wreaths, which, as fast as they are completed,
are hung up as proud specimens of the latest
invention,—as indeed they are. On another
side you turn and behold piles of stays and
stacks of dislocated whalebone, which, by
well-managed appliance, shall once more lend
shape and symmetry to the overgrown and
outgrown female form. If your eye wanders
a little further, it will light on scores of veils,
black, white, blue, green, and brown,—and do
not doubt that even real Chantilly may have
crept in amongst the commoner nets and
gauzes. So of the velvets: those bodies and
skirts, which are being so carefully unpicked,
came from Genoa and Lyons as well as from
meaner places; good and bad are here as
much mixed as elsewhere, and all are turned
to account. If that robe which once swept a
royal parquet may never do so again, there
are parts of it still available for less ambitious
purposes; but no effort is spared in the way
of renovation,—and how much may be done
by restoring and retrimming none can say
who have not bought a ball dress at Rag
Fair. To the uninitiated, all those bundles of
scraps, to which no definite geometrical shape
belongs, seem as if they could only be used
for garden shreds; but see how carefully they
are tied up and set aside. A fortnight hence
they will be returned by the dyer as ready for
service as when they first were fashioned.
You fancy that, amongst these remnants of
by-gone finery, some at least must be wholly
useless. Undeceive yourself: a full-grown
gown must have been sadly damaged by its
last owner if it cannot furnish forth the
materials for a child's frock. It is the same
with every article of dress that you can think
of,—furs, feathers, silks, serge, muslin, calico;
dirty now, clean to-morrow; restored,
rehabilitated, adapted again and again to "a
brighter ray and more beloved existence."
Aprons, scarfs, fichus, foulards, mysterious
objects which bear the name of postiches,
and have, I dare say, some hidden virtue,
fans, gloves, slippers, shoes, boots, parasols,
umbrellas, even jewellery,—after its kind,—
have a locus standi in the Halle au Vieux-
Linge, where old linen, though it claims its
share, has by no means an undue prominence.
It is impossible that you can be at a loss for
anything: equally impossible, think the
stall-keepers, that you can pass through this forest
of decayed wardrobes without weaving for
yourself a garland from the fallen leaves. If
you give credit to their seductive phrases, the
only difference between Madame Choichillon,
Boutique No. treize cent soixante-dix-huit,
and Madame La Plume, Rue Neuve-Vivienne,
No. dix, au premier, is that at the former you
may buy for eight francs a chapeau which at
the latter shall cost you eighty; and Madame
Choichillon guarantees that whatever you
purchase shall be without any reserve,—
incontestibly du dernier goût. If you doubt
her assertion, try on the bonnet she now
offers,—look at yourself in the glass,—there
is a looking-glass, I believe, in every one of
these boutiques,—and say candidly whether,
in the wnole course of your life, you ever saw
anything more becoming. I, however, would
not offer my guarantee as to the becomingness
of your appearance in some of the hats, coats,
waistcoats, and trousers, which are no less
freely offered than the female habiliments I
have spoken of; neither do I think you would
find much utility in the contents of the
marine-store shops, particularly if you happen to be,
as I was when I visited Rag Fair, a traveller
en route for Switzerland, with only a carpet-
bag for holding everything. Under such
circumstances, horse-shoes, flat-irons, shovels,
chains, door-locks, and tenpenny nails, are
likely to be an incumbrance.

Of the general aspect of the market—which
is kept perfectly clean—I may observe, that
the more aristocratic garments,—those that
have cleaved to the forms of duchesses,
countesses, and so forth,—are chiefly to be found
near the central avenues; that the commoner
sort taper off laterally, and that it is on the
very outsides you must look for the greater
part of the articles of male attire. The ready-
made bootmakers, cobblers, vampers, and all
who deal in shoe-leather, have indeed established
a complete cordon round the market;
and, as their boutiques face the street, they
are enabled to add to the lures by which they
inveigle customers the attraction of painted
signs ad libitum. In the display of these they
exhibit great brilliancy of imagination and
richness of fancy,—not always accordant,
however, with the calling of the sons of St. Crispin.
Take the following as specimens:—"Au bleu
soleil;" here you have a blue sun on a golden
ground, the reverse, I believe, of the ordinary
operation of nature. "Au reveil matin;"
this is a domestic male fowl, also blue, crowing
with all his might. "A la pensée;" an
enormous heartsease, which entirely covers
the signboard. "Au galant jardinier;" a
spick-and-span new gardener, with a flower-pot in
one hand and a spade in the other, selected
as an emblem probably on account of his
wearing a striking pair of highlows. "A la
petite chaise;" a chair, and nothing more,
figurative perhaps of the seat you might
occupy, if you went in to try on a pair of
boots. "Au papillon bleu;" a very handsome
butterfly, possibly the blue-winged
butterfly of Cachemire, "the radiant queen of
Eastern spring," which makes a figure in the
Bride of Abydos; you will notice that blue
has the call throughout. "Aux deux entêtés;"
there is a mystery about this sign which I am
unable to explain; a young lady, without her
bonnet, is endeavouring to conduct a donkey
towards some undiscovered bourne; the
animal resists, as donkeys only can resist,
persuasion; the young lady tugs at the halter;
the quadruped plants its feet firmly, neither
can stir a peg,—obstinacy beautifully developed.
The next, "A la gueule dans (en) peine"
is a painted rebus, explained by a bar of music