Presents—The Emperor—Anecdote—The AbbÉ in London—A vert—Singing girl—English bird—Model—Old friend—The Turks—Guzzling—The friture.

As they walked past the building where this travelled ship was shewn, many of the visitors seemed each to be reading a paper in his hands, while some have a gilt-edged book, and others a broadsheet with a large woodcut on it.

These people have come past that other building, which seems to be all windows; and let us stop there a few minutes to see why the groups crowd round, and reach out their hands, and go away reading.

If you heard that it is “only some tracts” being given away, and then turned away yourself, you have lost a wonderful sight: one that, well pondered upon, has wide suggestions to the mind that thinks; and a sight that, of its kind, was quite unexampled at any time and anywhere. Inside this building, and another near it, were hundreds of thousands of Bibles, Testaments, periodicals, papers, picture books and tracts, beautifully printed in the languages of visitors from distant lands, and mostly given free to those who will receive them.

Even in England, at none of our Exhibitions or any other place, had such a proceeding been permitted, doubtless from prudential reasons,—the fear of “giving offence” or exciting disturbance; so that it had been left to France, at a time when pleasure seemed the chief and only object of all, to brave these supposed dangers, and, despite all scruples, to give utmost freedom to the distribution of God’s Word and of man’s comments upon it. The example was not without fruit; at each subsequent Grand Exhibition, and even under the Republic in 1878, the Book of Law and Gospel has been freely given in the frivolous capital of France.

The fact is, if you mean to get at all the people, you cannot find them in the same place or reach them by the same road, or treat them in the same way; and all the people must be got at somehow.

As fast as they could give these books and papers out of the windows, several persons were delivering them into the open hands of the people, and when a window became vacant, and there was need of some one to help, the post was filled by the crew of the yawl.

We intended to stay only a short time, but six hours often passed before the interesting work could be left; I can never forget those hours, and the subsequent occasions of the same sort.

Every variety of person came quickly before us, of nationality, of manner, of dress, of language, and of bearing, as each drew near, took a paper, read a few lines, thanked the donor, and then went off reading as they walked, or with reflecting gaze, or simply astonished.

Hundreds of soldiers came to the window, sometimes a dozen of them at once, and these all asked for their ‘Empereur.’ This meant the special copy of the well-known periodical ‘British Workman,’ which was translated into French, and had a very large and well-done woodcut of Napoleon III. on its broad first page. The generosity of some good men supplied funds to give one of these Emperor papers to every soldier, policeman, and public employÉ; and much additional interest was attached to the paper because it was actually printed before their eyes at a press in the centre of the building, and because the press itself had borne off a gold medal for excellence of workmanship. [110]

Priests came often, and even returned to get tracts for their villages in distant parts of France. Germans asked for papers in “Allemand,” and numerous Italians and Spaniards asked for them in their languages. Two Russians came, but we had then no books in Russ; and at length four grave Mussulmen stood before me in turbans and flowing robes, with a suppliant but dignified air, while their interpreter said they wanted to buy a “dictionary to learn English from.” Now they will easily get these dictionaries in the “Beaconsfield Library” of Cyprus.

Although in frequent tours in foreign lands we had been accustomed to see minglings of the people from many nations, the sight at this window was more varied in the components of the constant flowing stream of human beings for hours and hours than we ever saw before.

Some years ago, travelling in Algeria with an Arab guide, I put up for the night at an old semaphore station, where was a French soldier in charge. It was far from any houses, and on a high hill, and he had a visit only every fortnight from his friends, who brought him provisions on mules’ backs. He willingly let me in, and spread a mattress for me on the floor alongside his own. The Arab he kept outside, and the poor fellow had to sleep coiled up on the doorstep.

The Frenchman was courteous and intelligent; but he had only one thing to read for many weeks, a vapid French novel. He said he would willingly read something better if he had it. At the next French town I searched for some better book, and this caused me to find the agent of the Bible Society, and so a parcel of books, religious and secular, were sent off to the telegraph station; but my attention once drawn to the French soldiers and their reading, it was impossible not to follow a subject so interesting and important. The regiment quartered in the town had but a few Testaments. [112] By a little exertion about a hundred copies were obtained and distributed. I saw the men reading these in the streets for hours under the trees, and I sailed in a man-of-war carrying the regiment to Mexico. Not one in five of these men survived that fearful campaign.

Priestly opposition to this giving of Testaments resulted in an appeal to the General in command. He asked the priests if the book was a “bad one,” and when it was not possible to say “yes,” he gave the book free course. Inquiry was excited by this opposition, and 1500 Testaments were received.

