Those who are disposed to question the beauty of French women, should have been at Longchamps to-day, when their scepticism would certainly have been vanquished, for I saw several women there whose beauty could admit of no doubt even by the most fastidious critic of female charms.  The Duchesse de Guiche, however, bore off the bell from all competitors, and so the spectators who crowded the Champs-Elysees seemed to think.  Of her may be said what Choissy stated of la Duchesse de la Valliere, she has “La grace plus belle encore que la beaute.”  The handsome Duchesse d’Istrie and countless other beautes a la mode were present, and well sustained the reputation for beauty of the Parisian ladies.

The men caracoled between the carriages on their proud and prancing steeds, followed by grooms, a l’Anglaise, in smart liveries, and the people crowded the footpaths on each side of the drive, commenting aloud on the equipages and their owners that passed before them.

The promenade at Longchamps, which takes place in the Holy Week, is said to owe its origin to a religious procession that went annually to a church so called, whence it by degrees changed its character, and became a scene of gaiety, in which the most extravagant exhibitions of luxury were displayed.

One example, out of many, of this extravagance, is furnished by a publication of the epoch at which Longchamps was in its most palmy state, when a certain Mademoiselle Duthe, whose means of indulging in inordinate expense were not solely derived from her ostensible profession as one of the performers attached to the Opera, figured in the promenade in a carriage of the most sumptuous kind, drawn by no less than six thorough-bred horses, the harness of which was of blue morocco, studded with polished steel ornaments, which produced the most dazzling effect.

That our times are improved in respect, at least, to appearances, may be fairly concluded from the fact that no example of a similar ostentatious display of luxury is ever now exhibited by persons in the same position as Mademoiselle Duthe; and that if the same folly that enabled her to indulge in such extravagance still prevails, a sense of decency prevents all public display of wealth so acquired.  Modern morals censure not people so much for their vices as for the display of them, as Aleibiades was blamed not for loving Nemea, but for allowing himself to be painted reposing on her lap.

Finished the perusal of Cinq Mars, by Count Alfred de Vigny.  It is an admirable production, and deeply interested me.  The sentiments noble and elevated, without ever degenerating into aught approaching to bombast, and the pathos such as a manly heart might feel, without incurring the accusation of weakness.  The author must be a man of fine feelings, as well as of genius,—­but were they ever distinct?  I like to think they cannot be, for my theory is, that the feelings are to genius what the chords are to a musical instrument—­they must be touched to produce effect.