FROM LONDON TO PARIS.
Good-bye for the present to London. Good-bye to its smoke, its fogs, its
predatory hackmen, its bad water, its worse beer, its still worse gin.
Good-bye to its eternal rains, its never-ending badly dressed men and
worse dressed women. Good-bye to very bad bread. Good-bye to the
greatest collection of shams and realities, goodness and cruelty in the
world. Seven weeks in London and its environs is all that an American
can endure, who ever expects to get back to his own country. Were fate
to have a spite at him, and condemn him to make his residence there
forever, he would settle down as a man does in a penitentiary and do the
best he could, but for one who has a hope of returning to a country that
was made after the Maker had had some experience in making countries, a
longer stay in London than seven weeks would be too much. Seven weeks of
biliousness and depression--seven weeks of exasperation and discomfort,
seven weeks of extortion and tipping, seven weeks in an English suit of
clothes, is all that an average American can endure.
And so good-bye to London till we renew our strength and can tackle it
again. It is not exhausted, nor could it be in a year. It is a brute
among cities, but it is a mastodon. It is a very large and variegated
animal.
[Sidenote: THE LANDLADY'S OBJECTION TO PARIS.]
To the south lies France--La Belle France--and thither we go. Our
landlady would hold us if she could, and gives expression to many
reasons why we should stay in London: It is very warm in Paris; it is
very disagreeable crossing the channel; Paris is unhealthy. At this time
of the year Paris is crowded, and it is probable that we will not be
able to get apartments such as would be suitable. It is not the season
in Paris, and we had better go there later, and so on and so forth. You
see the season in London is waning, and the good lady will have
difficulty in filling her rooms. It is delicately hinted that if a
slight deduction in rent (we have been paying three prices) would be an
object, etc. But it all avails nothing. We should go to Paris if we
should be compelled to sleep under a bridge and eat in a market. It is
not so much to get to Paris as it is to get out of London, and raise our
spirits to something like their normal condition. And so, when the good
woman finds there is no holding us, she makes out our bill vindictively,
racking her imagination to find items to insert, and weeping, no doubt,
after our departure, over items that she might have inserted, but, in
the hurry, forgot. The cabman, knowing by the station he was driving us
to that we were going, managed to charge an extra shilling, and at the
lunch counter at the station we paid an extra penny for the everlasting
ham sandwich, which was to be the last. And when the last tip was paid,
and the last extortion submitted to, we were finally locked in our
villainous compartment, and were off. London, or the fog that covered
it, faded from our sight, we saw the sun, and were scurrying through the
green fields and the real delights of rural England.
From Victoria Station to New Haven is not the most interesting trip that
can be imagined, although there are picturesque towns, waving fields of
grass, with an occasional bit of woods, that relieve the journey of some
of its unpleasant features, and make it rather enjoyable. But by the
time one has gone through miles and miles of such scenery, the towns
become monotonous, each succeeding field of grain waves just as the one
before it did, the woods, miniature forests, are just alike, and,
leaning back in the corner of the compartment, the time is spent in
dozing until eleven o'clock, when the train rushes into the station at
New Haven, and we struggle through the dimly lighted passages to the
dock, where lies the steamer that is to take us across that bugbear of
all tourists, the English Channel.
And then we have the satisfaction of learning that the tide is not in,
and the steamer will not leave for two hours and a half. It is a dark,
windy night, and there is no way to spend the time save by pacing up
and down the narrow confines of the deck, watching the enormous cranes
loading huge packages of merchandize into the vessel's hold; or taking a
stroll along the dock, regardless of the momentary danger of stumbling
over an unseen cable and pitching headlong into the water.
There is one other way of passing the time. Whenever a tourist can find
nothing else to do, he eats. There is in the station at New Haven the
inevitable lunch counter, with the orthodox ham sandwich and bitter
beer. To this everybody was attracted as by a magnet. There is no
escaping it. No body was hungry; but it seems to be a law of Nature that
you must eat ham sandwiches while you wait at railroad stations. And in
obedience to this law, a cart-load of the sandwiches were devoured and
paid for.
