From the French”

"From the French" by Charles Battell Loomis is a collection of witty and entertaining essays that explore various facets of life, culture, and human experience through the lens of humor and satire. The book showcases Loomis's sharp observational skills and his ability to distill complex ideas into engaging narratives. With a playful tone, he reflects on themes such as love, society, and the quirks of everyday life, making it a delightful read for fans of clever prose and insightful commentary.

• Short story

								
When a Frenchman sets out to write a tale that shall be wholly
innocuous, he succeeds--and thereby drives his readers to seek in De
Maupassant and Zola the antidote for his poisoning puerility.

He generally lays the scene in London, that he may air his ignorance
of things foreign; and when the tale is done it contains absolutely
nothing that would bring the blush of shame to any cheek in
Christendom, seek said cheek where you might.

The following is a fair sample of the unharmful French story. I
trust that if it had been printed without preamble or credit, the
discerning reader would have exclaimed, upon reading it, “From the
French!” I have called it--

IT IS GOOD TO BE GOOD

In the great city of London, which, as you may know, is in England,
there is a bridge, famous throughout the whole town as London Bridge.
One dark night, many years ago, two men started to cross it in
opposite directions, and running into each other, their heads crashed
together in the fog which day and night envelops the city.

“Parbleu!” cried one, a fellow of infinite wealth; “but have you,
then, no better use for your head than to make of it a battering-ram?”

“Sapristi!” replied the other, speaking in the coarse tones of
an English mechanic out of work. “What matters it what I do with
it? A moment more and I shall be in the Thames” (a large river
corresponding to our Seine, and in equal demand by suicides).
“To-night, for the first time in my life, I commit suicide!”

“Why, then,” said the other, “we will jump together, for it is for
that purpose that I have come to this great bridge.”

“But,” said the mechanic, “why should you commit suicide? I can
tell by the feeling of your garments that you are rich, and by the
softness of your head that you are noble.”

“True, I am both of those things, but, also, I have exhausted every
pleasure in life but the pleasure of suicide, and would now try
that. But you, you are a mechanic out of work, as I can tell by your
speech. Why should you seek pleasure instead of employment?”

“Alas, sir! I have at home one wife and seventeen children, all
flaxen-haired, and all as poor as I. I cannot bear to go home to them
without even the price of a biftek or a rosbif.”

“Come,” said the nobleman; “I will defer my sport for the night. I
have never seen a starving family. It will furnish me with a new
sensation.”

“Ah! but you have a kind heart, and I will not refuse you. The river
will keep. Follow me.”

They followed each other through the region of the Seven Clocks, and
through Blanc Chapel, afterward the scene of the murders of “Jean
the RApper,” until they came to the wretched apartment of the poor
artisan. There, huddled in the corner of the room, were sixteen of
the starving but still flaxen-haired children. The mother sat near
the fireplace, so that she might be near the warmth when it came. In
the other corner of the room--for they were so poor, these people,
that they could not afford four corners--sat a vision of beauty, aged
seventeen and a girl, ma foi! At sight of her the count’s eyes
filled with tears of compassion, and he handed his purse to the
wretched father and said: “My good man, do not stir from here. I will
return in an hour with furniture!”

Tears of gratitude coursed down the thirty-eight cheeks of the poor
family, and they no longer felt hungry, for they knew that in a short
time they would be sitting upon real sofas and rocking in chairs
like those they had seen through the windows of the rich on Holy
Innocents’ Day.

The count, whose full title was Sir Lord Ernold CIcil Judas GeorgeS
HErold WAllington, grandson of the great Lord of WAllington, was
as good as his word, and in an hour he returned with six of his
servants, bearing sofas and cushions and tables and tête-à-têtes, and
what not.

The family seated themselves on the furniture, and, clasping his
knees, overwhelmed him with thanks.

“Dame! Sacré!” cried he. “It is nothing, this thing I have done.
What is it that it is? Know, then, that for the first time in my life
I have the happiness.” Then, turning to the father: “Give me the
purse. I left it as a collateral. Now that you have the furniture,
you will not need it. But that angelic being there, she shall never
weep again. I will take her with me.”

“Ah!” said the mother; “but that is like you, Count WAllington.
You mean that she is to be a maid in your father’s house? Ah! what
prosperity!”

“Ah! do not insult the most beautiful being who ever went about in a
London fog. She a servant? Never! I will make her my wife. She shall
be Miledi Comptesse Ernold CIcil Judas GeorgeS HErold WAllington!”

In Southwark-on-Trent, a suburb of London, is the hospital for those
about to commit suicide. Ring the bell at the gate, and you will be
admitted by sixteen flaxen-haired ones who will conduct you to the
governor and matron. Need I say who they are, or whose money built
the institution?

And when you read in London POnch, among the court news, that a
great beauty has been presented to the Queen of England, London, and
Ireland, you will know that it is the Comptesse WAllington. She is
presented at all the levees, and, with her husband, the handsome and
philanthropic Lord WAllington, is the cynosure of all English eyes.

It is good to be good.
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