Once on arriving in Paris at the station of the Northern Railway, I, with other passengers, was in the room devoted to the examination of baggage. Among the rest, was a party consisting of a New York merchant and his wife, with their daughter, a young lady of eighteen, who was at once volatile and voluble. Undoubtedly, she had spoken the best Madison-Avenue school French for five years or more; and with this she fairly overwhelmed the official interpreter who was present. After hearing her for full five minutes, the interpreter gravely asked:
“Do you speak English, Miss?”
“Certainly,” was the reply.
“Well, speak English then, if you please, for I can understand your English better than I can your French.”
I was one evening at the house of my friend, Mr. John Nimmo, in Paris, and while waiting for him and his family to return from the theatre, was entertained for an hour or more by two very agreeable young ladies, to whom I made such reply in French, from time to time, as I could. At last came the inevitable inquiry as to the capacity of the young ladies in the English language:
“Why, bless us, Mr. Barnum,” was the reply; “we are Scotch governesses, who are here in Paris simply to learn French!”
The last time I went from France to England, arriving late at night, I stopped in Dover, at the hotel nearest the custom-house, so as to look after my luggage next day. Ringing my bell early in the morning, for shaving-water, half asleep I called out to the serving-maid for “l’eau chaude.”
“Please, sir,” was the reply, “I do not speak French.”
“Nor I, either,” said I, promptly; “just bring me some hot water, if you please.”
But some of the English have a queer way of speaking their own language, and the cockney’s management of what he would call the “haspirate” is sufficiently familiar. Crowding into Exeter Hall, London, at an entertainment, one evening, I heard the usher just before me shouting out seats, as he looked at the checks, in this fashion: