DOI Heft:
July to December, 1853
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0116
105
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
OUR TOURIST IN PARIS. No. 2.
The traveller whose philosophy has passed through these severe
trials, hungry, dirty, unshaved, weary, almost querulous, hurls his bag-
gage and himself into a venerable and heavy hackney coach (such a one
as Dn. Johnson might have hired to take Mbs. Thkale to the play),
drawn by a pair of ragged grey ponies painfully over the rocky ways,
which people here have the face to call a pavement. Half-an-hour’s
jolting brings him to the Hotel in the Hue de Richelieu, where he
demands a lodging. “But yes, Monsieur can have a chamber, but
certainly,” is the cheerful announcement of the concierge, a very pearl
among women, who advances from the lodge with a smile to welcome
the travel-stained, ill-favoured guest. “ Behold the steward who will
make Monsieur know.” “ Give yourself the pain to mount, Monsieur,”
says a solemn official in a_ fur-cap, with a reverence. The traveller
wearily ascends hundreds of shiny, slippery steps, till he arrives at the
i third floor, where he pauses out of breath. “ Mount, mount always ! ”
says the respectable conductor. “ But Monsieur, behold us who are
arrived at the fourth. This is in fine enough, is it not ? ” “ But no,
Monsieur, pardon; it is necessary to mount always.” The traveller’s
i hind legs are awfully done up; nevertheless, allons! we arrive at
another floor. “ Behold, Monsieur,” gaily says the steward, as he
opens the door of 299.
The first thing that strikes one is, that the last gentleman must have
been addicted to chewing garlic, and smoking very bad tobacco. 'The
windows, which appear not to have been opened for weeks, enable the
lastidious English nostrils to analyse these flavours with unerring
certainty. A little hall of entrance, furnished wit-h a stove, a table,
and a bench which seems intended for the repose of exhausted creditors
before they make their unsuccessful appeal to milord, leads to an
apartment furnished both as bed-room and sitting-room, with great
taste and cheerfulness. The chairs are pretty in form, and covered
with maroon velvet. There is a walnut table, escritoire, and chest of
drawers. Over the chimney-piece of black marble is a mirror and a
clock. (There is not a room in Paris which does not boast a looking-
glass and a clock or clocks, though the latter may not go.) In a recess
is a bed, which turns out to be perfect. The last detail, however,
, strikes the traveller with horror. He will be forced to wash with a
slop basin and a milk jug. What to do ? The official in the fur cap
listens with smiling courtesy to the expostulations of Monsieur, but
cannot comprehend his meaning.
There are excellent baths in the Rue Vivienne. But in the chamber?
Ah, good, they shall bring a hot bath to Monsieur at three francs. It
is still something else ? The English waiter shall mount to Monsieur.
A shower-bath, a hip-bath, or a sponging-bath he hath not seen, neither
can he conceive. The philosopher straightway orders a hot bath, and
makes a note never to leave his country for the future without a
collapsible caoutchouc arrangement, which may so far make him inde-
pendent of the short-comings of continental civilisation. The res-
pectable steward retires, the hot bath arrives, painfully supplied with
water by a groaning gentleman in a blouse who evidently hates his
business, especially in its higher walks. Perhaps he will be a member
of a Provisional Government some day, and pay society off for his
present griefs.
Under the potent influence of hot water the traveller gradually
returns to his usual serenity. The bravos of Dover, the exhibitions of
weakness on board the steamer, the bureaucratic tediousness of the
douaniers, the insolence of the police, the jolting over the pa.vd, the
interminable flights of stairs, all fade from his memory as he simmers
into a happier and more tranquil world of thought. Mysterious
analogy to the miracles of culinary science ! His heart, so to speak,
stews into tenderness in like manner as the lobster, hideous and
savage, gradually is divested of his gross nature till he becomes the
delicate inmate of a Mayonnaise. Eull of this pathetic thought the
sage reaps his chin, anoints his hair, makes an elaborate toilette, and
descends like Jupiter from Olympus to mingle with men of lower
earth. He returns with confidence the smiling salute of the concierge.
Ah, Madame ! you may now regard us ; we carry fair linen, and smell
of sweet odours : we are no longer a disgrace to Albion. An astound-
ing breakfast, and so to the Boulevards.
How much alike men are ! Here are a few more Leicester Squarers
than one sees in Regent Street. The gentlemen wear plaited trowsers
and broad-brimmed hats, and turn-down collars ; women of the lower
class walk about in caps ; here and there is a blouse, and that is pretty
nearly all the difference to be seen. To what end should we describe
an ordinary Erenchman ? Have we not seen him ?—have we not noted
him ? What child is ignorant of his unobtrusive costume, his panta-
loons full round his hips and covering all his boots, his pockets half
way down bis leg, his tight-waisted coat, his dubious linen, his not
dubious hands and face, his modest gait and diffident. manner ?
Know we not his hair grotesquely short or filthily long, his stubbly
moustache and beard, or imperial, or republican ; his high cheekbones.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
OUR TOURIST IN PARIS. No. 2.
