Byron.

The stock-in-trade of the ten-a-penny poets includes a serviceable allusion to the pleasure derivable from a re-visit, after a prolonged absence to a familiar scene of earlier years.

The wanderer, returning in a snowstorm, sees the dear old gables from afar, bathed in tender memories and moonshine. The snow lies in crystal heaps on the well-remembered window-sill; and the apple-trees in the backyard are loaded with frequent blossom. The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, the nightingales are singing blythe and free, the little lambs on the icy peaks skip up and down the flowering willow, and the wanderer's aged parents are standing on their heads under the ancestral fig-tree.

And as the ten-a-penny poet gazes, enraptured, upon this pleasing spectacle from a conveniently adjacent mountain summit, his bosom heaves with many a joy, he flings his pack upon the grassy sward, and he too dances a festal hornpipe upon his head.

If admirers of ten-a-penny poetry had anything to think with, they would resent this crude and humiliating imposition.

I protest that the scenes of earlier joys are always, and in the nature of things, a delusion and a snare. That vast and luscious orchard, so long and so fondly remembered, turns out to be no more than a scrubby clump of woebegone bearers of tasteless, sapless pears and wooden apples. The main street that we thought so wide and grand and gay, is a narrow, dirty, straggling collection of dingy, fly-blown marine stores and reach-me-down contraptions. The toffee-shop—the Star of the East, that glorious palace of delight—is a ramshackle, tumbledown hovel, with a stock of sloppy, sticky, sickly brandy-balls, and soiled peppermints. The confectioner's—ah, woe is me!

When I lived in Paris, as a boy, what a mad, merry, reckless place it was! How admirably Offenbach set it to music in the rippling airs of La Grande Duchesse, which tout Paris then whistled and sang!

I think the sun in those days shone all the time, and Paris, newly rebuilt by Baron Haussman, glittered in bran new white and gold under a canopy of silky blue.

Offenbach translated it all—sunshine, staring new white stone, gilt railings and eagles, joyous crowds, laughing women, madly merry mirlitons, dazzling uniforms, splendid horses and carriages, imperial tinsel, bright silk skies, universal carelessness, recklessness, and intoxication. It is all in the music of The Grand Duchess of Gerolstein.

Then the Sunday picnics in the woods of Vincennes and St. Cloud! the al fresco dinner-parties at the suburban cafÉs! the jousting games upon the river, where we knocked each other into the Seine, to the joy of ourselves and all beholders! and the old dances—ah! who could forget the dances of the fÊte at St. Cloud? Men in shirt-sleeves, girls without hats, spinning like[219]
[220]
[221] coupled tornadoes, heedless of time, heedless of all measure, heedless of conventions. If they desired to dance the waltz, and the band chose to play the polka, eh bien, "Zut," to the band.

And the band! If the dancers didn't care, it was bien Égal to the band? Parbleu. Every blower blew his hardest, and arranged his time to his heart's content; every scraper scraped for novelty of effect, letting harmony take care of itself; and the drummer in his shirt-sleeves, contemptuous of all besides, spanked the sounding drum with a rollicking energy that put all other effects in the shade. How he did drum, that drummer! and smile, and cock his hat!

Then the great Exhibition of 1867, and my childish wonder and delight in its cosmopolitan crowds and dazzling prodigality of uniforms! By the same token I remember that my first literary attempt was a composition written at M. Duvernoy's Protestant School, in the Rue Madame, setting forth my impressions of a grand review upon a brilliant Sunday in the Bois de Boulogne, where three emperors and the Sultan of Turkey watched the manoeuvres of what was then believed to be the finest army in the world; and I remember—these little things cling to one's memory sometimes to the exclusion of important events—how the Prince Imperial, Napoleon's ill-starred son, riding past our landau at the head of his glittering regiment in the Avenue de l'ImpÉratrice, paused to smile at me, a boy little younger than himself, as my hat's protecting elastic hindered my salute.

Yet another radiant Sunday I remember, and a splendid cavalcade escorting Napoleon III, and the Sultan from the Palais de l'Industrie back through the Champs-ÉlysÉes through the then spick and span, and glitteringly white Rue de Rivoli, to the luxurious Palais des Tuileries; and I remember how amongst the hurrahs and waving of hats, there burst out one loud "A bas l'Empereur," which caused the conqueror of Solferino to look furtively sideways under his heavy eyebrows, whilst his ubiquitous mouchards pounced upon the bold republican with their loaded sticks and dragged him off to jail.

But now when I visit Paris I see no more the pomp and glitter of unsurpassed opulence, nor splendour of architecture, nor infectious gaiety.

Scowling St. Antoine I see all the time—in the bullet marks left on the buildings from the Commune massacre, and in the faces and gait of the tired and melancholy Parisians.

The glitter of Haussman's buildings is faded, their whiteness tarnished, the whole place is like the scene of an orgie as seen by the revellers on the dismal morrow.

The books and pictures in the shop windows are infamous; the plays in theatres and music-halls are unspeakable; and the smells—ah, mon Dieu? the smells!

