Chapter II (1)

I had been at Breezy Brook, that beautiful summer resort which you all know, about a month: it was now July, and nothing had happened worth relating since my arrival. During the past winter I had not been idle--attending parties, balls and operas without number, but without success. This summer I made up my mind to be tranquil and to let events take their course, for, as Fortune had given me every other good, she would no doubt in time provide me with a good wife. I had therefore every reason to be patient.

I was in an unsociable mood one afternoon; so, taking a cigar and book, I sauntered up the mountain. There is an arbor halfway to its top, and I have a lounging-place near by, where the roots of an old tree make a comfortable nest just above a steep precipice, and the place is hidden from intruders by rocks and foliage. 'Tis a discovery of mine I pride myself upon, and I go there when I want to collect my thoughts and enjoy my own company.

Hardly had I made myself comfortable in my retreat when I heard voices in the arbor below. It was Mrs. Fluffy and her sister, Mrs. J.K.B. Stunner. I knew them in a moment, though they were not visible. Panting for breath, Mrs. F. invited the other to take a seat: she was very stout and soon tired. The sisters were examples of opposite schools of art. Mrs. Stunner, dark, hard and sharp-faced, was a widow with all her daughters "well settled" in life--_i.e._, married to wealthy husbands--and was considered "fortunate" among the matrons. Mrs. Fluffy was soft and florid, without an angular point, physically or mentally: much younger and prettier than her sister, she was always spoken of as "poor Mrs. Fluffy," though she was not badly off that I could see. She had two daughters "out" this season, and a third casting longing looks in the same direction.

Thinking they would move on shortly, as the arbor was only a halting-place for people walking to the summit, I lay snug and waited. Presently the widow, among other commonplaces, began to discuss the young ladies at The Brook.

"By the by, Sarah," she said, "I don't see that your girls are doing much this season: I really must say you do not seem to manage well at all. You may be playing a very deep game, but I can discover no signs of it, and there is little that escapes me in such matters."

"Oh, Jane!" panted Mrs. F., "if you only knew the trouble of having two daughters 'out' at once!"

"As if I didn't know!" snuffed Mrs. Stunner.

"True, true," replied Sarah in a conciliatory tone. "But you seemed to have so little anxiety."

"Seemed!" echoed the Stunner contemptuously. "Of course I _seemed_, and the difficulty it required to _seem_! Do you think I was so witless as to let my manoeuvres be seen? I wonder at you, Sarah!"

"Well, well," said the other, yielding the point, "I know you have a talent for such things, and can manage well, but _I_ don't know what to do."

"I--should--think--you--did--not," replied her sister, tapping the ground slowly with her foot.

"What have I done that you should speak like that, Jane?" asked the meek Sarah, bridling up.

"Tell me," answered Jane after an ominous silence that was quite thrilling, "where is Eva at this moment?"

"Oh,", replied Sarah with a sigh of relief, "she is walking with Mr. Hardcash. You introduced him at the last ball."

"I introduced him to dance with, not to walk with," said Jane severely.

"Goodness me, sister! what's the difference?"

"She asks me 'What's the difference?' Are you a child? Why, just the difference between dancing and walking."

From the pause that followed I knew that Mrs. F. was looking with both her round eyes, intent on seeing it. I suppose she did not succeed, as her sister continued, emphasizing each word clearly, "Mr. Hardcash has not a penny," as if that at once explained the knotty question.

"Why did you introduce him if you don't approve of him?" asked Mrs. Fluffy, with a feeble attempt to throw the blame on her sister.

"Have I not told you? In a ball-room girls need plenty of partners--plenty of men about them. It makes them look popular and fascinating, and if the gentlemen are handsome and stylish-looking, so much the better. Mr. Hardcash is just the size to waltz well with Eva--he shows her off to advantage--but he is not a man to encourage afterward. She should not be seen walking or talking intimately with a gentleman who has less than ten thousand a year." Mrs. Stunner delivered this ultimatum with the tone of a just judge who will hear of no appeal.

"How can I know how much the gentlemen are worth?" said Sarah pettishly.

"It is your duty as a mother to discover it," replied the virtuous widow.

"But how?"

"The visitors' book will tell where a man is from; you can easily get acquainted with some old lady or gentleman from the same place; and--"

"What! and ask about them!"

"Nonsense! Speak of them, praise them if you wish, and let the others talk: you have only to be an interested listener" (here I could imagine Mrs. S. smiling grimly), "and you can soon hear enough. For instance, commence in this way: 'Fine fellow, Mr. T. from your part of the country.' As a general rule the old gentleman will then give you his whole history. Another time you may say, 'What a pleasant young man that Mr. B. is! but rather inclined to be wild, eh?' If he is you will soon know it. You can also cross-question the man himself. Speak of a little girl he has at home: if he blushes he is netted already, and lures are useless. See how he eats his dinner: that is a good test to judge his position by; not that a few _gaucheries_ will matter if he is very wealthy--for a judicious mother-in-law can soon correct them--but for every impropriety he should have a thousand added to his income. Such things are so intolerable in a poor man!"

"I don't think Eva would obey me if I did interfere in her affairs," objected Mrs. Fluffy.

"Her affairs, indeed! It is _your_ affair. Of course you want a son-in-law who can keep a comfortable house for you to live in. You have brought up Eva badly, Sarah, and there is one thing I must tell you about her--she is entirely too familiar and sisterly with gentlemen."

"She has a great many beaux," interrupted Mrs. F.

"It is one of her worst faults," continued Jane, not listening to her. "If a girl gets into those sisterly habits with a man, it will never come into his head to marry her. She may be his chief confidante; he will talk of his lady-love to her, and she may end by being first bridesmaid at his wedding, but nothing nearer. I don't approve of it. One of my maxims is, that a man ought not be well acquainted with the girl he is to marry until the ceremony is performed."

"Well, you cannot disapprove of Laura," said Mrs. Fluffy, trying to turn the conversation. "I left her in her room reading."

"'Disapprove' of her? The word is not strong enough for my feelings. Neither of your girls has the least bit of common sense; but I don't wonder, with such a mother! A girl who gets a reputation for being learned and saying brilliant things might just as well give up matrimony altogether. Men are either afraid of them or detest them: gentlemen don't like to puzzle their brains over a witticism, nor do they admire chaffing that is beyond their comprehension. Courtship should be made easy. My Jane was clever, and vexed me a great deal in consequence, daughters of that kind are so unmanageable: give me the most stupid in preference. It is pleasant to a husband to feel his superiority, to look down on his wife. The mediocre is the girl I take most delight in. There are so many mediocre men that they are sure to get suited without giving you much anxiety."

"Jane," exclaimed Mrs. Fluffy with a burst of admiration, "you are so clever I wonder _you_ ever were married. Did Mr. Stunner appreciate that kind of women?"

"La! no. I had the sense to conceal my talents. Take my word for it, superior people as a class are never liked, unless they do as I did--conceal it, conceal it."

"I am glad I was not born talented: I fear I could not succeed in hiding it as you do." Mrs. F. was too stupid for sarcasm, else I should have thought--

"Now be frank with me, Sarah," broke in Mrs. Stunner, scattering my thoughts: "who is paying attention to Eva now?"

"Well," replied the other, appearing to recollect, "there is Mr. Rich: he asked her to ride with him."

"More than once?"

"No, not more, but it was only day before yesterday."

"Ah! he may ask her again: once means nothing. A gentleman may ask her for pastime, or to make some one else jealous, or out of good-nature, but to a girl properly brought up once is a chance--it is a good start." (Mrs. S.'s late husband was fond of racing.) "It rests entirely with her to make the once twice, the twice thrice, and so on; for if she is amusing and don't talk love, he will be sure to ask her again."

"'Don't talk love'? Why, Jane, you surprise me! I thought that was the proper thing to do."

"Just where people mistake. The most stupid man can talk love if he feels love. Let girls be agreeable, sweet and charming, but without especial effort to appear so, and when gentlemen are captivated they will do their own love-making."

"Dear me!" was the reply.

"Yes, I protest against young ladies throwing themselves at the head of every marriageable gentleman they see. They should think of the effect it will have."

"But they are so unworldly that they don't think of effect," said Mrs. Fluffy.

"Humph!" ejaculated the widow in a tone of incredulity.

"You seem to have a very poor opinion of women, Jane."

"They want to marry, all of them: you admit that, don't you?" asked Mrs. Stunner severely.

"I think not," objected Mrs. F. in a feeble voice. "There is Miss Furnaval: they say she has refused--"

"Then," interrupted her sister, not heeding her, "if they want to marry, why not take the proper means? It is inconceivable to me how women, after thinking about it all their lives, blunder into it in the end, just as if it was an entirely unforeseen event. A little good sense is requisite in everything, I think."

"They are not all anxious to marry," reiterated Mrs. Fluffy, gaining courage: "there's Miss Furnaval--"

"A great example to give one!" remarked her sister contemptuously. "She is making a fool of herself as fast as she can. Among all the young ladies who marry badly, the fascinating ones prosper the worst. No girl can refuse a good offer with impunity: a day of reckoning will come. Society has its laws, which must be obeyed: if not, _gare_! Mark my words," continued Mrs. Stunner solemnly: "Miss Furnaval has some outlandish un-society principles, and practically they will not work. Why, she is quite as well contented talking to a poor man as to a rich one, and she is always encouraging worthless, amusing, handsome fellows--talented men, instead of men whose position dispenses with the necessity of their having brains. Those fellows she has about her are the pests of society. If you hear of a runaway match, you may be sure it is with one of them; if a daughter is obstinate, you may be sure some ineligible jackanapes has prompted her to it. Blanche will end badly. She will fall in love with one of them some day, and finish by marrying him."

"If Miss Furnaval loves one of that kind of gentlemen, I don't see why she might not be happy with him."

"You don't see anything, Sarah. You don't see the nose on your face, though I see 'tis a very big one. I will make it evident to you. He will be poor, Blanche is rich: if she gives him her money, he will spend it. Never having had any of his own, he won't know how to take care of it. If, on the other hand, she don't give it to him, he will think she does not care for him--will get jealous, likely take to drink: your clever man always does. They will quarrel; then her clever husband will use his clever tongue to tease her, and his clever brain to thwart and provoke her--which a stupid man would never think of doing--and, worse than all, she will never get the least chance to have her own way in anything."

"Poor Blanche! I pity her," sighed Mrs. Fluffy.

"I don't, in the least," snapped the other. "Such an example will serve to make other girls more sensible. Only you take it as a warning to your own Eva."

After quite a long silence, in which I suppose Mrs. Fluffy was considering, she said pathetically, "I wish you would tell me what to do with Eva."

"Marry her as soon as possible," was the prompt and decided reply. "It is her second summer 'out,' and she should at least be engaged."

"I can do nothing. What do you advise, Jane?"

"In the first place, stop her being with such gentlemen as Mr. Hardcash."

"Eva is so high-spirited," groaned Mrs. Fluffy, "I fear she would not listen to me."

"You mean _obstinate_, Sarah. Tell her seriously that she has had two very gay seasons--that you can't afford another--that she must make up her mind now. Then think over all the most eligible gentlemen you know, and cultivate their acquaintance."

"Couldn't you help me, Jane?" asked the other timidly. "I shall not know what to do."

"Let me see," continued Mrs. S. in a musing tone. "If you had a country-house you could manage better. Elderly gentlemen are usually pleased with domestic attractions, and there are many little attentions that you and Eva could show them which in any other position would look like courting them. Then there would be no danger of competition. Indeed, if a pretty girl has a gentleman all to herself for a week or two at a romantic country-house, a wedding is sure to follow. But there must be no jarring, fretting, bad cooking or any household ill whatever--no talk of poor servants or dishonest grooms: everything must be _couleur de rose_."

"Jane, it appears to me you are talking very silly," said Mrs. Fluffy, glad of a chance to attack her superior sister. "You know I have no country-house, and I can't buy one just to marry Eva and Laura from."

"I merely said _if_ you had. I thought you might be pleased to hear my theory," replied Mrs. Stunner stiffly, "The next best thing for you is to have a parlor here, get up picnics and drives, make card-parties with suppers--gentlemen so like to eat!--and do not spare expense when you have a good investment in view. You can limit the invitations to two or three gentlemen who are especially eligible: make these some little compliment, such as '_You_ will come of course--our little party would not be complete without you.' Contrive that they take care of the girls, and you can entertain the others. Occasionally include some young ladies in your evenings, so that the world may not say you are afraid of them, but don't let them become intimate."--Here Mrs. Stunner paused for breath.

"It sounds easy enough," said poor Mrs. F. dolefully.

"It is not easy at all," sharply replied her sister, "but if we manage well we sha'n't have to go through with it more than one summer."

"Then you will help me?"

"I suppose I must sacrifice myself for the good of the family," said the Stunner in an heroic tone, "but you must let me have my own way entirely."

"Oh yes, Jane--certainly. I am so much obliged!" replied Mrs. Fluffy with effusion.

"Then it is not necessary to explain my plans further: I shall be there and will manage."

"But whom do you think we should invite, Jane dear?" asked Mrs. F. anxiously.

"You spoke of Mr. Rich. I approve of him: I know he has twenty thousand a year. Yes, he shall be one."

"I am afraid Eva won't like him," Mrs. Fluffy timidly remarked.

"Eva shall not interfere with my plans, and don't you commence with such nonsense as liking and disliking; I won't have it," retorted Mrs. S. in a louder voice than she would have used had she known I was so near.

"But there might be some nicer gentleman just as wealthy, might there not?" suggested the weak sister.

"There is David Todd, with thirty thousand a year: I wonder if _he_ would suit the dainty Eva?" said Mrs. Jane, sneering.

"I think she would like Mr. Highrank to be invited," observed pink Mrs. Fluffy, waiving the question.

I sat up and listened attentively when I heard my own name mentioned, not forgetful of the adage that listeners hear no good of themselves, but of course _I_ had nothing to fear.

"More sensible than I thought Eva could be," the Stunner rejoined. "Forty thousand a year and entailed, so that he can't get through with it. I have observed him a good deal for several seasons, and I find that though he is such a fool, the sharpest girls can do nothing with him. When so many are after him I suppose no single one can have a fair chance. Yes, we will invite him, but I hope Eva will not think of falling in love with him unless he should propose. Indeed, I think a modest girl ought never to fall in love. It seems to me indecorous, at least before marriage--after, they can do as they like about it. You must warn Eva on the subject. If any other gentleman should ask for her, she must not refuse, because we could not count on Highrank making up his mind: I have an idea that he is too weak to form a resolution of any kind."

I thought the old woman must be bilious. "Me a fool!"--a philosopher rather. But I have always known that exalted worth is a fault in the estimation of narrow-minded people, who can't appreciate it. Little Eva has more sense--would like me to visit her: of course the poor child is in love with me. I wish I could tease that ridiculous old lady in some way. I have a confounded mind to run off with Eva. No, that, I fear, would please Aunt Stunner. But I am missing all her trash: better listen. It is really not worth getting heated over.

"The others I will see about," continued Aunt Jane. "It is very little consequence who they are. Only one thing: I won't have that Hardcash about: he and Eva have been entirely too much together."

"She is rough on Ned," thought I in ambush.

"I am afraid you won't be able to manage Eva, my dear Jane."

"Don't worry. When I have a duty to perform I go through with it. Let us walk on to the summit."

"Just as you like: I am sufficiently rested, and we can talk as we go."

There was a rustling of silk and a crunching of gravel, and all was quiet.