[Illustration: SANDWICHES AT NEW HAVEN.]
[Sidenote: THE LONG WAIT.]
The New Haven sandwich is very like its London brother, only it is a
trifle thicker. The cutter is not as expert as the London professional,
but he makes it just as indigestible. It is a trifle worse, because it
is a trifle larger.
But time goes on, no matter how slowly it seems to move, and the tide
comes in, although its rise cannot be seen, and so, just before one
o'clock the warning whistle was given, the passengers took their places,
the great wheels began to revolve, and we slowly steamed out past the
breakwater into the channel.
The necessity for making the boat's landing so far away from the deep
water cannot be understood. But so it is. Instead of running the track
down to the dock and establishing the station there, where there would
be no occasion to wait for the tide, the steamer goes up an arm of the
sea about an eighth of a mile, and has to stay there until the water is
deep enough to allow the passage to be made.
Once out upon the channel, the fresh breeze blows away all the wicked
thoughts the two hours' detention had engendered, and as the moon breaks
through the clouds, dimming the fast disappearing lights on shore, we
give ourselves up to pleasant reverie. There is the memory of all that
has occurred during an exceedingly busy seven weeks in London, and the
anticipation of experiences new and strange that are to fill in the next
two or three months. And as we sit on deck smoking and dreaming, until,
our last cigar having gone out, and the chill air made us shiver, we go
below only to find fresh cause for growling at the English, and things
English.
Instead of commodious, airy staterooms in which we can go regularly to
bed and enjoy a good night's rest, there is nothing but a series of
bunks, upholstered in a cheap red plush, on which the weary traveler may
stretch himself, and, putting a blanket over him, get such rest as he
can from such scanty accommodations. And this, too, for the first-class
passenger.
At four o'clock every one was turned out, for Dieppe was in sight. Such
a sorry looking lot of passengers I never saw. Most of them had caught a
severe cold, and all of them looked uncomfortable and cross, as though
they really had not enjoyed the luxurious quarters furnished by the
enterprising manager of that line.
The view from the steamer's deck was beautiful. The sun, about half an
hour high, made the water sparkle as the light off-shore breeze rippled
its surface. The channel, which had behaved wonderfully well, was dotted
with fishing smacks from Dieppe, while here and there a steamer,
trailing a long cloud of smoke behind, sailed along utterly indifferent
to the smaller craft that had to tack with each phase of the
ever-varying wind. Just ahead of us, half hidden by chalky cliffs, could
be seen a part of the town, while to the right, huge white cliffs arose
and stretched away almost as far as the eye could reach, the straight
white sides rising abruptly from the water, reflecting the rays of the
sun, and shining with dazzling whiteness. On the left, high up on the
hills, were stately mansions, pretty villas, cool looking parks and
pleasant drives. It was indeed a beautiful sight, and we were gazing on
it with rapture when a bell sounded, the paddle wheel stopped revolving,
and we drifted slowly on.
[Illustration: OFF DIEPPE--FOUR A.M.]
"The tide does not serve, and we will have to cruise about here for two
or three hours."
So said one of the seamen when asked why the steamer had been stopped.
[Sidenote: THE CUSTOM HOUSE.]
It was pleasant. We enjoyed it. We fairly reveled in it.
We were hungry, it's true, but what was hunger to the delight of waiting
three hours in an abominable steamer? We were cold and tired. But what
of that? We could gaze on white cliffs and talk pleasant things to each
other for three hours!
When the tide did serve, and we were landed, which happened about six
o'clock Sunday morning, we went through the Custom House, our
countenances expressing such Christian resignation as must have
indicated our character to the officials, for they never opened our
baggage at all. They simply said: "Avez vous tabac ou liquers?" (observe
how well we are getting on in French), and as we murmured "No," aloud,
and to ourselves, "but we wish we had," they waved us on, and we were
all right.