The traveller whose philosophy has passed through these severe
trials, hungry, dirty, unshaved, weary, almost querulous, hurls his bag-
gage and himself into a venerable and heavy hackney coach (such a one
as Dn. Johnson might have hired to take Mbs. Thkale to the play),
drawn by a pair of ragged grey ponies painfully over the rocky ways,
which people here have the face to call a pavement. Half-an-hour’s
jolting brings him to the Hotel in the Hue de Richelieu, where he
demands a lodging. “But yes, Monsieur can have a chamber, but
certainly,” is the cheerful announcement of the concierge, a very pearl
among women, who advances from the lodge with a smile to welcome
the travel-stained, ill-favoured guest. “ Behold the steward who will
make Monsieur know.” “ Give yourself the pain to mount, Monsieur,”
says a solemn official in a_ fur-cap, with a reverence. The traveller
wearily ascends hundreds of shiny, slippery steps, till he arrives at the
i third floor, where he pauses out of breath. “ Mount, mount always ! ”
says the respectable conductor. “ But Monsieur, behold us who are
arrived at the fourth. This is in fine enough, is it not ? ” “ But no,
Monsieur, pardon; it is necessary to mount always.” The traveller’s
i hind legs are awfully done up; nevertheless, allons! we arrive at
another floor. “ Behold, Monsieur,” gaily says the steward, as he
opens the door of 299.
The first thing that strikes one is, that the last gentleman must have
been addicted to chewing garlic, and smoking very bad tobacco. 'The
windows, which appear not to have been opened for weeks, enable the
lastidious English nostrils to analyse these flavours with unerring
certainty. A little hall of entrance, furnished wit-h a stove, a table,
and a bench which seems intended for the repose of exhausted creditors
before they make their unsuccessful appeal to milord, leads to an
apartment furnished both as bed-room and sitting-room, with great
taste and cheerfulness. The chairs are pretty in form, and covered
with maroon velvet. There is a walnut table, escritoire, and chest of
drawers. Over the chimney-piece of black marble is a mirror and a
clock. (There is not a room in Paris which does not boast a looking-
glass and a clock or clocks, though the latter may not go.) In a recess
is a bed, which turns out to be perfect. The last detail, however,
, strikes the traveller with horror. He will be forced to wash with a
slop basin and a milk jug. What to do ? The official in the fur cap
listens with smiling courtesy to the expostulations of Monsieur, but
cannot comprehend his meaning.
There are excellent baths in the Rue Vivienne. But in the chamber?
Ah, good, they shall bring a hot bath to Monsieur at three francs. It
is still something else ? The English waiter shall mount to Monsieur.
A shower-bath, a hip-bath, or a sponging-bath he hath not seen, neither
can he conceive. The philosopher straightway orders a hot bath, and
makes a note never to leave his country for the future without a
collapsible caoutchouc arrangement, which may so far make him inde-
pendent of the short-comings of continental civilisation. The res-
pectable steward retires, the hot bath arrives, painfully supplied with
water by a groaning gentleman in a blouse who evidently hates his
business, especially in its higher walks. Perhaps he will be a member
of a Provisional Government some day, and pay society off for his
present griefs.
Under the potent influence of hot water the traveller gradually
returns to his usual serenity. The bravos of Dover, the exhibitions of
weakness on board the steamer, the bureaucratic tediousness of the
douaniers, the insolence of the police, the jolting over the pa.vd, the
interminable flights of stairs, all fade from his memory as he simmers
into a happier and more tranquil world of thought. Mysterious
analogy to the miracles of culinary science ! His heart, so to speak,
stews into tenderness in like manner as the lobster, hideous and
savage, gradually is divested of his gross nature till he becomes the
delicate inmate of a Mayonnaise. Eull of this pathetic thought the
sage reaps his chin, anoints his hair, makes an elaborate toilette, and
descends like Jupiter from Olympus to mingle with men of lower
earth. He returns with confidence the smiling salute of the concierge.
Ah, Madame ! you may now regard us ; we carry fair linen, and smell
of sweet odours : we are no longer a disgrace to Albion. An astound-
ing breakfast, and so to the Boulevards.
How much alike men are ! Here are a few more Leicester Squarers
than one sees in Regent Street. The gentlemen wear plaited trowsers
and broad-brimmed hats, and turn-down collars ; women of the lower
class walk about in caps ; here and there is a blouse, and that is pretty
nearly all the difference to be seen. To what end should we describe
an ordinary Erenchman ? Have we not seen him ?—have we not noted
him ? What child is ignorant of his unobtrusive costume, his panta-
loons full round his hips and covering all his boots, his pockets half
way down bis leg, his tight-waisted coat, his dubious linen, his not
dubious hands and face, his modest gait and diffident. manner ?
Know we not his hair grotesquely short or filthily long, his stubbly
moustache and beard, or imperial, or republican ; his high cheekbones.