I lay there thinking for a long while: I wonder if my poor mother, were she living, would take as much trouble to procure me a wife as Mrs. Stunner is going to take to provide Eva with a husband. I wonder mothers don't help their sons to marry, and let their daughters help themselves. Girls are so much sharper about such things than men are. Everything is against us. I suppose women think they deceive us for our good, but they should continue to do so after marriage. 'Pon honor! I have seen the sweetest, most amiable girl turn as sour as could be a few months after the ceremony. The dressiest ones often get dowdy, the most musical can't abide music, the most talkative have the dumps. A man has no chance of judging how they are going to turn out. He is duped by the daughters, inveigled by their mothers, and, what is worse still, as soon as he is married they both undeceive him. It would not matter if a fellow was cheated if he never knew it, but that's where it hurts.

I shouldn't wonder if that pair of old plotters would catch me yet if I don't take care. I will tease them a bit, any way: I'll pay a deuced lot of attention to Eva, and keep the other fellows away. No man would try to win her if he thought I was serious.

Blanche Furnaval _is_ an odd girl, I went on musing. They said she would end badly--hope she won't, though. Bewitching girl, but she don't seem to care if people admire her or not. I never can quite understand her. Once I wrote a few verses and gave them to her--compared her to an ice-covered stream, quiet on the surface, but all motion and tumult below. Well, she never even thanked me for them, though she said she liked that simile, it was so new. There was another couplet about her name--Blanche and snow and cold: when she read it she laughed and said, "Though my name means white, it does not mean cold. You know there are some white things that are very warm, Mr. Highrank--my ermine muff, for instance." But I made a clever answer. I said, "The muff _looks_ cold, and so does Miss Blanche, but if I could be so fortunate as to touch the heart of either I might find warmth." "My muff has no heart," she answered, looking at me as if she did not understand. "And is its owner in the same condition?" I asked tenderly. (I make it a rule to speak tenderly to all girls, it is so sad for them to love me when I cannot return it.) "In a poetical sense I believe she is," she replied, "but for all practical purposes she has one that serves very well."

Sometimes she would be invisible for two or three days together: no one would see her, either at meals or at the evening ball. When asked what she had been doing, she would smile that sweet smile of hers and say she had been enjoying herself. She was very talented, but not a bit ostentatious. To give you an example: It was rumored that she had a wonderful voice, and though we had been begging her to sing for at least a month, she steadily refused to gratify us. One day there was a queer old Italian chap came to The Brook for his health. He looked like an organ-grinder, and had been once actually on the stage. Well, do you know she allowed him to be introduced to her, and talked to him with as much deference as if he had been a prince, when she ought not have spoken to him at all, you know; and in that gibberish, too, that no one can understand. One evening, after entertaining him for about an hour, she walked with him the whole length of the room, not noticing any one, though every eye was upon her. He sat down at the piano which stood in a corner, struck a few chords, and then, with no coaxing whatever, she sang; and such a song! Her gray eyes grew dark, and her voice quivered, deepened, expanded into a melody that made you think the heavens had suddenly opened. Every other sound ceased; the doors and windows were filled with eager faces; the dancers ended in the middle of a quadrille, and the band came in a body to listen. I saw one fat Dutchman holding his fiddle in one hand while he wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. When the song was ended the old Italian took both her hands in his and kissed them, talking at the same time with impossible rapidity; and she smiled and looked as happy as if she had won a prize, turning her back on every one else who wished to congratulate her. It showed how very odd she was. The next evening _I_ asked her to sing, and she flatly refused without the least excuse, saying, "No: a refusal will be a pleasant novelty in your life, Mr. Highrank."

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES OF PARIS.

"Paris," once said Victor Hugo to me, "is the hostess of all the nations. There all the world is at home. It is the second best place with all foreigners--the fatherland first, and afterward Paris."

There was a great deal of truth in the observation, and especially is it true as regards Americans. By our natural sociability and versatility of temperament, by our love of all bright and pleasant surroundings, by our taste for pleasure and amusement, we assimilate more closely in our superficial characteristics to the French nation than we do to any other. Our Britannic cousins are too cold, too unsociable, too heavy for our fraternization, and mighty barriers of dissimilarity of language, of tastes, of customs and manners divide us from the European nation which of all others we most closely resemble in essential particulars--namely, the Northern Germans. The Prussians have been called--and that, too, with a good deal of truth--the Yankees of Europe; and if the term "Yankees" means, as it usually does in European parlance, the entire population of the United States, we citizens of the great republic have every right to feel proud of the comparison. Yet, with all our genuine respect and admiration for the Prussians, there are but few American tourists who take kindly to that people or their country. The lack of the external polish, the graceful manners and winning ways of the Parisians is severely felt by the chance tarrier within the gates of Berlin. We accord our fullest meed of honor to the great conquering nation of Europe, to its wonderful system of education, its admirable military discipline, and its sturdy opposition to superstition and ignorance in their most aggressive form. And yet we do not like Prussia or the Prussians. We scoff at Berlin, planted on a sandy plain and new with the thriving, aggressive newness of some of our own cities. We long for the soft shadows of antiquity, the dim twilight of past glories, to overhang our daily path as we journey onward through the storied lands of the ancient world. We have enough of bright progressive prosperity at home. Something of the feeling of the artist, who turns from the trim, elegant damsel arrayed in the latest fashion to paint the figure of a beggar-girl draped in picturesque rags, hangs about us as we travel. It is only to Paris--Paris beautiful in its strange blending of smoky ruins and splendid, freshly-erected mansions--that we can pardon the white glare of newly-opened streets, the Vandal desecration of antique landmarks, the universal sacrifice of old memories, historic associations and antique picturesqueness on that altar of modern progress whose high priest was Baron Haussmann and whose divinity was Napoleon III.

We love Paris, we Americans abroad, and we like the Parisians. One side of our affection grows and strengthens and sends forth new shoots with every passing day. The longer one lives in Paris the better one loves it. Its beauty becomes part and parcel of one's daily life. The mighty sweep of palace and arcade and museum and church, the plash of sunlit fountains, the rustle and the shimmer of resplendent foliage, the grace of statue, the grandeur of monument, the far-stretching splendor of brilliant boulevard and bustling street,--all these make up a picture whose lines are engraven on our heart of hearts. Often, passing along the street, some far-off vista, some effect of light and color, some single point of view, strikes on the sense with new and startling beauty, and we pause to gaze and to admire, and to exclaim for the thousandth time, How fair is Paris!

And she is so prodigal of her treasures, this goodly city! She lavishes them on all comers without fee or favor. All day long her princely art-galleries stand open to welcome the passing visitor. One comes and goes unhindered and unquestioned in church or museum, and even the service of guides and boats and cars to the sewers, and of official guides to the Catacombs, is given without compensation--nay more, all fees are strictly; forbidden. There is no city on earth that receives its guests with such splendid and lavish hospitality. Apart from one's board and lodging, it is possible for a stranger to come to Paris and to visit all its principal sights without the expenditure of a single sou. And for the persons who, prolonging their stay, wish in some sort to take up their permanent residence in Paris, things are smoothed and ironed and the knots picked out in the most wonderful way. Your board is dainty and your bed soft. Velvet-footed and fairy-handed beings minister to your wants. You are clothed as if by magic in garments of marvelous beauty. The very rustle of your letter of credit is as an open sesame to treasure-chambers to which Ali Baba's cavern was but a shabby cellar. And if, on the contrary, your means are limited and your wants but few, the science of living has been so exactly conned and is so perfectly understood that your franc-piece will buy you as many necessaries as ever your fifty-cent greenback did home, and that, too, in face of the fact that all provisions are now, owing to the war and the taxes, as dear, if not dearer than they are in Philadelphia. If a stranger comes to Paris and wishes to live comfortably and economically, there are plenty of respectable, well-situated establishments in the best section of the city where he can obtain a comfortable, well-furnished room and well-cooked, well-served meals, for eight to ten francs a day--such accommodations as five dollars would scarcely avail to purchase in Philadelphia or New York.

The whole secret of the matter is, that in France everybody understands the art of making the most out of everything. No scrap of food is wasted, no morsel cast aside, till every particle of nourishment it can yield is carefully extracted. The portions given to the guests at the minor hotels, where one lives _en pension_ at so much _per diem_, are carefully measured for individual consumption. The slice of steak, the tiny omelette, the minute moulded morsels of butter, even the roll of bread and little _sucrier_ and cream-jug placed before each person, have each been carefully gauged as to the usual dimensions of an ordinary appetite. Nothing is squandered and nothing is wasted. When one recalls the aspect of our hotel tables at home--the bread-plates left with their piles of cold, uneatable corn-bread, and heavy, chilled muffins and sodden toast uneaten, uncared-for and wasted; the huge steak, with its scrap of tenderloin carefully scolloped out, and the rest left to be thrown away; the broiled chicken--the legs scorned in favor of the more toothsome breast; the half-emptied plates of omelettes and fried potatoes,--one realizes how low prices for board in Paris are still compatible with the increased price of provisions, and why we must pay five dollars at home for accommodations for which we expend two here. The same wastefulness creeps into all the details of our hotel-life. If we want a glass of ice-water, for instance, we are straight-way supplied with a pitcher brimming over with huge crystal lumps of transparent ice. One-half the quantity would suffice for all actual purposes: the rest is left to melt and run to waste.

The fact is, that we citizens of the United States live more luxuriously than any other people on the face of the earth. On an average we dress better, fare better, sleep softer, and combat the cold in winter and the heat in summer with more scientific persistency, than do any of the so-called luxurious nations of Europe. Take, for instance, the matter of heating and lighting. A few of the leading hotels in Paris, and a small minority among the most expensive suites of private apartments, have gas introduced into all the rooms, but as a general thing it is confined to the public rooms, and the unfortunate wight who longs to see beyond the end of his nose is forced to wrestle with dripping candles and unclean lamps, known only by tradition in our native land. The gaslight, which is a common necessary in the simplest private dwelling in an American city, is here a luxury scarcely attainable save by the very wealthiest. And we do not know how precious our gaslight is till we have lost it. To sit in a dim parlor where four lighted candles struggle vainly to disperse the gloom, to dress for opera or ball by the uncertain glimmer of those greasy delusions, is enough to make one forswear all the luxuries of Paris, and flee homeward forthwith.

Then in winter comes the question of warmth. What is more delicious than to plunge from the iced-champagne atmosphere of a sparkling winter's day in America into the nest-like, all-pervading warmth of an American home? Here such comfort is wholly unknown. The cold, though less severe than with us, is damp, raw and insidious, and creeps under wraps with a treacherous persistency that nothing can shut out. The ill-fitting windows, opening in the old door-like fashion, let in every breath of the chill outer air. A fire is a handful of sticks or half a dozen lumps of coal. The _calorifère_, a poor substitute for our powerful furnaces, is a luxury for the very rich--an innovation grudgingly granted to the whims of the occupants of the most costly and fashionable of private apartments. Warmth, our cosy, all-pervading warmth, is a winter luxury that we leave behind us with the cheerful light of our universal gas-burners.

In summer we sorely miss the cold, pure ice-water of our native land, and we long for it with a thirst which _vin ordinaire_ and Bavarian beer are powerless to assuage. The ill-tasting limestone-tainted water of Paris is a poor substitute for our sparkling draughts of Schuylkill or Croton. Ice-pitchers, water-coolers and refrigerators are unknown quantities in the sum-total of Parisian luxuries. The "cup of cold water," which the traveler in our country finds gratuitously supplied in every waiting-room and railway-station, every steamboat, every car and every hotel, is here something that must be specially sought for, and paid for at an exorbitant price. Ice can be purchased only in small quantities for immediate consumption. Ten cents for a few lumps swimming in water on a tepid plate is the usual tariff for this our American necessity, this rare Parisian luxury.

The scant supply of water for ablution is another annoyance to the American traveler accustomed to the hot-and cold-water faucets introduced into private bed-rooms and hotel apartments, and the capacious bath-tubs and unlimited control of water in his native land. To be sure, one can get a bath in Paris, as well as anywhere else, by ordering it and waiting for it and paying for it; but the free use of water and its gratuitous supply in hotels, so entirely a matter of course with us, is here unheard of. As with ice-water, the bath is an American necessity, a Parisian luxury. However, the latest erected dwelling-houses here have had water-pipes and bath-tubs introduced. Wealth can command its bath here as well as its gaslight and its supplies of ice, but wealth only. The humblest abode of a Philadelphia mechanic contains comforts and conveniences which are wellnigh unattainable luxuries in all but the most splendid apartments of the most luxurious city of Europe.

Nor do all the delicate artifices of French cookery suffice wholly to replace for an American palate the dainties of his native land. The buckwheat cakes and waffles, the large, delicate-flavored, luscious oysters, the canvas-back ducks, the Philadelphia croquettes and terrapin, find no substitutes on this side of the water. The delicious shad and Spanish mackerel have no gastronomic rivals in these waters, and the sole must be accepted in their stead. We miss, too, our profusion and variety of vegetables, our stewed and stuffed tomatoes, green corn, oyster-plants and sweet potatoes. As for fruits, the smaller varieties are far more abundant and much finer here than they are with us. Strawberries, cherries, raspberries, gooseberries, apricots--all of great size and exquisite flavor--tempt and enchant the palate. But our rich profusion of tropical fruits, such as bananas and pineapples, is wholly unknown. Peaches are poor in flavor and exorbitant in price. As for meats, poultry is dearer in Paris than at home, a small chicken for fricasseeing costing six francs ($1.20 in gold), and a large one for roasting ten francs ($2). Beef and mutton are at about the same prices as in Philadelphia and New York. Butter costs from sixty to seventy cents a pound. One can easily see, therefore, that it takes all the skill and experience in domestic economy of Parisian housekeepers to maintain the prices of living at anything like its present standard in _pensions_ and hotels. But, in truth, the general standard of French cooking has been much lowered since the war. A really sumptuous French dinner is no longer to be procured at any of the tables d'hôte or the leading hotels, and if ordered at a first-class restaurant it will cost twice as much as it used to do.

Rents, though somewhat lowered from their former proportions, are still very high, a really elegant unfurnished suite of apartments costing from five thousand to ten thousand francs a year, according to location; and if furnished, nearly as much more. Two thousand francs is the lowest rent which economy, desirous of two or three bed-rooms, in addition to the parlor, kitchen and dining-room of an ordinary suite, can accomplish. There are now in process of construction in the suburbs of Paris several rows of houses built on the American plan, and it is hardly possible to tell how comfortable and home-like the neat separate abodes look to one who has been journeying round amid a series of "floors," each so like the others. To the casual visitor there is a despairing amount of sameness in the fitting-up of all French furnished apartments. The scarlet coverings on the furniture, the red curtains, the light moquette carpet with white ground and gay flowers, the white and gold of the woodwork, the gilt bronze clock and candelabra, the tables and cabinets in marquetry and buhl, are all precisely alike in each, and all wear the same hotel-like look and lack of individuality. Nobody here seems to care anything for home or home belongings. A suite of apartments, even if occupied by the proprietor, is not the shrine for any household gods or tender ideas: it is a place to rent out at so much per month should the owner desire to go on a journey. No weak sentimental ideas about keeping one's personal belongings from the touch and the usage of strangers ever troubles anybody's mind. Tables and chairs and carpets and curtains are just so many chattels that will bring in, if rented, just so much more income: around them gleams no vestige of the tender halo that surrounds the appurtenances of an American home.

The servant question is one that is just now of special interest to the American housekeeper in Paris. I have elsewhere spoken of some of the trials inflicted by these accomplished but often unprincipled domestics on their masters and mistresses, so will not expatiate further on the subject. I will merely specify as a special grievance the law that forces the employer who discharges a servant to inscribe on his or her character-book a _good_ character: should the departing help have been sent away for gross immorality, theft or drunkenness, and should the master write down the real reason of the dismissal, he renders himself liable to an action for defamation of character. The person, therefore, who engages servants from their character-book has no real guarantee as to their worth. It is a well-known fact also that the intelligence offices in Paris are far more anxious to obtain places for bad servants than for good ones, because the former class return to them more frequently, and are consequently the better customers. As to the percentage exacted from grocers and provision-dealers by cooks and stewards--a percentage which of course comes indirectly out of the pocket of the master--the evil has become a crying one, but it is apparently irremediable. A provision-dealer opened not long since a shop in one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris, and sent round circulars to all the housekeepers in the neighborhood announcing his determination of paying no percentage to servants. The consequence was, that not one of the cooks would buy anything of him, and he has been forced to break up his establishment and depart. It is an impossibility to engage a first-class cook without according to her the privilege of doing all the marketing--a privilege by which she is enabled to more than double the amount of her wages at her employer's expense.

Among the other drawbacks of a residence abroad to an American woman is an absence of the kindly deference to which, by virtue of her womanhood alone, she is accustomed at home. The much-vaunted politeness of the French nation is the thinnest possible varnish over real impertinence or actual rudeness. None of the true, heartfelt, genuine courtesy that is so freely accorded to our sex in our own favored land is to be met with here. "A woman is weak and defenceless," argue, apparently, a large class of Parisians, "therefore we will stare her out of countenance, we will mutter impudent speeches in her ear, we will elbow her off the sidewalk, we will thrust her aside if we want to enter a public conveyance. Politeness is a thing of hat-lifting, of bowing and scraping, of 'Pardon!' and 'Merci!' It is an article to be worn, like a dress-coat and a white tie, in a drawing-room and among our acquaintances. We have the right article for that occasion--very sweet, very refined, very graceful, very charming indeed. But as for everyday use--_nenni_!" That deep, true and chivalrous courtesy that respects and protects a woman merely because she _is_ a woman, and as such needs the guardianship of the stronger sex, is something of which they have never heard and which they do not understand. They will hand Madame la duchesse de la Haute Volée or Mademoiselle Trois-Étoiles into her carriage with incomparable grace, but they will push Mrs. Brown into the gutter, and will whisper in poor blushing Miss Brown's ear that she is "une fillette charmante."

And when a Frenchman _is_ rude, his impoliteness is worse than that of other nations, because he knows better: he is rude with malice prepense. The lower classes have especially lost much of their courtesy since the Commune. I have seen a French workingman thrust a lady violently aside on a crowded sidewalk, with a scowl and a muttered curse that lent significance to the act. And the graceful, suave courtesy of the shopkeepers--how swiftly it flies out of the window when their hope of profit in the shape of the departing shopper walks out of the door!

Shortly before quitting the United States I went into one of our large public libraries to consult a voluminous work of reference. In the remote recess where the books were kept sat a gentleman intent on the perusal of a volume, his chair tipped back as far as it could be with safety inclined, and his feet resting on the table. "Horrid fellow!" I said to myself, glancing at the obtrusive members, and going forward to the bookcase in search of the work I wanted. It proved to be of somewhat ponderous dimensions, and higher than I could conveniently reach, so I stood on tiptoe and tugged vainly at it for a moment. My friend of the feet saw my dilemma, and down went his book, and he sprang to my assistance in an instant, "Allow me," he said; and in a moment the heavy tome was brought down, dusted by a few turns of his pocket-handkerchief and laid on the table for my accommodation. If he had but known it, there was mingled with my thanks a world of unuttered but heartfelt apologies for my former hard thoughts respecting his attitude. And therein lay the difference between the two nationalities. A Frenchman would have died rather than have made a library-table a resting-place for his feet, but he would have let a woman he did not know break a blood-vessel by her exertions before he would have rendered her the slightest assistance.

American women are too apt to accept all the courtesies offered them by strangers at home as their right, even neglecting to render the poor meed of thanks in return. But let them when in Paris try to get into an omnibus on a wet day, and being thrust aside by a strong-armed Frenchman they will remorsefully remember the seats accorded to them in crowded cars, and accepted thanklessly and as a matter of course. And when the lounger on the boulevards dogs their steps or whispers his insulting compliments in their shuddering ear, they will remember how they were guarded at home not by one protector, but by all right-minded mankind, and will thank Heaven that their brothers, their sons, their husbands "are not even as these are."

LUCY H. HOOPER.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

GYPSY MUSIC IN HUNGARY.