[Illustration: HAVE YOU TOBACCO OR SPIRITS?]
Adjoining the Custom House is a coffee room, and we entered. The repast
spread out for us was just a trifle the worst that was ever seen. It was
worse than anything in London, and more than that cannot be said.
I suppose it is all right, and for the best. I suppose that taking us
out of London at six o'clock P.M., and waiting two and a half hours in
New Haven for the tide, and two hours in Dieppe harbor also, for the
tide, is unavoidable. But if I ever get a chance I shall ask the manager
of the line these questions:
1. Do you know the hour at which the tide comes in at New Haven?
2. Do you know the hour the tide serves to enter Dieppe?
3. If so, why not give us the five and a half hours that were consumed
in useless waiting at New Haven and Dieppe, in London?
4. Has your company any interest in the ham sandwich and beer counter in
New Haven? and is this delay in that most uninteresting place for the
purpose of compelling the waiting passengers to leave a few more
shillings in England?
And I shall demand specific answers to these queries. The taste of the
New Haven sandwiches is yet in my mouth.
Dieppe is a pleasant little city of perhaps twenty thousand population,
devoted to the carving of ivory, fishing, and swindling tourists, the
latter pursuit being evidently the most prosperous. The fisher people
are a picturesque lot as to costume, and are hardy withal, men, women
and children. They are bold sailors, and what they do not know about
water and its contents is not worth knowing.
Bad as the English trains are, in France, where there is the same
system, it was even worse, for we were a little shaky in our French.
However, we put on a cheerful countenance, and said "_Oui_" to
everything, and made believe we knew all about it, and let the guard put
us where he pleased, and were soon humming along through the outskirts
of Dieppe. We were just beginning to enjoy the prospect of rural
scenery, when, without a note of warning, we plunged into a tunnel,
which seemed to last forever, though it was only a mile long.
Emerging from this, it was seen that an immense mountain had been
pierced, and we were at once in the fertile valleys of picturesque
Normandy. As the train hurried along there was a constant succession of
pictures that would drive a poet or painter into raptures.
[Sidenote: NORMANDY.]
The broad valleys, the hills and dales, were intersected by smooth white
roads that wound around side hills, through forests and then far away
over a long, level stretch, through queer little towns, the existence of
which was never dreamed of by the outside world. All along these
well-kept wagonways were lined on either side by closely trimmed hedges,
shaded by tall and stately Lombardy poplars, that stood grim and erect
as though they were the guardians of the country.
[Illustration: FISHER FOLK--DIEPPE.]
Here and there between the quaint little villages, with their one main
street running their entire length, were the high, narrow houses of the
peasants, with thatched roofs and queer little windows. Around them,
neatly piled, were bundles of fagots, carefully done up and stored away
for winter use. They are a frugal people, these Normans, and waste
absolutely nothing.
[Illustration: FISHER WOMEN--DIEPPE.]
[Sidenote: THE PEOPLE.]
Although it is Sunday morning, and we are sad because circumstances will
not allow us to attend divine worship, it seems to make no difference
with the people here, for in every field are seen women, with their high
peaked bonnets, busily engaged in raking fragrant hay into huge piles,
which the men, arrayed in the traditional blue blouse and overalls, are
loading upon wagons for carriage to the barns.
[Illustration: FISHER BOY AND CHILD--DIEPPE.]
These men and women are well built, sturdy people, who have thrived
well upon the pure air that comes down from the mountains above. In the
olden time the men were noted for their stature and strength, and
furnished the French army with its best troops; and they are to-day fine
specimens of physical manhood.
I don't know why it is, but there is something irresistibly fascinating
in an old castle, or the ruins of what once was a great stronghold.
