SHOPS AND SIGNS.
The shops on the principal commercial thoroughfares of Paris are tastefully constructed, and their internal arrangements, in almost every instance, appear creditable to the proprietor and convenient to his customers. Still, I do not think that Grafton Street, College Green, Dame Street, Westmoreland Street, or Sackville Street, would be disparaged by a comparison with the Parisian streets in which similar trades are pursued as those to which, in the above-mentioned places, the Dublin shops are appropriated. Perhaps I should not employ the term "shop," for it appears to have fallen greatly into disuse, and to have been supplanted by houses, temples, halls, emporiums, magazines, bazaars, institutions, and repositories. I like the old respectable, bread-winning word; and I cannot forget the expression attributed to the first Napoleon, that he overcame every difficulty until he had to encounter the hostility of "ships and shops." However, I fear I am digressing, and shall proceed to notice some differences which a tourist may observe between our shops and those of Paris. In my opinion, nothing proves the advance of education, although of a very limited nature, in Dublin more than the almost universal abandonment of signs and peculiar designations over our shops. In my early boyhood, few of the laboring class, or even of the domestic servants, could read. It was hazardous to send a messenger to Messrs. Worthington and Dawson, hardware merchants, 27 Thomas Street. Signs were absolutely necessary for those who could not read; so we had the "New Frying Pan," the "Golden Boot," the "Three Nuns," the "Plough," the "Raven," and hundreds of others displayed. Nicknames were sometimes advantageous to traders; O'Brien of Christ Church yard would rather have his till plundered than be deprived of his designation of "Cheap John." "Squinting Dick's" was an unfailing direction to a rich trader's in Mary's Abbey, where he viewed both sides of the street at one glance. In France. I feel convinced that the education of the "million" has not advanced as it has with us, and consequently signs and peculiar titles for commercial establishments are extensively used. In Paris the number and variety is astonishing, and in some instances very irreverent. That name, at the mention of which every knee should bend, is over more than one shop. Saintly names and effigies designate many houses engaged in the sale of mere worldly wares or fashionable vanities. A picture of the first Napoleon is displayed on one house as "La Redingôte Grise," (the grey riding coat,) and on another he appears as "Le Petit Caporal" (the little corporal.) Some signs bespeak the patronage of the aristocratic legitimists, others refer to French progress in the arts, or prowess in the battle-field. Some of the shops amuse by ludicrous propinquities. In the Rue de Rivoli one house, over the door of which Cupid appears persistently stationary, is inscribed with an announcement of marriage outfits; next door to it is an extensive establishment of baby linen. On one of the Boulevards, St. Michael the archangel is only a door removed from—the prophet Mahomet.
I have to enunciate a deliberate opinion, which to those who have not visited the French capital will undoubtedly appear extraordinary, and perhaps be by them considered exaggerated. It is to the effect that if I had to select the Parisian shop most worthy of a prize for comparative cleanliness, beauty of internal arrangement, quality and variety of productions incident to the trade, I should feel bound to award the preference to some one of the many shops belonging to Butchers. In nearly all these concerns, whether small or spacious, it would be almost impossible to suggest any improvement. There is one belonging to Duval, in the Rue Tronchet, just at the rere of the Madeleine, well deserving of an express visit. An entire house is appropriated to make a shop, and nothing intervenes between the floor and the roof. Over the front, as emblems of the trade, you see gilded ox-heads and the horns of deer displayed. You enter on a floor neatly matted, or in summer sprinkled with white sand. The meat lies on slabs of white marble, or hangs from hooks of polished steel, and the scales are sheeted with porcelain. Stools, well padded, and covered with green leather afford you a seat. On the shelves, and in the recesses, bouquets of flowers and pots of the choicest exotics gratify your sight and smell. A fountain with a rock-work basin exhibits gold fish and scarlet carp. The cashier is a handsome female, elegantly attired. The aspect of the place tends to excite an appetite, for no idea of an impure or disgusting nature can be suggested by anything in your view. The front closes with lattice rails, which admit the air, and the meat in warm weather is covered with a gauzy kind of canvas which excludes the flies. If you admire a nice plant or bouquet, it is intimated that you can have it at a certain price, and the fish will be sold if you fancy any of them. Any articles you purchase are succeeded next morning by a fresh supply. One word, however, as to the Parisian butchers' shops. Never lodge very near one, unless you are satisfied to lie awake from about four o'clock in the morning. The beasts are all slaughtered at the public "abattoirs," the carcasses are conveyed to the shops on strong and loudly-rattling carts. The work of cutting up, cleaving, sawing, chopping, then commences, and to sleep, within fifty yards of the place, is out of the question.
The transition is natural from the butcher's stall to the poulterer and fishmonger. Their shops are far inferior in arrangement or appearance to those of the flesh vendors, but the fowls in France are uncommonly fine, which is ascribed to the feeding being finished with maize and milk. I would back Paris against London for a Christmas turkey or pair of fowl. Truffles are an addition seldom seen at our tables, but a splendid turkey would be considered in France, a very ill-treated bird, if it went to the spit unaccompanied by the honors of a truffle-stuffing. I may here incidentally mention that I have seen flocks of turkeys at St. Germain en Laye, and also in different parts of Normandy and Brittany, feeding eagerly on haws picked from the foot-stalks and crushed in wooden troughs. What numbers of turkeys might be fed in Ireland by a similar process! Fish, in Paris, is scarcely ever of first-rate quality, and it is always dear. They eat many kinds which we seldom touch. Carp, tench, and perch are frequently to be seen at table, and the gudgeon is used to an extent calculated to surprise a Dublin man, in the vicinity of whose city it is most abundant, but at whose repasts it is unknown.