Alice, or the Mysteries — Book 06

								


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BOOK VI.


"I will bring fire to thee--I reek not of the place."

       --EURIPIDES: Andromache, 214.

CHAPTER I.


.  .  .  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 delightful
to the young, to the gay, to the idle; to the literary lion, who likes to
be petted; to the wiser epicure, who indulges a more justifiable
appetite.  It is delightful to ladies, who wish to live at their ease,
and buy beautiful caps; delightful to philanthropists, who wish for
listeners to schemes of colonizing the moon; delightful to the haunters
of balls and ballets, and little theatres and superb cafes, where men
with beards of all sizes and shapes scowl at the English, and involve
their intellects in the fascinating game of dominos.  For these, and for
many others, Paris is delightful.  I say nothing against it.  But, for my
own part, I would rather live in a garret in London than in a palace in
the Chaussee d'Antin.--'Chacun a son mauvais gout.'
"I don't like the streets, in which I cannot walk but in the kennel; I
don't like the shops, that contain nothing except what's at the window; I
don't like the houses, like prisons which look upon a courtyard; I don't
like the beaux jardins, which grow no plants save a Cupid in plaster; I
don't like the wood fires, which demand as many petits soins as the
women, and which warm no part of one but one's eyelids, I don't like the
language, with its strong phrases about nothing, and vibrating like a
pendulum between 'rapture' and 'desolation;' I don't like the accent,
which one cannot get, without speaking through one's nose; I don't like
the eternal fuss and jabber about books without nature, and revolutions
without fruit; I have no sympathy with tales that turn on a dead jackass,
nor with constitutions that give the ballot to the representatives, and
withhold the suffrage from the people; neither have I much faith in that
enthusiasm for the beaux arts, which shows its produce in execrable
music, detestable pictures, abominable sculpture, and a droll something
that I believe the French call POETRY.  Dancing and cookery,--these are
the 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, but