After passing Malaunay and getting well out into the country, we came to
a series of hills stretching way back from the railroad. There was a
dense forest near the summit of the highest part, upon the top of which,
half hidden by the trees, was part of a castle, a bit of wall and a huge
round tower, all that remained of what was, in the early history of the
country, a castle that was utterly impregnable. As the train wound round
the base of the hill, a better view of it was obtained, and then came
the longing to plunge through the forest, clamber up the steep hillside
and wander through the old ruins, hunting for trap-doors and deep, dark
dungeons, where noble knights had been confined for years and years,
while fair ladies pined away and died because they came not back to
them. This pleasant reverie might have gone on indefinitely, even after
the romantic spot had been left far behind, had not the other passengers
in the compartment begun preparing to alight at the next station, Rouen.
We determined to stop over one train at Rouen, to see not only a French
city, but the old statue of the French heroine, Joan of Arc, who was
there burned at the stake, and the famous cathedral therein. Tibbitts,
Lemuel, was of the party, and a Professor in a western college likewise.
The Professor was calmly enthusiastic, and Tibbitts was unutterably
miserable. He could not speak a word of French, and it puzzled him to
even order a drink. And then the wine! He did not like wine, and French
brandy was not to his taste. He managed to make them understand,
however, what he wanted, and managed to get it a minute after he landed
from the cars.
It was Sunday, but the shops were all open, and newsboys were crying
their papers upon the streets. Their announcements were very long, and
Tibbitts stood and heard one of them clear through.
[Sidenote: THE PROFESSOR'S ECSTACY.]
"Listen to the little villain," he exclaimed. "I don't believe a d--d
word of it." And Mr. Tibbitts preached a short sermon anent the
exaggerations common to newsboys, recounting the number of times he had
been induced by their false representation to purchase papers in
America. He considered himself too old to be taken in by a French
newsboy. "Newsboys are the same in Rouen as in Oshkosh," he said.
After a light lunch in an arbor in a delicious garden back of a café, we
started to see Rouen, its cathedral and the statue of Joan, and what
else was to be seen. We urged Tibbitts to accompany us. He concluded to
do it, though he protested it was far more pleasant to sit in that
arbor, even though it was beastly wine he was drinking instead of the
delicious whisky of Oshkosh, than it was tramping around in search of
antiquities.
We came to a narrow street, one of the kind only to be seen in French
cities. The entire space from wall to wall could not have been twelve
feet, and on either hand were curious houses, seven stories high,
entered by dark, narrow tunnels rather than passages, but with flowers
at every window, clear to the queer, quaint top, which was continued
after it had reached what should have been its summit. The professor
stopped before one of these dark passages, and observed a parcel of illy
dressed but marvelously clean children--there are no dirty children in
France--playing some game.
"It is wonderful!" said the Professor, in an ecstacy; "here are we, of
the new West, standing on ground in a street through which, may be, the
soldiers of old France marched. Here are we within sight of the place
where Joan of Arc was burned, on ground pressed by the feet of
Charlemagne. In this house, perchance, were born heroes; within these
walls for hundreds of years have been born children who have grown to
manhood, and died. These children, playing in this gutter, were born in
this historic city, and----"
"And they all speak French," interrupted Tibbitts, "which I can't, but,
thank Heaven, I can lay all over 'em in English. Look here, Professor,
don't give us any more rot about this being old. We are just as old in
Oshkosh as they are in Rouen. When the old Norman warriors were cruising
about
[Illustration: THE BOYS OF ROUEN.]
[Sidenote: TIBBITTS' SERMON.]
loaded down with pot-metal, killing each other, the Indians of America
were doing the same thing among themselves, only they were clothed more
sensibly. A breech clout was a thundering sight more comfortable in the
summer than steel armor, and I don't know that killing a man with a
lance was any more deserving of adoration than killing one with a bow
and arrow. The point to it all is killing the man. Antiquity!
"What do you know about it? Here is a lot of stone that has been piled
up a thousand years or more. How do you know but what the Indians are
older than the Gauls? I hold that they are. The Gauls built a cathedral
that is standing yet. I defy you to go anywhere in Wisconsin and find
such a cathedral standing. What does that prove? Why! that the ancient
Indians built their cathedrals so much farther back than the Gauls that
they have all disappeared. Nothing can resist the iron tooth of time.
