We had a rest an' a smook an' then we started aght agean, we had'nt walked monny yards befoor we coom to another spot'oth' same sooart, an' we sat daan o' th' opposite side o' th' rooad to luk at what wor gooin on. Th' winders wor oppen an' th' leets wor up at full, an' th' saand o' what aw suppooas they meant for mewsic, coom aght o' th' oppen shutters—ther wor a rustlin ov a silk dress an' a grand lukkin lass fit for a duchess coom up to th' door, but th' chap at wor standin thear shoved her away as if shoo'd been a beggar—shoo stood for a minit or two lukkin up at whear th' saand coom throo an' then shoo walked away wipin her een wi her pocket hankerchy an' vanished. Aw felt as if aw could ha liked to goa an' try to comfort her a bit, an aw ommost felt sooary at Mally wornt thear, for aw know shoo can set onybody reight if onybody can, but Peter sed it wod be noa use for shoo wor varry likely lukkin for him who had promised to meet her an' had disappointed her—Just then a lad coom past sellin papers an' Peter bowt one; (Billy wod ha bowt one, but after lukkin at it he declared at th' fowk'at had printed it did'nt know ha to spell) an' after a bit he sed, (aw meean Peter,) "This is a sad case but only one of many such."
"What is it? aw says.
"Only an account of the finding of a body in the river to-day. A young and beautiful girl who ran away from home leaving parents, sisters, brothers and a lover and came to Paris, was admired, feted, courted and betrayed, and in the midst of her gaiety and dissipation was confronted by the honest-hearted suiter for her hand who had followed her, and remorse having mastered her infatuation, and despair overwhelmed her hopes she put an end to herself. Her body has been claimed by her friends;—it was at the Morgue to-day. It is almost an everyday story, but it is only an individual case of reaping the whirlwind when the seed has been so plentifully sown.
"Nature! impartial goddess!—never forgets her duties," sed Peter, braikin off throo what he'd been sayin, an' aw could'nt help thinkin ha mich beauty a chap loises, and what joys he misses wi liggin i' bed ov a neet—Reight enuff a chap cannot be up booath day an' neet, but its worth while for ony body to sacrifice a bit o' sleep nah an' then for th' sake o' seein what th' world luks like when its wakkenin. Th' sun wornt fairly up but yet it wor growin leet, an' we made another move; Billy an' me booath lukkin a bit solid owin to th' accaant he'd gien us aght o' th' paper, an' Billy says, "Lets goa back hooam; awm sick o' seein an' hearin soa mich abaat what owt'nt to be."
"Remember, Billy," aw says, "we munnot judge too hastily, becoss it's just likely'at luck may ha led us to see th! warst pairt an' th' better pairt is to come—Nivver let us condemn ony country or ony city—for what we may see in an' haar or two, for th' best fruit tree ith' world may have a rotten en on sometimes. But what's that row o' fowk abaat? They luk a queer lot! What does ta mak on em, Peter?"
"They are waiting for the superintendant who will be here shortly, but with their advent subsides another class that belong particularly to Paris; the rag pickers; we have not met them to-night for the streets we have been in are not those likely to yield them a harvest, but whilst we wait here I may as well tell you a few facts which I have gleaned since my arrival in the country. There is one wending his way homewards with a basket weighty with his gatherings of the night—let us speak to him, a few sous will amply repay him for his trouble and any time he may loose." Soa he stopt him an' he emptied his hamper, an' sich a lot o' stuff aw nivver saw befoor—aw dooant believe'at thers a beggar i' Yorksher'at ud bend his back to pick sich rubbish up.—Bits o' rooap, paper, cabbage leeavs, cigarettes, cigar stumps, booans, rags, crusts o' breead, an' some things'at aw should fancy ther wornt onybody but him'at had gethered em could give em a name. Billy's heart wor inclined to oppen—nay, it did oppen, an' he gave him a franc, an' when he gate it, th' tears rushed into his een an' altho' he wor a Frenchman his tongue wor useless for his heart wor soa heigh up in his throit'at he could'nt spaik, an' Billy lifted his fist an' sed, (but in a voice at wor varry shaky to say it belanged to Billy,) "Tak thi hook! if tha doesnt awl punce thi!" an' for th' next three minits he did nowt but blow his nooas an' complain abaat havin getten some dust in his e'e—A'a! he's nooan all guts isnt Billy! Aw believe after all'at he could'nt hold that heart o' his unless it wor in a big carcass.
