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"I will bring fire to thee—I reek not of the place."
—EURIPIDES: Andromache, 214.
. . . THIS ancient city,
How wanton sits she amidst Nature's smiles!
. . . Various nations meet,
As in the sea, yet not confined in space,
But streaming freely through the spacious streets.—YOUNG.
. . . His teeth he still did grind,
And grimly gnash, threatening revenge in vain.—SPENSER.
"PARIS is a delightful place,—that is allowed by all. It is delightfulto the young, to the gay, to the idle; to the literary lion, who likes tobe petted; to the wiser epicure, who indulges a more justifiableappetite. It is delightful to ladies, who wish to live at their ease,and buy beautiful caps; delightful to philanthropists, who wish forlisteners to schemes of colonizing the moon; delightful to the hauntersof balls and ballets, and little theatres and superb cafes, where menwith beards of all sizes and shapes scowl at the English, and involvetheir intellects in the fascinating game of dominos. For these, and formany others, Paris is delightful. I say nothing against it. But, for myown part, I would rather live in a garret in London than in a palace inthe Chaussee d'Antin.—'Chacun a son mauvais gout.'
"I don't like the streets, in which I cannot walk but in the kennel; Idon't like the shops, that contain nothing except what's at the window; Idon't like the houses, like prisons which look upon a courtyard; I don'tlike the beaux jardins, which grow no plants save a Cupid in plaster; Idon't like the wood fires, which demand as many petits soins as thewomen, and which warm no part of one but one's eyelids, I don't like thelanguage, with its strong phrases about nothing, and vibrating like apendulum between 'rapture' and 'desolation;' I don't like the accent,which one cannot get, without speaking through one's nose; I don't likethe eternal fuss and jabber about books without nature, and revolutionswithout fruit; I have no sympathy with tales that turn on a dead jackass,nor with constitutions that give the ballot to the representatives, andwithhold the suffrage from the people; neither have I much faith in thatenthusiasm for the beaux arts, which shows its produce in execrablemusic, detestable pictures, abominable sculpture, and a droll somethingthat I believe the French call POETRY. Dancing and cookery,—these arethe arts the French excel in, I grant it; and excellent things they are;but oh, England! oh, Germany! you need not be jealous of your rival!"
These are not the author's remarks,—he disowns them; they were Mr.Cleveland's. He was a prejudiced man; Maltravers was more liberal, butthen Maltravers did not pretend to be a wit.
Maltravers had been several weeks in the city of cities, and now he hadhis apartments in the gloomy but interesting Faubourg St. Germain, all tohimself. For Cleveland, having attended eight days at a sale, and havingmoreover ransacked all the curiosity shops, and shipped off bronzes andcabinets, and Genoese silks and objets de vertu, enough to have halffurnished Fonthill, had fulfilled his mission, and returned to his villa.Before the old gentleman went, he flattered himself that chan