COMEDY OF TRAVEL.*

It was an old article of popular belief that Jerusalem was the centre of the world, and it is so exhibited in nearly all the medieval maps. It is the modern belief of all true Parisians that this is the case with their own superb city. It is not only the centre of civilisation, but it is likewise the pivot of the globe, the point from whence all roads emanate, and to which all roads tend from the more remote portions of the earth. The influence of the mind on arriving at such a conclusion is easy to understand-that point to which a traveller's thoughts are always directed will inevitably be the point to which all roads lead. Besides, at noon, the sun-dial of the "Palais Impériale" casts no shadow. What greater proof that Paris is the centre of the earth could possibly be desired? Hence it is that, with M. Pierre Véron, the idea of travel is associated with that of throwing a stone into the water-a small circle forms itself, another larger, and then another. The little circle is Paris, the greater ones the world outside. Nor, we must admit, does M. Véron's idea of travel extend much beyond the area of his imaginary circles improvised as the fish-basin of the Tuileries. There is not a journey in the whole of " Comedy of Travel" which extends beyond Versailles-most of them do not get to the barriers.

But first for the axioms of travel-the teachings of a profound experience of human nature obtained in the omnibus to Clichy House, the fly to the "Bois," the steam-boat to St. Cloud, and the train to Versailles. They have the genuine impress of the "city of egotism."

"Travel is a touchstone of the very first quality. The man who travels exaggerates, without being aware of it, all his defects. On a journey, the generous man becomes prodigal; the economical man, avaricious; the reserved man, taciturn; the affable man, a babbler. The man who travels alone has no longer any friends or relations. All the time that he is in the rolling box, all his affections and all his solicitudes are concentrated in his carpet-bag or his portmanteau. Politeness is, on a journey, generally left at the luggage-office. A gentleman who, in ordinary life, would not cross his legs in society under pretence of such a proceeding being schoking" (this is one of M. Pierre Véron's excursions in the English language), "casts himself when travelling at full length upon a seat, in the presence of no matter what representatives of the fair sex. I have even met with a gentleman who took advantage of passing through a tunnel to change his flannel waistcoat. And sometimes the tunnel is too short! But I hope that that gentleman-for the sake of our national honour-caught his death of cold.

"I have spoken of the fair sex. We must not consider it in reference to travel. Because under such circumstances it gapes when it is hungry. Gapes again when it has eaten too much. Has a red nose in winter. Snores at night at all seasons, and takes your place with its crinoline."

M. Pierre Véron is a married man, that is one thing certain; that he is most abominably rude, discourteous, and calumnious in what regards the fair sex, is another. He entertains, however, for the hosts of the

*La Comédie du Voyage. Pierre Véron.

restaurants dispersed around the suburbs of Paris a feeling of even still more intense dislike, and he depicts them in a chapter not sufficiently pointed to be worth quotation, as "the last bandits" the traveller meets with.

"Le voyage à-pied" is mostly performed in the company of four soldiers, preceded by a corporal. The starting-point is from one of the two millions of cafés or restaurants that border the streets of Paris, and where quarrelling at dominoes or billiards, imbibing too much acrid punch, or the impossibility of meeting an accumulated " addition," generally entail this involuntary journey. The terminus is with the commissary of police. There are so many soldiers in Paris, that there is always a corporal's guard at the command of any garçon cafetier who has been mulcted out of a couple of sous.

The "impériale" of an omnibus presents many advantages to persons travelling for health. The "impériale" was erected the same day that it was resolved that man is only a civilised monkey. The ascent is accomplished precisely after the fashion of monkeys on naked branches in any given zoological gardens. But the descent!

"I see it from here. A prominent abdomen puts it out of the traveller's power to touch the first step with his little round feet. One foot is seen waving to and fro in space, whilst the hands are convulsively grasping the iron rail that upholds the victim above. The conductor contemplates the struggle for life or death from behind, with a serene expression of irony. The omnibus, which has never stopped, gets into a deep rut. The hands cling to the rail with still greater desperation; the feet describe the most extraordinary parabola, perspiration bedews the forehead of the open-air performer. Suddenly his hold loosens, his foot has touched the long sought-for resting-point. Land! land!' he exclaims ; and down he goes in the mud of the Macadam-on his back or face, just as chance may have it. And to think that such poignant pleasures cost only three sous! why it is absolutely nothing! The same lesson of gymnastics would cost five francs at Triat's. But, at Triat's, placards on the walls proclaim that exercise is health and strength. Are you surprised, then, after that, that the people who inflict upon themselves such acrobatic efforts in private life, should possess the best soldiers in the world ?"

There never was a writer yet who did not pretend to fill up a want. M. Pierre Véron has the same pretensions as others. M. de Chateaubriand (peace be to his manes!) penned an "Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem." It had even a certain success. M. Pierre Véron has with greater modesty contented himself with depicting the Itinerary from the heart of Mademoiselle Polkinette to Clichy House-the debtors' prison in Paris-wherefore the "house" we know not, save that it is upon the same principle that a certain building of limited accommodation at Boulogne is called the English boarding-house. Be this as it may, it is certain that more pilgrims wend their way, in our own times, with the carapaces of prawns in their pockets instead of the traditional scallopshells to Clichy House than to the Mount of Olives.

66 DEPARTURE-PRELIMINARY ADVICE.

Any traveller-and how many are there ?-over whom the fancy has come of travelling from the heart of Mademoiselle Polkinette to

Clichy House, must go any evening to the Mabille, to the Casino, or behind the scenes of a small theatre. These are the starting-points. The traveller will do well to provide himself with a good blinding operaglass, manufactured by Cupid and Co., and duly patented. Without it, the absurdity of the journey might be at once perceived, and the traveller induced to stop at the threshold. It will also be well that he should provide himself with a pocket-book containing sundry notes, and in addition with a copy of the commercial code with reference more especially to bills and acceptances, protests, dishonouring the same, and personal arrest. Lastly, he must have a provision of stamped bills in readi

ness.

66 TAKING THE TICKETS.

"There are different methods of taking the tickets for the proposed excursion. Some put the matter thus:

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"Ah, madame! so much grace united to so much beauty! To see and to love you are only'

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"This formula, which concludes with the word to love,' is however, now generally obsolete. In fact, it would inevitably excite feelings of ridicule at the stations before alluded to, even if it was understood, which is not likely. We advise excursionists to modernise their style. Others go to the point at once:

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Furnished apartments and my oaths.'

"Oaths are so much in excess. The most simple and best form is: Will you condescend, madame, to partake of my pocket-book as if it were your own?'

66 REGISTERING THE LUGGAGE.

"It is needless to register your luggage on the journey that we are describing; in the first place, because the company will not be answerable for the objects that may be lost by the way; and, secondly, because the fair object of your predilections will take great care to take an inventory without your knowing anything about it.

"A handsome gold chain, a diamond ring, a ruby pin, and an irreproachable dress, indicate a first-class traveller. A gracious reception awaits him. A glance of the eye supplants, for the time being, the traditional whistle, and you are off.

"STATION, CALLED THAT OF THE LITTLE GIFTS.

"It is impossible not to make a more or less prolonged stay at the first station on the road; the success of the whole journey might otherwise be seriously compromised. The steps of descent are all marked, so there is no danger of going astray.

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Ah, mon ami, what pretty boots! Ah, mon ami, what pretty bonnets! Ah, mon ami, what pretty silk! what pretty lace! what pretty jewels! and so on. There is no time to stop and look at the addition. The train is waiting.

66 THE INNS.

"An inu is the capital point of every excursion. In the Itinerary from the heart of Polkinette to Clichy House, inns have still greater importance than on any other journey.

"The rule being given, without exception, that the innkeeper is to the traveller what the leech is to man; it suffices to multiply the said rule of

proportion by any colossal figure, to have a small idea of the magnificent results that can be attained.

"There are, however, special recommendations to be made to those who desire to increase their speed:

"Order supper instead of dinner. Ask for everything that is out of season in December. Insist upon truffles. Irrigate the room with Moët. Break the crystal at the dessert.

66 MONUMENTS AND CURIOSITIES.

"The oldest sheriff's officer declares that not one of the tourists who travel from the hearts of different Polkinettes to Clichy House, have ever been known to visit the savings banks.

"But, on the other hand, they never omit to explore the Catacombs of Illusions, into which the descent is gentle, and so managed as to be almost imperceptible. Also, the Commemorative Columns that have been raised to the Millionnaires' who have made the journey to Clichy House in the briefest space of time. La Bourse is only visited towards the conclusion of the journey. It is, indeed, the shortest of all roads. As to the curiosities, ask Polkinette what they cost, and pay if you wish to be respected.

