The Paris Sketch Book | Page 5

since last Friday; for they are
going "on the Continent," and they look, therefore, as if their upper lips
were smeared with snuff.
A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Followed by her
bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping out, in the real
dancer fashion, and ogling all around. How happy the two young
Englishmen are, who can speak French, and make up to her: and how
all criticise her points and paces! Yonder is a group of young ladies,
who are going to Paris to learn how to be governesses: those two
splendidly dressed ladies are milliners from the Rue Richelieu, who
have just brought over, and disposed of, their cargo of Summer
fashions. Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is
conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition to a
classical and mathematical education (washing included), the young
gentlemen have the benefit of learning French among THE FRENCH
THEMSELVES. Accordingly, the young gentlemen are locked up in a
great rickety house, two miles from Boulogne and never see a soul,
except the French usher and the cook.
Some few French people are there already, preparing to be ill--(I never
shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, dirty, six-foot
cabin of a Dover steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their
pantaloons, in the costume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing
themselves with some charm against sea- sickness!)--a few Frenchmen
are there, but these, for the most part, and with a proper philosophy, go
to the fore-cabin of the ship, and you see them on the fore-deck (is that
the name for that part of the vessel which is in the region of the
bowsprit?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps; snuffy, wretched, pale,
and wet; and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. I never could
fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea.
There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever travelled by
steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or sledge,

without meeting some of the wandering race?
By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on the deck
again, and dinner is ready: and about two hours after dinner comes tea;
and then there is brandy-and-water, which he eagerly presses as a
preventive against what may happen; and about this time you pass the
Foreland, the wind blowing pretty fresh; and the groups on deck
disappear, and your wife, giving you an alarmed look, descends, with
her little ones, to the ladies' cabin, and you see the steward and his boys
issuing from their den under the paddle- box, with each a heap of round
tin vases, like those which are called, I believe, in America,
expectoratoons, only these are larger.
. . . . . .
The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than
ever--ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. "That's Ramsgit,"
says the man at the helm; and, presently, "That there's Deal--it's
dreadful fallen off since the war;" and "That's Dover, round that there
pint, only you can't see it." And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped
his hot face into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as
ever his back is turned, and Mrs.-- (the wife in general,) has brought up
her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she says it is
impossible to breathe; and the poor little wretches are, by the officious
stewardess and smart steward (expectoratoonifer), accommodated with
a heap of blankets, pillows, and mattresses, in the midst of which they
crawl, as best they may, and from the heaving heap of which are,
during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds
of puking woe!
Dear, dear Maria! Is this the woman who, anon, braved the jeers and
brutal wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen; who repelled the
insolence of haggling porters, with a scorn that brought down their
demands at least eighteenpence? Is this the woman at whose voice
servants tremble; at the sound of whose steps the nursery, ay, and
mayhap the parlor, is in order? Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate--no
strength has she to speak, scarce power to push to her youngest
one--her suffering, struggling Rosa,--to push to her the--the
instrumentoon!
In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the passengers,
who have their own woes (you yourself--for how can you help

THEM?--you are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is up
with you,) are looking on indifferent--one man there is who has been
watching you with the utmost care, and bestowing on your helpless
family the tenderness that a father denies them. He is a foreigner, and
you have