There was a remarkable contrast between the absence of public efforts by French Romanists to disseminate their opinions at the Exhibition and the unusual freedom for others, sanctioned by the late Archbishop of Paris. Various causes were at work to produce this very unexpected state of things, and they will not be alluded to here. But the points thus noticed remind one forcibly of what actually occurred in 1851, when the then Archbishop of Paris specially appointed the AbbÉ Miel, a learned and able man, to go to London and to do his best to further Romanism here during the Exhibition.

One of his first acts was to issue two small tracts on the supremacy of the Pope and of St. Peter; and some hundred thousand of these, beautifully printed, were distributed in London. A copy came to the hands of a clever layman, well skilled in the Romish controversy; and he saw immediately that this little tract, if not well answered, might do much harm.

After careful study of the subject, he wrote to the AbbÉ, calling attention to several important misquotations in the tract, which were evident when it was compared with original documents in the British Museum. The AbbÉ replied, that he was not responsible for the accuracy of the extracts, but that they had been given to him by the late Cardinal Wiseman.

The Protestant layman then wrote a series of letters in a well-known English newspaper, Bell’s Weekly Messenger, upon the subject treated in the tract, and for the time the matter dropped. Years afterwards he received a letter from the AbbÉ, stating that these newspaper articles had convinced him of the need of inquiry into the subject, and he went to Rome to consult his former instructors. Finally, this AbbÉ, selected as the champion of Rome by the Archbishop of Paris, and convinced by the arguments adduced by a layman in London, renounced the Romish church, and though offered promotion for his past services, he came to London and went straight to the house of the layman, whom he had not yet seen.

Often have I walked with that clever AbbÉ, riveted by his deeply interesting conversation, his new and fresh views of English life, his forcible exposures of those false estimates of Protestant truth which had for so many years blinded him, and his explanations of the machinery then in action at the Oratory, near the Strand.

But his former allies could not brook the desertion of so formidable a champion, and he was driven by their continual annoyance to seek another home. So he went to Ireland, and soon became the best teacher of the French language in Dublin, from whence he removed to America. Let us hope that there, at least, he is free to profess the truth he had found, and to be one of the instances—very rare indeed they are—of a consistent and steady Protestant, who had for years before been thoroughly imbued with those doctrines which gnaw at the very vitals of mental perception, and obliterate the sense of fairness, and which very seldom leave enough alive in the mind to hold even real truth firmly.

It will not be breaking the promise that our visit to the exhibition is not to involve us in a description of all its wonders, if we walk up-stairs and look into the Tunisian CafÉ, attracted by the well-known drumming and the moaning dirge which Easterns call music. Tunis is best seen out of Tunis, for the broidered gold and bright-coloured slippers can then be enjoyed without those horrible scenes of filth—dead camels, open sewers, and maimed beggars which encase the shabby mud walls I have seen so near the marble ruins of old Carthage.

The cafÉ was full of visitors. English and Americans were admiring a pretty singing girl about fifteen years of age, who was beautifully dressed, and sitting with four very demure and ugly Orientals in the little orchestra.

Soon she rose and sang a song. Black eyes, blackest of hair, pale cheeks, languid grace. She is a fair daughter from the rising sun. “Yes, there is certainly something in their Eastern beauty which is quite beyond what Britons or Yankees see at home!”

But the words and music of the song seemed known to me. Surely she is now singing English while she shakes the golden sequins in her long jet hair and rattles her tambourine? We asked a waiter, and he said she could sing Turkish, Spanish, French, and English. At last being persuaded that her pronunciation of English was too distinct for a foreigner, we took the very bold measure of going up to the orchestra, and saying to the young lady, “You are English, are you not?” She stared, and held down her face, which still was pale, even if she blushed and answered “Yes, sir.” “Are you here alone?—no relation, no woman friend with you?” “Yes.” “And do they treat you well?” “Yes.” “From what part of England?” “From ---shire.”

I said she seemed to mean the words of the song she had sung,

‘I wish I were a bird, and I would flee away.’

and I asked if she could read, and would like a nice book. “Oh yes, I should, and very much.” Now there was a stall set up in the Exhibition by “The Pure Literature Society,” from 11, Buckingham Street, Adelphi, London, which selects about three thousand books from various publishers, but publishes none itself; gets no profits on its sales except thanks and satisfaction; so that its catalogue is likely to contain what it may wish should be read. [117] Here we selected a very interesting volume with many illustrations, suitable for the girl’s reading; and soon at the cafÉ again, I bowed to the senior fiddler, who nodded assent, and then the poor pale lonely girl had the pleasant book as a remembrance of home placed in her hands, and a promise given her that a good Christian lady would call that evening.

So perhaps our catalogue of nationalities at the Exhibition ought to be somewhat abridged, and not wholly founded upon the variety it presents to the eye; especially as in London, too, we may remember Punch’s crossing-sweeper, who, being dressed in Hindoo garb, begged from a passer-by with, “Take pity on the poor Irishman—Injun, I mane.”