We went then to see all this lot o' fowk at wor waitin for th' superintendant. They wor th' street sweepers, an' they wor just same as solgers, an' as th' word o' command wor gien they went off i' pairties o' four, an' started o' sweepin th' streets an' makkin all cleean an' tidy for them at had nobbut just gooan to bed, soas they could get up ith' mornin an' find th' city as trim an' tidy as they'd ivver seen it, an' nowt left for th' day-leet to show ov what had been done under th' gas-leet. Did yo ivver see a woman on a stage, donned up i' muslin, silver lace an' spangles, wi a painted face, her e'en made breet wi brandy,—her e'e-broos black wi charcoil or indyink,—her hands covered wi white kid gloves, an' her feet pinched into tiny slippers,—wol her legs wor padded to luk like what its just possible they may ha been once, an' covered wi silk stockins, an' nawther moor nor less nor an' angel withaat wings?—an' did yo ivver see th' same woman next mornin, when shoo's getten up aght o' bed an' left all her false ringlets o' th' dresser (if shoo has one,) when her paint is rubb'd off her cheeks, her red hands, hoofed an' scarred uncovered,—her ee'n heavy an' bleared,—her feet shoved into th' wrecks of a pair o' men's booits,—an' wi a thyble in her hand, an' a bit o' mail in a paper bag, as shoo gooas to wark to male a bit o' porrige for two or three squallin childer'at nivver knew ther father? If soa yo must ha been struck wi th' difference.
Well, thers just that much difference between what Payris is on th' surface an' what it is when yo goa below.
We went along an' Peter sed he'd like to show us ha fowk i' Payris lived an' give us an inseet into things at if they did us noa other gooid mud happen taich us economy, an' prove at it wornt allusthem fowk'at had th' mooast brass an' made th' mooast ov a spreead' at lived best.
"There's nothing thrown away in Paris," sed Peter, "excepting human life. The rag-picker with his basket and his crook is one of the most important personages in the city. The stumps of cigars and cigarettes are what form the snuff of the most fastidious men who indulge in the habit—the scraps of old paper are all utilised and every bit of rag is converted to good use—the garbage, consisting of outside leaves of cabbages, turnip tops and even rotten fruit serve as ingredients for soups sold in the inferior restaurants; but the bread perhaps is most remarkable,—private families and boarding houses throw out crusts which are merely stale; cafes have plenty of broken crusts and soiled bits, but although it is cast into the street it is all carefully collected and preserved and the very refuse which is cast into the street from the sumptuously furnished tables of aristocratic salons on the Rue de Rivoli will not unlikely reappear in another form on the same tables and be appreciated. Crusts of stale bread are collected by inferior bakers and are soaked and rebaked and served again as new bread in cheap restaurants, the small broken pieces are carefully collected and cut up into small dice and after undergoing some secret process are converted into those appetizing toasted chips which give such a relish to soup—but there is another class, much more objectionable, at least to our ideas,—the soiled and dirty scraps such as were to be found amongst the rubbish of the rag-picker's basket, are seldom or ever given to poultry or pigs as you would imagine, but undergo a process of cleaning and are then dried, pounded into crumbs and burnt upon greased tins until they become a rich brown, and of this bread dust, every restaurant, from the one where the members of the senate meet, to the one whose customers regard a dish of meat as an exceptional treat, keep a stock; your cutlet is made to look beautiful with it—ham, fowls, or baked meats all owe more or less of their attractiveness to the same source. This is no secret here, and just so long as the dish set before them is pleasing to the eye, and pleasant to the taste, they ask no questions nor trouble themselves to wonder of what it is composed. There is scarcely any part of any animal—ox, horse, dog, cat, sheep, goat, sparrow or frog that is not utilized and made to furnish savoury morsels for one class or other—the better portions of a beast naturally find their way to that portion of the city where money is most plentiful, but I do not think it is too much to say that had the English people the same knowledge that the French possess in culinary matters, that the quantity of meat and vegetable that is daily wasted at home would furnish food, both toothsome and wholesome, enough for every starving creature within its shores.