Now I think that this cathedral is rather modern than otherwise. [By
this time we were in front of the cathedral.] It is tolerably ancient,
but if you want to visit a really old country, go to Wisconsin. That is
so old that everything of this kind has disappeared entirely."
[Illustration: ROUEN.]
We left the cathedral, and after infinite trouble, owing to the fact
that the average citizen of Rouen is sadly deficient in English, found
the statue of Joan of Arc. The Professor stood before it in an ecstatic
mood; Tibbitts, profoundly disgusted.
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR STOOD BEFORE IT IN AN ECSTATIC MOOD.]
"Who was Joan of Arc, anyway?" said he. "A dreamy sort of a girl who
thought she had a mission. There were no lecture courses in France in
that day, and no lecture bureaus. Had there been such a vent for her
inspiration she would have been an Anna Dickinson No. 1. She would have
gone about France lecturing for anywhere from one hundred and fifty to
three hundred and fifty dollars a night, and would have made a pile of
money, and bought a place in fee simple for her father, and got a lot of
money in bonds; that's what she would have done. But there were no such
facilities for genius at that time, and so she put on armor, and led
soldiers, and won victories, and finally was burned at the stake for a
witch. I don't see anything special to craze over in Joan. I'm going
back to the café and put in the time before the train leaves in literary
pursuits. I'll write a letter to my mother. It's a thousand pities that
we didn't go straight on to Paris, instead of stopping in this infernal
old hole. We might have got there in time to go to the Mabille to-night.
But it will be too late by the time we get there."
[Sidenote: THE CATHEDRALS.]
And Tibbitts left us and returned to the café and we went on. There is
nothing in Rouen that is not interesting. Sunday as it was, the
sidewalks in front of the numberless cafés were occupied with chairs,
the white-aproned waiters flitting hither and thither, serving their
customers with the light wines of the country; the market was in full
blast, and business was going on the same as any other day. There is no
Sunday in France, that is as Americans understand the day.
Due honor having been done to Joan of Arc, we entered a narrow, crooked
thoroughfare, spanned by an old arch, built hundreds of years ago to
mark the spot where a peasant named Rouen built the first house, erected
on the site that was destined to play such an important part in the
subsequent history of the country.
[Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE DAME--ROUEN.]
The one great sight of Rouen, however, is the Cathedral of Notre Dame,
which is one of the grandest Gothic edifices in Normandy. It dates back
to 1207, and is a magnificent building. It is impossible to describe the
grandeur of the structure, with its finely carved figures, its
symmetrical proportions, its graceful spires and lofty towers. The
interior is very fine, the high columns of white marble supporting the
roof, which is formed of a succession of arches. Adjoining the high
altar is the _Chapelle du Christ_, containing an ancient, mutilated
figure in limestone of Richard Coeur de Leon, discovered in 1838. His
heart, which was interred in the choir, was found at the same time, and
is now preserved in the museum.
[Illustration: HOUSE OF JEAN D'ARC--ROUEN.]
St. Maclou and St. Ouen are two fine churches of the florid Gothic
style, the latter said to be one of the most beautiful in existence. It
was founded in 1318, and completed toward the close of the fifteenth
century.
[Illustration: HARBOR OF ROUEN.]
[Sidenote: TIBBITTS WRITES A STORY.]
Throughout the entire city the prevailing style of architecture is
Gothic--the Palais de Justice being in late Gothic, and is a very
handsome building. The residences, for the most part, are large and
beautiful, surrounded by well-kept lawns and adorned with flower beds
and fountains.
Rouen is a very important cotton manufacturing place, and is one of the
principal depots for the wines of Bordeaux. It is a commercial center,
too, the Seine affording a good harbor for large ocean steamers, most of
which are in the Mediterranean trade.
