A MAGAZINE ON THE BOULEVARD.
THOMPSON, OF TERRE HAUTE.
You shall see shop windows filled with jewels that might well hang about the neck of royalty—indeed, so costly that only he or she who has an empire to tax can afford them—shops devoted to the sale of pipes, the price of which, some of them, go up into thousands of francs; galleries of pictures, magazines of bronzes, and all kinds and descriptions of statuary, and the thousands upon thousands of costly nothings with which rich people adorn their homes. Artistic paper hangings, ornamental work in leathers, and every other material; shops for the sale of everything that is ornamental in women’s wear, and, in a word, everything that delights the eye, but which humanity, but for its vanity and longing for the beautiful, could do without as well as not.
And an enormous trade these caterers to the non-useful carry on. The whole world comes to Paris for these things, and they bring their money with them for this purpose and expect to spend it.
Woe to the American, man or woman, who ventures into these shops. The shopman knows the moment he enters that the coming victim who is rushing upon his doom is an American; he knows that he has so much money to leave with him, and no matter how much knowledge he affects, that he is as ignorant of the real value of his wares as a babe unborn.
What should the citizen of Terre Haute, Ind., know of the value of bronzes? Nothing, whatever. But he has just made a good speculation in pork, and he has built him a two-story house, with a Mansard roof on it, and has furnished it gorgeously with upholstered chairs, and on his floors he has laid Brussels carpets, and his wife and he are taking their first visit “abroad.” Mrs. Thompson is determined to astonish her female friends and excite their envy with some “statoos” from “Paree,” and she is going to do it. The pair look critically through the assortment. They object to the Venus of Milo, because the arms are lacking, and are surprised that an imperfect sort of second-hand work of art of that kind can’t be had at a reduced price. The price of a picture takes their breath away, and Mr. Thompson suggests that a few pairs of chromos can be had a great deal cheaper, and he thinks they will make a better show than the paintings that are shown them. Perhaps he is right, when the paintings that are shown him are critically considered. But Mrs. T. will have none of the chromo business. She will have some works of art from “Paree,” and Mr. T., fired with ambition, assents, and the “works of art” are bought and paid for at anywhere from four to ten times their value, and they retire with them grieved and yet satisfied—grieved at the hole the purchase has made in their pocket-book, and satisfied to think what a sensation the purchase will make when they are displayed in their home in the West. Thompson anticipates the pleasure of calling the attention of his guests to these wonders, and remarking casually, as though he were a regular patron of art, “Oh, them! They are a few little things I bought in Paree, the last time I was over. They are nothing. I only paid four thousand francs for the pair. I shall buy more when I go over again. I really hadn’t time to look around.”