"STATION, CALLED THAT OF THE VICTORIA.

"At this station the rapidity of the journey begins to increase. Hitherto progress bas gone on at a moderate speed.

"Mon ami, such a one, you know, the little so and so, she has a Victoria, whilst I!-ah, I am very miserable!'

"The Victoria is granted. But with a Victoria there are also horses wanted; a coach requires a house, and horses require a stable. Coachhouse and stable require an hotel, an hotel a country-house, servants, &c. "This is equal to a speed of sixty thousand franes a day. Many travellers have not sufficient temperament to stand such a rapid progress. They fall down suffocated. So much the worse-or the better-for them!

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66 STATION, CALLED THAT OF JEALOUSY.

A scene! He has been angry. He has shrugged his shoulders! Well, let him shout. He shall pay for it."

"This is as old as Mazarin, but good things never lose by age. When have arrived at the station of Jealousy you will begin to discern the tops of the roof of Clichy House in the distance.

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"Sometimes a collision occurs at this station. Or suspecting a rival, and wishing to pass him, so that he may not pass you, you increase your speed. Steeple-chase.

66 STATION, CALLED THAT OF USURY.

"The panorama hence is superb. Clichy House appears in all its splendour. You can count the bars in the windows. You can see the sentinel walking to and fro at the gateway.

"Yet people generally make a mistake as to the distance that remains to be travelled over. They begin to think even of delaying and diminishing the rate of progress or of striking into byways.

"It is at the station of Usury that one first feels that the traveller's route is not all roses. If I had only known! The employés at the

station are distinguished by almost brutal coarseness, and they ransom the weary traveller with the barbarity of savages.

'But once more the signal is heard. The five minutes allowed for stoppage are expired.

"My dear M. Gobreck, a little further delay. I pray you, M. Gobreck, give me a little more time.'

"But the engine goes on its way. How can iron rails be expected to have any feeling?

"CLICHY! CLICHY! CLICHY!

"Arrival at this station is shouted in your ears at the very moment that you have just fallen into a nap of deceitful security. You look around you. Nobody.

"Everybody (Polkinette included) has abandoned you. Alone! all

alone!

"Here! Where?

"The heavy gate grinds on its hinges and closes again. The traveller is at the end of his journey."

This is a gloomy journey, and few, it is to be supposed, would like to undertake such. Not at all; M. Pierre Véron offers to bet that at the moment he was writing there were five hundred in Paris who were dying with impatience for the hour of starting. We bow to his superior experience.

The omnibus on rails, "American system," has become abbreviated by custom to the single word "L'Americain," and is a great favourite with the Parisian public. It is the only "system" that permits ladies to ascend the "impériale." The conductors further lighten the journey by blowing upon a heart-stirring cow's horn. This is deemed to be placing a trip to Helvetia within everybody's reach. Poetry and correspondence. The said omnibus conveys sixty persons at a time, in anticipation of the future system of locomotion, which is destined to transport a whole parish. Cages à Parisians," or suburban villas as we should designate them, have sprung up like mushrooms around the city in recent times. This is a new feature in Parisian life, borrowed decidedly from the AngloSaxon passion for exclusiveness. There are fixed trains for the accommodation of these. "An incestuous produce of bureaucracy and of villageaturomania," M. Pierre Véron calls it; and with his usual want of gallantry he asks, is this fixed time of departure and return most convenient for the gentlemen or for the ladies? The habitué of the five P.M. train generally comes home with a melon or a lobster, not to be alone. In this country fishmongers have opened shops at all the most frequented points of departure-termini only to those who are arriving. There are also the so-called "Trains de Plaisir." M. Clairville has described these, so M. Pierre Véron lets them pass by. He dwells for a moment, however, at the station of Beotia-there are so many of them. It is there that you hear such ejaculations as, "I fear it will rain." "No, it is fine weather." "Fine weather! that depends!" "What a machine!" "Extraordinary invention!" "I wonder what next." "Balloons." "Take care; don't go too near." "When shall we arrive at Bicêtre ?" "After the next shock." "What makes the locomotive go?" "Steam." "But after the steam ?" "More steam, I tell you." Then there are the