Looked Paris so in '70? and smelt so? Pah!

My acquaintance with atmospheres is extensive and peculiar. I have essayed Widnes on a summer's afternoon; I have sniffed the fiery soot, smithy cleek, and wheel swarf of Sheffield in August; I have dwelt upon the fragrant banks of Irwell and within scent of Barking Creek; but—a sultry day in Paris, ugh!

The narrow streets near the Halles may not smell as strong as St. Helen's, nor as loud as Widnes, but their perfume is more subtle, and like the famous patent pill of England it goes further.

When the hot season begins, people who regularly live thereabouts need no nutriment.

They live on the atmosphere—or die on it. And the state of the latter is the more happy.

Then the drapers' shops.

How is it that in the years that were earlier, I saw only fÊtes and picnics? whilst now, when I accompany my Bosom's Lord on her periodical invasions of France—

Ah! yes, perhaps that accounts for it.

I accompany Madame to the Printemps, the Belle JardiniÈre, the Louvre, and the Bon MarchÉ, to interpret her commands, and I climb everlasting staircases like a little white mouse in a wheel.

How I perspire—dame! how I perspire!

One day in a great magazine of Paris a small grease spot will be found upon the carpet, and someone will approach and say, "Tiens donc, this grease spot; what is it?"

And they will call Mr. Stirlock Roames, the detective, and he will say, "Ah, it is the remains of a great dramatic critic. By my process of induction I perceive that he was a remarkable genius, and owned a yellow dog with a gift for solo leapfrog. He had one fault: he was too good. If you bring me a small piece of blotting-paper and a flat iron I will pick him up."

And the grease spot will be removed to Westminster Abbey, and the readers of the Clarion will wear sackcloth and ashes ever after.

Ah! mon Dieu! These shops!

"Ask the man," says She who must be obeyed, "to show me an accordeon-pleated plain bell-skirt with a deep hem and shallow basque of glycine velvet, shirred with a shallow round yoke of fine guise guipure, and broadly turned back lapels of material to match, and ample Marie Stuart sleeves of white satin mounted on lace, braceleted with a band of silver and pearl-embroidered satin slashed to the elbow."

A college of professors of languages, armed with a library of technical dictionaries would be compelled to give it up.

But I dare not.

If I confessed myself unable to translate this wholesale order offhand into current Parisian, Madame would denounce me as an impostor on the spot.

Therefore I translate it for her, but I work it on a system. Thus—

I turn nonchalantly to the shopman, and observe briskly in French, "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, it might have been."

Madame, who doesn't understand a word, nods her head in corroboration like a Chinese figure in a tea-shop window, and repeats "Wee-wee," which, as regards French, represents the whole of her little lot.

Whatever the topic, whatever the emergency, she always says "Wee-wee." One would think that sometimes when she had laid it out in one speculation unsuccessfully, she would feel discouraged and deterred.

But lor! nothing discourages that diminutive but remarkable woman. I have tried, and I know.

So whenever, in Paris, opportunity occurs to put in a word, Madame sails in hopefully and spreads out her "Wee-wee" as confidently as if it were the ace of trumps.

Whereupon the shopman looks perplexed. "Mais, M'sieur," says he, shrugging his shoulders in pretty apology, "je ne comprends pas."

It is a shame to abuse his gentle, smiling good-nature and affability, but, what the good year! self-preservation is the first law of Nature. My business at this crisis is not to bandy compliments with a polite shopman, but to snatch my acquisitive Bosom's Lord as swiftly as it may be from bankruptcy.

When the shopman says he does not understand me, I pepper him at once with another staggerer. "Milles bombes!" I cry, "what have you done with M. Zola?"

"M. Zola!" he exclaims, looking pathetically bewildered; "Vraiment, M'sieur, I do not know."

"You're quite right," I answer meditatively. Then, turning to Madame, I explain: "Sold out. Empress of China sent for the last this morning. Fresh cargo expected from Patagonia in the spring"; and hastily grabbing her umbrella I snatch her out of the shop before she can say "Wee-wee."

It worked very well at first. Then she got in the way of grabbing her umbrella in her own hand at the critical moment, and when I turned to go she would say, "Yes, I know what you are going to say, my dear; they're sold out again. It must be, as you suggest, the curious custom of the country. But do not be discouraged; ask him whether they have any alpaca skirts with dotted foulards in two-inch wristbands of shot moirÉ gussets and squashed strawberry ruchings to the sleeve, rosettes of guipure and bronze-powdered swordgrass flounces with Imogen ruffles round the waist."

Then the situation complicates itself; it becomes needful to prepare the grand coup.

I approach the shopman with a determined air, and with faltering speech, and eyes that wildly glare; I give it him in French, as thus—"Look at here, young fellow, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I say that drink is a curse."

He looks surprised, and shrugs his shoulders again as if once more to apologise.

"Then bandy words no more with me," I cry; "for slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs receive our air, that moment they are free; they touch our country and their shackles fall."