We have all, at some time or other, felt our curiosity and interest excited by the bands of wandering gypsies whom we may sometimes have come upon in their encampments pitched in some remote or sequestered wood or dell--wild-looking men and women and dark, ragged children grouped about fires over which hang kettles suspended from stakes arranged in a triangle; mongrel curs which seem to share their masters' instinctive distrust of strangers; and donkeys browsing near the tilted carts which convey the tribe from one place to another. We feel a sort of traditional repulsion for these people, almost amounting to dread, for stories of children stolen by gypsies, and of their dark, mysterious ways, have taken root in our infant minds along with those of ghosts and goblins, robbers and Indians. There are, it is true, romantic associations connected with them, and we try to fancy a Meg Merrilies in the swarthy old woman who examines the lines of our hand and tells us the past, present and future--sometimes with a startling consistency and probability. But few of us would have supposed that this race of vagabonds and outcasts had ever risen much above their traditional occupation of tinkering, far less that any portion of it had displayed original artistic genius. We have, however, from Robert Franz the composer a most interesting account of the wonderful music of the Hungarian gypsies or Tziganys, which he had several opportunities of hearing during a visit to a friend in Hungary. He had been much impressed in his youth by the wandering apparitions of these people in the streets of Kiev, and by the strange, wild dances of their women, whose outlandish garb was rendered still more effective by the pieces of red stuff cut into hearts and sewed all over their skirts. "These caravans of strange beings, who preserve under every sky their dreamy laziness, their rebellion against the yoke, their love of solitude," had always possessed an irresistible charm for him, and he had never understood the scorn and disgust of which they were the object.

Being informed of the arrival of a gypsy band within eight or ten miles of his friend's château, he took his immediate departure for the forest where they had made their temporary home. The sun was going down when he reached the camp. It was in an open glade, where the ground was trampled down, in some places blackened by fire, and covered with fragments of coarse pottery, wooden bowls, bones, parings, etc. The gypsies were there pell-mell--men, women and children, horses, dogs and wagons. The men, lounging about in various attitudes, were smoking: all had a look of careless nobility about them, an air of melancholy, and eyes which burned with slumbering passion. Old women were cowering about the fires, surrounded by children whose meagre limbs were frankly displayed to view. Tall girls, with Oriental eyes, firm and polished cheeks, and vigorous forms, stood facing the horizon, and were distinctly defined against the blue of the sky. Some wore scarlet gowns, bodices covered with metallic ornaments, embroidered chemisettes and a profusion of glass trinkets. In the centre was one, taller by a head than her companions, her face of a fine and delicate oval unknown amongst us, with magnetic, disquieting eyes which suggested splendid vices; a black turban confined her black locks; a chemisette of dazzling whiteness half opened on her breast; she wore, as a necklace, twisted five or six times about her neck, a long chaplet of yellow flowers, clusters of which she held in her hands. The red rays of the setting sun flashed with fantastic effect upon the scene: then night fell, and in the flickering glare of the fires gleaming eyes, white teeth and mobile hands emerged from the gloom.

Franz had expressed his wish to hear their music, but for a while all was silent. Suddenly a strange, prolonged note vibrated through the air like a sigh from the supernatural world; another followed; then after a pause a majestic but sombre melody was developed. The sounds swelled like an immense choral, with incomparable purity and nobleness, fraught with memories of ruins and tombs, of lost liberty and love. Another pause, and some strophes of unbridled gayety burst forth; then again the principal phrase, detaching itself like a flower from its stem, among myriads of winged notes, clusters of vaporous sounds, long spirals of transparent _fioritures_. Still the violins grew bolder and more impetuous. Franz rose from his seat while watching these men standing with their violins pressed against their breasts, as if they were pouring their life's blood into them: he felt oppressed with anguish, when, by an ingenious inversion, the gloomy theme was transformed into a graceful, poetic melody. The sounds passed away rapidily like sparks, then were extinguished for a moment. A ferocious violence animated the last measures, and the gypsies laid down their bows. But, divining a sympathetic listener, they recommenced and played on till the night was far advanced. At length they ceased, and Franz left the camp, carrying with him the revelation of a hitherto unknown art.

Three principal features (he tells us) determine the character of Tzigany music--its intervals, not used in European harmony, its peculiar rhythms, and its Oriental fioritures or grace-notes. In the minor scale the Tziganys take the fourth augmented, the sixth diminished and the seventh augmented. It is by the frequent augmentation of the fourth that the harmony acquires a wonderfully audacious and disquieting character. The educated musician at first thinks he hears false notes, but the law of their harmonies is to have no law. Their abundance is incalculable, and the solemn and intoxicating effects resulting from the rapid and beautiful transitions cannot be imagined. As for the grace-notes, they give to the ear a pleasure like that which Moorish architecture gives to the eye: the architects of the Alhambra painted on each of their bricks a graceful little poem; the gypsies adorn each note with melodious designs and luxuriant embroideries. But (we quote M. Franz throughout) who shall describe the impalpable flame of Tzigany sentiment, the strange, subjugating charm of which is a vital animation almost adequate to life itself? or the mysterious equilibrium which reigns in this undisciplined art between the sentiment and the form? Mystery of genius, which bears in itself its inexplicable power of emotion, and which science and taste in vain deny!

When Franz again heard Tzigany music it was under very different circumstances. A fete was given by a Hungarian gentleman, of which this music was to be one of the attractions, the most distinguished performers being Farkas Miska and Remenyi Ede. The arrival of the latter on the morning after the first evening concert (the fete seems to have lasted some days) was announced to M. Franz by a great noise, a banging of doors and windows and moving of furniture in the room next his own. It at length ceased, and he was just getting to sleep again when some one knocked at his door, and a pretty, fair-haired boy entered, who announced himself as Ptolemyi Nandor, the fervent disciple of Remenyi Ede, who, he said, had just arrived and was about to take possession of the adjoining apartment.

"Well, sir, is it to inform me of your name and your fervor that you have come to prevent me from sleeping?"