On the Sunday the little dingey had its usual cargo, and the bargemen on the Seine, in the heart of Paris, were just as glad as others elsewhere to get something to read.

Among the curiosities exhibited in the English Naval Architecture building here was a very beautiful model of the Rob Roy canoe, presented to its owner by the builders, Messrs. Searle, who have already built some hundreds of such canoes on the principles first applied in that above mentioned; and to me it was even more gratifying to find in the Admiralty Barge, the Rob Roy canoe itself, with sails set and the flag of the Royal Canoe Club flying, and with maps of the paddling voyages through Europe.

Very speedily I launched my old travelling companion, and had a paddle up the river by moonlight, and it was surprising to find that scarcely any water leaked in, though the other boats which were hung up in the barge were found to be a good deal injured by the strong draught of wind rushing through the arch of the bridge, and then under the open sides of the shed, covered only by a roof. But then those other boats were new, and perhaps some were not built of such well-seasoned wood [119] as Messrs. Searle employ beyond all other boat-builders I know; whereas the weatherbeaten Rob Roy had been too long inured to wet and dry, sun and wind, heat and cold, to be affected with the rheumatism and ague which shook even the man-of-war’s boats on the barge.

The sketch (see next page), represents a man watering a horse, and who swum it out to my boat to get a paper, and then carefully placed the gift in a dry place ashore until he should be able to use it when he was dressed again.

My life at the Exhibition soon settled into a somewhat regular one. Seeing, seeing, seeing all day, and then returning to my quiet bed on the river at night, with a ‘Times’ newspaper to study, and books and letters. It was a variety to launch the dingey, and scull along the quays and visit the other yachts, all of them most hospitable to the Rob Roy. I ventured even to go alongside the Turkish vessel, the Dahabeeh, from the Nile, full of specimen “fellahs,” all hidden by a curtain of grey calico, except to those who had paid their franc for general entrance. We never observed any visitor actually on board this vessel; indeed, it required a bold inquirer to face those solemn Africans’ gaze, as they sat cross-legged on deck, and ate their soup from a universal bowl, or calmly inspired from their chibouques, and blew out a formal and composed puff of the bluest tobacco-smoke. It did, indeed, soon forcibly recall the feelings of Egyptian travel to see these men;—the red fiery sunsets, the palm-trees, and crocodiles, and obelisks, and Indian corn, and, over all, the thrumming, not unmusical sound of the tarabookrah—earthen drum—with the wailing melodies in a minor key of the “ChaldÆans whose cry is in the ships.” [121]

Sunday ride

So I ventured near in my dingey, and the imperturbable Egyptians were fairly taken by surprise. They soon rallied to a word or two in their language and an Englishman’s smile, and rapidly we became friends, and talked of Damascus and Constantinople, and finally decided that “Englishman bono!” The shape and minute dimensions of my dingey much astonished them; but they probably believed, that in that very craft I had come all the way from London.

The luxury of Paris must have at least some effect in making gourmands of the young generation, even if their fathers did not set the example. The operation, or rather the solemn function, of breakfast or dinner, is with many Frenchmen the only serious act in life. When people can afford to order a dinner in exact accordance with the lofty standard of excellence meant by its being “good,” the diner approaches the great proceeding with a staid and watchful air, and we may well leave him now he is involved in such important service. But with the octroi duty for even a single pheasant at two shillings and sixpence, there are many good feeders who cannot afford to “dine well,” and the fuss they make about their eatables is something preposterous. It is a vice—this systematic gluttony—that seems to be steadily increasing in France for the last twenty years, at least in its public manifestation, and moreover it is an evil somewhat contagious.

One evening, while some of us had dinner at the Terrasse in St. Cloud, a family entered the room, and were partly disrobing themselves of bonnets and hats for a regular downright dinner, when the waiter came, and in reply to the order of a “friture” he calmly said they had none.

At this awful news the whole party were struck dumb and pale, and they leant back on their chairs as if in a swoon. The poor waiter prudently retreated for reinforcements, and the landlady herself came in to face the infuriate guests.

“No friture!” said the father. “No friture, and we come to St. Cloud?” he muttered deeply in rage. His wife proceeded to make horribly wry faces, whereat Rob Roy irreverently laughed, but he was not observed, for they noticed nothing of the external trifling world. The daughters heaved deep sighs, and then burst into voluble and loud denunciations. Then the son (who wanted dinner at any rate, and the objurgations might do afterwards) proposed at once to leave the desolate, famine-stricken spot.

But though this was debated warmly, it was not carried. They had already anchored, as it were, and they resolved to dine “starving,” and to grumble all the time of dinner when no one subject was talked about except the friture. It was a miserable spectacle to witness, but confirming the proposition, not at all new, that the French care more about eating than even John Bull.