in its salons, if we except one room, which under the Empire was baptized “The Camp of Chalons,” for the reason that it had come to be reserved for the use of the old soldiers, who met there to talk over incidents of army life.  Baccarat, that scourge of Parisian clubs, is forbidden, and lovers of play are obliged to content themselves with a harmless rubber of whist.  As one black ball in six is sufficient to exclude a candidate—­or, to use the official euphemism, to cause his “postponement”—­it is not difficult for the coterie that controls the club to keep it clear of all noisy, or even of merely too conspicuous, individuality.  Lord Henry Seymour would be “pilled” to-day by a probably unanimous vote.  A candidate may enjoy all the advantages of wealth and position, he may have the entree to all the salons, and may even be a member of clubs as exclusive as the Union and the Pommes-de-Terre, and yet he may find himself unable to gain admission to the Jockey.  Any excess of notoriety, any marked personal eccentricity, would surely place him under the ban.  Scions of ancient families, who have had the wisdom to spend in the country and with their parents the three or four years succeeding their college life, would have a much better chance of admission than a leader of fashion such as I have described.  The illustrious General de Charette; M. Soubeyran, at that time governor of the Credit foncier of France; the young Henry Say, brother-in-law of the prince A. de Broglie, rich and accomplished, and the owner, moreover, of a fine racing-stable; together with many other gentlemen whose private lives were above suspicion,—­have been blackballed for the simple reason that they were too widely known.  As to foreigners, let them avoid the mortification of certain defeat by abstaining from offering themselves, unless indeed they should happen to be the possessors of a great historic name or should occupy in their own country a position out of the reach of ordinary mortals.  This careful exclusion of all originality and diversity has, by degrees, communicated to the club a complexion somewhat negative and colorless, but at the same time, it must be admitted, of the most perfect distinction.  The most influential members, although generally very wealthy, live in Paris with but few of the external signs of luxury, and devote their incomes to home comforts and to the improvement of their estates.  If one should happen to meet on the Champs Elysees a mail-coach or a daumont [an open carriage, the French name of which has been adopted by the English, like landau, etc.  It is drawn by two horses driven abreast, and each mounted by a postilion.  The nearest English equivalent is a “victoria.”] that makes the promenaders turn and look back, or if there be an avant-scene at the Varietes or the Palais Royal that serves as a point of attraction for all the lorgnettes of the theatre, one may be quite sure that the owners of these brilliant turnouts and the occupants of this