When we returned we found Tibbitts sitting in the arbor, with a pile of
manuscript before him, and we asked what he had been doing.
"I promised the old gentleman," he said, "to learn the languages of the
countries I passed through, and I shall do it. I shall learn French,
some afternoon when I get time. And he requested me to practice writing
things for general improvement. As I am in France I have written mother
a letter, and I have enclosed in it a part of a chapter of a story, into
which I have jerked a lot of French to show her that I have not wasted
my time. Here it is, and I think it's devilish good!"
This was Tibbitts' part of a chapter of a story:--
"Precisely at the stroke of seven the Count was upon the ground, and the
clock had not ceased to sound the hour before the Marquis appeared. Both
threw off their outer clothing, and stood in their shirts, sword in
hand."
"It's an account of a French Duel," explained Tibbitts.
"_Fromage!_" hissed the Count, between his clenched teeth.
"_Fromage Gratin!_" echoed the Marquis.
The swords crossed with an angry clang.
It was a supreme moment. The two men glared at each other, each fearing
to hazard a movement. Finally, tired of inaction, the Count took the
offensive. His rapier flashed like lightning. With an adroit _mouton_,
he well nigh succeeded in breaking his enemy's guard, indeed he would
have done it but for the skill with which a _marrons glacê_ was
interposed.
Both pause a moment for breath. Breath is necessary to a duelist. The
Marquis was the first assailant. He delivered a fierce _cotellette de
veau_, which had stretched many a tall fellow on the sod, followed by a
_mayonnaise_, of which few are the master, but gnashed his teeth to
find himself stopped by a _poulet a la Paris_. They paused again.
"I see you have advantaged by practice with Vol au Vent," said the
Marquis. (Vol au Vent was the most celebrated swordsman of Paris.) "He
taught you the lunge--I invented the parry. We will resume."
They eyed each other closely.
"This time I will finish him," said the Count to himself.
Using the _pomme de terre_ as a feint, he threw himself with all his
force into a _patè_, and would have ended the contest then and there,
but that the Marquis avoided the thrust by a _poisson_.
[Illustration: ST. OUEN--ROUEN.]
"Ah! ha!" said the Marquis, "I have had other masters than Vol au Vent!
Didst never hear of Vol au Vent's younger brother!"
"_A La Carte!_" hissed the Marquis.
"_Table D'Hote!_" was the determined reply, and again the swords
crossed.
[Sidenote: ON THE WAY TO PARIS.]
It was over in a moment. The Marquis, springing lightly back, made a
rapid advance. His rapier made a motion that was as quick as the stroke
of a cobra. It was as fatal. A lightning-like _potage_, to which the
Count opposed a _patisserie_ in vain, and he fell to the ground
lifeless, the thirsty sand drinking up his blood.
"_Haricot!_" said the Marquis, as he wiped his sword as cooly as though
blood had never stained it, and walked deliberately away.
"In the name of all that's good what _is_ all this about?" exclaimed the
Professor. "Why, Tibbitts, all this French you have taken from this bill
of fare here. _Pomme de Terre_, means simply potato, and _Poisson_ is
fish, _Mouton_ is mutton, and _Fromage_ is cheese. You are not going to
send this to your mother?"
"Ain't I though! The good old girl don't read French, and this will do
just as well as any I ever saw in anybody's novel. It shows that I have
not neglected my opportunities. Send it? You bet!"
And he did fold it, and put it into an envelope, and after several
frantic endeavors he made the boy understand that he wanted a postage
stamp, and in the box it went.
And now that I come to think of it, I am not sure but that Tibbitts was
right. If French phrases must be used in English writing, why not take
them from a bill of fare? So far as the general public goes they would
do just as well. I have no doubt but his French will pass muster, twelve
miles back of Oshkosh.
Leaving Rouen with its rich mediæval architecture, its quaint streets
and lovely parks, we cross the Seine and are whirling along at a rapid
rate towards Paris, the center of the gay world. As we approach the
metropolis several beautiful cities are passed, the principal one being
Poissy, a town of fifty thousand inhabitants, which was the birth place
of St. Louis, who frequently styled himself "Louis de Poissy."