"Mais, M'sieur," he begins, but ere he can think of his little piece, I pour into him another broadside—"O native isle," I cry, adopting now a friendly, engaging, and rhapsodical air, "fair freedom's happiest seat! at thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat! For what country has such work-houses, such gin-palaces, such company promoters, such Sunday clothes, and such respectability?"

He shakes his head, a little impatiently perhaps, and again begins, "Mais, M'sieur"—

"Yes, I know what you would plead," I interrupt, "but milles tonnerres! is not your proprietor a lanthern-jawed, spider-legged, hump-backed, knock-kneed, flat-footed, swivel-eyed, chowder-headed old Paty du Clam?"

Then his politeness gives way and the poison begins to work on him. He foams at the mouth and jerks out little broken bits of hissing and gurgling words.

"Come, come," I continue in a placid and wheedling tone, "you must admit his eyebrows are like birds' nests, his teeth like tombstones, and his hair like whiskers on broomstick. Now, even at his time of life, why should he not try to wash himself?"

That lets my poor friend out. He rolls his eyes, claws the air, and spits fire, till at last my Bosom's Lord, who has been unconsciously smiling and dropping bland "Wee-wee's" at ill-sorted intervals throughout the conversation, imperiously demands to know what is the matter.

"Oh, nothing!" I explain; "only the gentleman wants to know whether you are a Kaffir collector of curiosities or a Hottentot marine store-dealer, that you should ask for a thing so many years behind the fashion. He says you've no more notion of style, my Queen, than a superannuated Dutch scarecrow with cheap false teeth and a father who worked for his living. He says"—

But that lets her out. She turns upon the gasping foreigner as if with a view to fell him, but realising at last the pathetic inadequacy of "Wee-wee" as a conversational medium, she speechlessly grabs her umbrella, and with eyes flashing lightning, rustles out.

As she is too excited to notice me, I seize the opportunity to apologise to the shopman.

I explain to him that we are English.

"Ah!" he says, shrugging his shoulders. No further explanation is required.

I have said.

It seems mean, but no other means may serve. Once let a woman get a footing in a Paris draper's shop, and all is lost.

Par example—to show you the system. A woman enters one of these vast magazines where the insidious, perfidious, meretricious merchandise of Paris is displayed on countless counters, in storey after storey.

Suppose, after sampling all the stock, she asks for a ha'pennyworth of pins:—

"Ha'porth o' pins? Oui, madame," says the shopman. "Would madame deign to give the address to which I must send them? No, madame, it is not worth the trouble to pay now. If you desire to pay, why not pay when the goods are delivered, madame?"

And, bowing madame out of the shop, he politely sweeps the floor with his hair.

On the next day the pins are delivered at Madame's address in the suburbs, by two handsome men in uniform who drive out in a handsome van. Madame uses the pins for a few days, and decides that she can do without them.

Next time she passes that way she calls in the shop, visits the refreshment department, where refreshments are dispensed free of charge, lolls awhile on a sofa in the reading-room, where the newspapers are kept for the use of customers, retires to the writing-room, conducts her day's correspondence on stationery provided by the establishment, and finally, as she is passing out, informs the cashier that she has bought something which she desires to return.

"Oui, madame," says he, "what address?"

She gives her address, and the shop-walker, as he bows her out, sweeps the floor with his nose.

Next day come the two handsome men in uniform with the handsome carriage, to fetch the pins; on the day following they come once more to return the money, and when the lady has pocketed her halfpenny again, they politely raise their caps and say, "Merci bien, Madame."

What is the natural result of these things? When a Parisian wife is not foraging in the shops, she is in her bedroom trying on the plunder. She has all the new fashions sent home to her, tries them on, and sends half of them back. The other half, which she never would have seen but for this tempting convenience, are kept and have to be paid for.

It is thus that Parisian husbands are reminded of their wives' existence. If it were not for the bills, I think some of them might sometimes forget that they were married.

It occurred the other day, that my interpretation of the French failed of its accustomed success.

At Madame's request, I had asked a shopwoman at the Samaritaine, the price of a pennyworth of ribbon; but, after I had spoken, Madame demanded to know what I had said.

"I asked her, my Queen, what was the price?"

"Price of what? Price of a kiss?"

"No, my Sultana; price of the ribbon."

"What was it you said about a kiss?"

"I didn't mention a kiss, my Empress."

"Yes, you did; I heard you."

"No, my Juno, I said, Qu'est ce que c'est?"

"Ah? 'Kiss Kissay.' That was what I heard. How do you spell it?"

She produces a pocket dictionary, with whose aid she designs during the next few days to learn the French language, and I am obliged to spell out my remark while she dubiously translates it word for word. The literal translation comes out thus—

French—Qu'est ce que c'est?

English—What is this, what this is?

"'What is this, what this is'?" Madame solemnly repeats; "is that all you said to the girl?"

"Yes, my dear, it is a 'French idiom.'"

"I am glad," says she, "that it is no worse. It is a mercy I did not let you come to this place by yourself.

"Let us get home to London."

And I am thankful to be able to add that we get.

EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED

Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs, thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations.

Page 98: "Burrrns", in "Burrrns was Scottish", was printed that way.