite him, for the first day he was disengaged, to dinner. “Le Prince n’est pas chez lui,” said the porter, “mais son ours y est.”

“Well, give this card and make my compliments,” said Mr. B., absently. “Au Prince ou a Touts!” said the porter, smiling and bowing very politely; but Mr. Broughton did not hear him, having already turned off on his way to Galigrtani’s. Mr. Carlton then was to be consulted as to the best mode of proceeding in respect to the dinner invitation. “One would not look too forward,” said Mrs. Broughton. “No; that would never do,” said Mr. Carlton, putting his hand to his chin, and looking reflectively. “Well, I’ll arrange it for you. Have you got an almanac — for the Prince never dines out but on a full moon!” An almanac was brought: there was a full moon on the third day following; and the Secretary engaged that if the Prince had no prior engagement, which he would know in half an hour, his Highness Would on that day dine with Mrs. Broughton. “But,” said he, “think well before you ask him; he is a troublesome guest; and always insists upon seeing a list of the company he is invited to meet.”

“Oh! providing we get the Prince, you shall have a carte-blanche,” said Mrs. B., delighted, “to ask anybody you please.”

In about an hour’s time Mr. Carlton returned, saying that the Prince had actually sent an excuse to a great Kamskatkan nobleman, who was staying at Paris in disguise, and that he would certainly do himself the honour of dining with Mr and Mrs. Broughton. Mr. Carlton brought also a list of the party to be invited; and insisted, as one principal condition, that the most perfect secrecy was to be observed to all the rest of the world as to the intentions of the illustrious stranger, who would otherwise be involved in endless quarrels with many whose invitations he had refused; “and, indeed,” said the Secretary, “if the Prince were to know that any one out of this list (all of whom must be sworn to secrecy) were informed that you expected him, he would, most assuredly, turn back, even if he were halfway up your staircase.”

For the two next days every one observed a peculiar expression of joy and satisfaction darting from the three ladies’ eyes, and a certain pursed-up, consequential air about their mouths; which, if Mr. B.’s politics had not been so well known, would, in all probability, have awakened the attention of the police. The eventful day came: Mr. Carlton had been asked whether there were any particular dishes to which his Highness was peculiarly attached. “Now that you remind me,” said he, “there are. He is especially fond of rose soup and geranium pates: in short, he hardly lives upon anything else.”

“Rose soup and geranium pâtés!” said Mrs. Broughton— “Well, I’m sure I never heard of such things.”

“No; I dare say not,” said Mr. Carlton; “no more, perhaps, has your cook. They are royal dishes — hereditary in the family of the Seidlitz Powders; and indeed in the Prince’s own states, where the government is of the most liberal description, any one Who presumed to make or to eat rose soup or geranium pâtés would be, for the first offence, imprisoned three years — for the second, sent for ten years to the galleys — and, for the third, hanged; and yet so fascinating is this kind of food, that no one who has suffered the first punishment is ever able to resist subjecting himself to the second and the third. But as the Prince might not like to communicate his secret to your kitchen, perhaps you will excuse his sending the articles from his own.”

“To be sure, by all means!” said Mrs. Broughton; “but only think of roses and geraniums being eaten!”

“Why not? surely they are more inviting than mushrooms and truffles, — nasty, dirty, toadlike-looking things, of which chance only could have discovered the excellency; while roses and geraniums are evidently pointed out by one organ as exquisite for the satisfaction of another. It was the ear — as nobody knows better than you, Mrs. Broughton — which invented the famous Roman dish of nightingales’ tongues; so it was the nose which recommended to the Seidlitz Powders their hereditary passion for rose soup and geranium pâtés.”

The company were assembled — the soup and the pâtés had arrived — Mr. Carlton, too, was there. The Prince, whom he had left tweezing his mustachios, might be expected every moment.

All present had heard of him — some thought they had seen him smoking at the window — some that they had heard him whistle as they were passing under it — but no one had the honour of the Prince’s personal acquaintance, save the Secretary of the British Embassy; and every eye, as carriage after carriage rattled by the door, was turned upon him.

Every nerve in the frames of the Broughtons was in the most irritating state of excitement and expectation. It was useless to disguise the fact; — an hour beyond the appointed dinner-time had passed away — and everybody but Mr. Carlton seemed to be alarmed at the Prince’s non-appearance. He was quite sure, quite satisfied, that nothing would prevent his coming. “He might be a little late — that often happened; — perhaps he had received a despatch — perhaps he was just finishing an ode — a style of composition he was always given to when washing his hands. It might be better if he did not come soon, to sit down to dinner; — but as to his arriving, any fears of that were quite out of the question.” Conjecture, however, succeeded conjecture. The bear, and the ice, and the biscuits — the horses and the vegetable marrow — the Princess and her aromatic picture — the rose soup and the geranium pâtés — all the singular habits of the Prince, and then his singular name, were the alternate subjects of conversation. The gentlemen of the various diplomatic corps spoke with emphasis — the dandies with lisps — the military with oaths — the ladies with agitation.

“It is a very odd — a very odd name, certainly,” said the Prince de Bouval — who was turned of seventy, and half an idiot— “a very odd name, and I never remember hearing it before the Revolution.”

“Not at all an odd name!” said Mr. Carlton. “Not an odder name than “Truefit,’ exclaimed Lord H — t;”

“Nor ‘Little,’” lisped Miss Fanny;”

“Nor ‘Jasmin,’” sighed Miss Caroline; “Nor ‘Sheepshanks,’” said Comte P — i; “Nor ‘Higginbottom,’” said Lady A — h; “Nor ‘Ramsbottom,’” said Mrs. Broughton. But at length all marvels as to the Prince’s name were swallowed up in the still greater marvel at his continued absence; and Mrs. Broughton, when the old Comte de Soissons complained, for a second time, of cramps in his stomach, was obliged to order up dinner; with many injunctions, however, that the rose soup and the geranium pâtés should be kept carefully hot.

Dinner was served, and the party seated, when every voice was silenced — every soup-spoon suspended — as a letter, written on saffron-coloured paper, and compressed by a seal of about the circumference of a five-franc piece, representing (as it was afterwards observed) a box of Seidlitz powders, and supported by two tumblers, was brought to Mrs. Broughton. “Good God!” said Mr. Carlton, “that’s the Prince’s seal — some accident must have happened! — Don’t derange yourself, my dear Mrs. Broughton; — pray permit me to read the letter, Mrs. Broughton.” Her heart heaving with disappointment and vexation, had hardly given a sigh of assent, when Mr. Carlton had torn open the envelope, and reading to himself— “Ha! I said so! nothing, I was sure, but the most serious calamity, could possibly have prevented the Prince’s arrival. Shall I read?” — All eyes said yes; all ears were “arrect” and listening —

“The Prince of Seidlitz Powders is very sorry that he cannot do himself the honour of waiting on Mrs. Broughton, in consequence of his sister, the Duchess of Epsom Salts, being suddenly taken ill at Cheltenham.”

It is needless to say that Mrs and the Misses Broughton were universally condoled with. Most persons expressed themselves deeply grieved at the Prince’s misfortune: some of this age of incredulity affected to believe that his existence was all “a hoax and that the various persons who supported it — including the porter of the Hôtel de Castille — were in the secret. Nay, some there were (foreigners themselves) who maintained that Mrs. Broughton’s affection for foreign dignitaries had especially invited Mr. Carlton (so celebrated for the elaborate sarcasm of his temper) to this play on her credulity; and that the hoax of the spurious title, however extravagant, was not half so ridiculous as the lady’s passion for real ones!