At Asnieres, the Seine is crossed for the last time, and in a few
minutes Cluney is reached, and away over to the right may be seen the
tomb of Napoleon, its gilt dome sparkling in the sunlight. Here we pass
the fortifications and in another brief interval are in the station at
Rue St. Lazarre, and before us with all its beauty is Paris.
In Paris the first American I met was Bloss, my circus friend. He had
succeeded in getting his "wonder" in Germany, and in Switzerland he had
purchased two bears, which he had with him.
[Illustration: THE SHOWMAN IN PARIS.]
"They are probably the greatest wonders of the nineteenth century," he
remarked. "Garsong, two cognacs, lo. I am pretty well up in French. I
hev got so sence I hev bin here that I kin order my drinks without any
trouble, and that's the main pint. Them bears are something inscrutable.
They kin waltz on their hind legs; they kin fire pistols, and will work
in splendid with my Injuns. But what is more wonderful, they kin ride a
horse, ef the pad is made big enuff. And that's where I'm goin' to fetch
the public. To yootilize bears I'm goin' to present a grand scriptooral
spectacle. The public want moral amoosement, and the public is goin' to
hev it now till they can't rest. Them bears is what is goin' to do it. I
shel present the unparalleled spectacle uv Elijah and the bears eatin
the children, all on hosses. Come to think of it, wuz it Elijah, or
Elisha? I've forgotten, and must read it up afore I git it on the bills.
When yoo hev a scriptooral spectacle yoo want be very akerit on the
bills.
"It will be the gorgusest thing ever seen. Elijah--Foggarty kin ride
well enough to do Elijah, and I got a dozen kids in the company, mostly
tumblin', wich will anser for the children. Elijah, perfectly
bald-headed, will ride in on a black hoss to slow moosic, a sort uv
Scriptural waltz ez it were. The kids will ride in on spotted ponies and
shout, all in chorus, "Go up bald head!" Then the two bears--they ain't
she bears, but that's no difference--will come in on white hosses, and
chase the children. Then the band will play furious moosic, jist ez they
do at the finish of a tumblin act, and the bears will each snatch a kid
off his pony by the belt and ride out.
[Sidenote: THE SHOWMAN'S SCHEME.]
"But the children were eaten by the bears?"
[Illustration: BLOSS' GREAT MORAL EQUESTRIAN SPECTACLE.]
"Cert. But suthin must be left to the imagginashen. Realism is all well
enough, but it kin be carried too fur. The children will all rush out
and the eatin will be supposed to have taken place outside. I can't
afford to feed them bears on children every afternoon and evenin'. It
would draw, no doubt, but I couldn't afford sich a luxury. But the
spectacle will draw. It will fetch the religious people. They disapprove
of the circus, as a rool, but they will all come to see a great moral
lesson, illustrated. To see this great moral lesson, they will come
early so as to get good seats, and when it is over they won't go till
the show is out. To accommodate their prejoodisses and give 'em the hull
show I shel hev it put on the last thing, for once in they won't leave
till they see the moral spectacle. To see this they'll shock theirselves
with Mademoiselle Blanche on the tight rope, in tights. You've got to
have a moral show, and these bears will lay over anything on the road,
becoz it's not only moral, but it's actilly scriptooral. I'm after a lot
uv attracshens here. There's a sword swallerer that I think I kin git,
and I know uv a lot uv the loveliest anacondas that ever went under a
canvas."
[Illustration: TOWER OF ST. PIERRE--CAEN.]
The old gentleman by this time had consumed a half dozen brandies and
water, and was becoming incoherent. The waiter knew him so well that
whenever his glass was empty he filled it without orders, all of which
he approved, as it saved wrenching himself with French. "Bong Garsong,"
he remarked as he went off into a doze.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSES--ROUEN.]