When Hardicanute lived at the house of Osgod Clappa, the Clapham district, which took its name from the chief, was not half so obsequious in copying the costume and carriage of the royal dandy, as all France was in transforming themselves into multiplied copies of the consort of Louis XVI. And what a cruel ceremony was the dressing of that same Queen! When Marie Antoinette, in the days of her cumbersome greatness, stood of a morning in the centre of her bed-chamber, awaiting, after her bath, her first article of dress, it was presented to her, or rather it was passed over her royal shoulders by the “dames d’honneur.” Perhaps, at the very moment, a princess of the blood entered the room (for French Queens both dressed and dined in public), the right of putting on the primal garment of her Majesty immediately devolved upon _her_, but it could not be yielded to her by the “dame d’honneur;” the latter, arresting the _chemise de la Reine_ as it was passing down the royal back, adroitly whipped it off, and, presenting it to the “première dame,” that noble lady transferred it to the princess of the blood. Madame Campan had once to give it up to the Duchess of Orléans, who, solemnly taking the same, was on the point of throwing it over the Queen’s head, when a scratching (it was contrary to etiquette to knock) was heard at the door of the room. Thereupon entered the Countess de Provence, and she being nearer to the throne than the lady of Orléans, the latter made over her office to the new-comer. In the meantime, the Queen stood like Venus as to covering, but shaking with cold, for it was mid-winter, and muttering “what an odious nuisance!” The Countess de Provence entered on the mission which had fallen to her; and this she did so awkwardly, that she entirely demolished a head-dress which had taken three hours to build. The Queen beheld the devastation, and got warm by laughing outright. As England had its “macaronies,” its “bloods,” its “bucks,” its “dandies,” and its “exquisites,” so France had its “hommes à bonnes fortunes,” its “petits-maîtres,” its “importuns,” its “élégans,” and last of all, its “lions.” With us, variety of names scarcely indicated variety of species; the “macaroni” and the “exquisite” were simply the fast and fashionable men of their respective times; their titles were conferred by the people, not arrogated by themselves. It was otherwise with our neighbours. The “hommes à bonnes fortunes” assumed the appellation, and therewith became the terror of fathers and husbands. His glory was to create a “scandal”—to be ever mixed up with the coteries of the women, and to be for ever fighting the men. Compared with him, the “importuns,” who took the Duc de Beaufort for their Magnus Apollo, and the “petits-maîtres,” who swore by their great master, the Prince de Condé, were simply harmless fops.