(la), a mouth wide open (gueule), a set of teeth
(dents), and a comb (peigue). All honour to the
inventor of this hieroglyphic! Equally
obscure in its application to her trade is the
sign over the shop of Madame Meswinkal,
who, for some unexplained reason, chooses to
call herself a mouse (dite Souris). Her
emblem, "A la petite souris," exhibits a lively
representation of a ham, a loaf of bread, a
knife, a tumbler, and a mouse and a
mousetrap. On looking at it, I asked myself these
questions—not wishing to disturb Madame
Meswinkal, who had fallen asleep while in
the act of mending an old shoe—Why should
the mouse be expected to go into the trap when
the provisions are placed on the floor? And
of what use to a mouse are an empty tumbler
and a table-knife? Accessories, you will say,
which convey to the mind a notion of the
plenty which begets temptation; but, again I
ask, in what respect do they concern boots
and shoes? There is some meaning in
the words "chat botté" and "loup botté,"
though it has never been my fortune to meet
with either a cat or a wolf in boots. The
"Petit soulier blanc," an embroidered white
satin slipper on a golden cushion, tells its
own tale; the "Botte chinoise" is equally
pertinent; and "Le coq et la botte" is
perhaps intended to impress one with the belief
that a well-polished boot is many degrees
superior to a looking-glass. Such signs as
"Le perroquet," "Le chien fidèle," and "La
raquette," produce no greater effect than
commonplace people in lively society.

But the operations of the great Paris Rag
Fair are not confined to the regular halles.
In addition to these, there is a high oval-
shaped building, with an arcade extending
all around it, called the Rotonde, in which, as
in the coulisses at the Bourse, a great deal of
business is transacted. Chiefly in the
theatrical line: that branch of it which travels in
wandering booths, and appears suddenly, with
a great noise of drums and trumpets, in
remote country towns and villages. A
theatrical wardrobe and set of properties, let it be
never so orthodox or well mounted, wears a
strange aspect in the garish light of day, and
when the sun blazes full upon the "traps"
that are exposed for sale in the Rotonde du
Temple, I leave you to judge what the effect
is likely to be, supposing you are not a
purchaser of such articles, as their proprietors
kindly invite you to become. What spoils
are here of Greek and Roman tragedies, of
moyen-age melodramas, of antediluvian
comedies, of creaking operas, and of wornout
vaudevilles! The dagger, the bowl, the
knightly sword, the armour of (tinsel) proof,
the chapeau-galonné, the robe à guirlande,
the pantalon rayé, the bottes à l'écuyère! —
how grimed, how besmirched, how faded, how
tarnished, how utterly and absolutely (as it
seems) used-up are all these things! And
yet, setting them out on the pavement and
hanging them up to the pillars, as if only that
moment removed from silver paper, Monsieur
Nory, whose affiche tells you that he owns a
theatrical wardrobe (tient la garderobe théatrale),
parades his costumes and properties
with as much importance as if he scarcely
thought it probable that the united wealth of
Paris could buy him up. It is not, however,
to the interests of the drama that all the
shops in the Rotonde and other places adjacent
are devoted. Another affiche, frequently
repeated, says that Monsieur Jules Lollier,
Monsieur Copin, or some other, is a
"marchand d'habits pour la province;" and this
explains a good deal respecting the very odd
sort of costume which you so often meet with
on fête days in villages some twenty or thirty
miles from Paris; though, for that matter, it
is scarcely necessary to travel beyond the
Marais to light at any time upon some figure
of fun. You have also the marchand
chapelier pour la province, and many other
merchants, who take care of country folks in
various ways. With all, the principle appears
to be, that old clothes are immortal, and that
there is nothing so râpé but may somehow be
turned to account. Do these merchants, then,
never throw anything away as quite unsaleable
and useless? Sometimes they do so, but
mistakenly, for even their refuse has attractions
for somebody. In a heap of dust and
decayed vegetables I saw an old man curiously
diving with a long stick. He poked out a
few discoloured rags, turned them over
carefully, and then, as something caught his eye,
stooped and picked it up. It was a piece of
string, which he put into a basket, already
half full of similar fragments. He called himself,
I suppose, a marchand de ficelle, and
very likely made a good thing of it. As I
did not expect to find a lower deep than this,
I went back to my citadine and took leave of
Rag Fair.

TWO SONNETS.

I.

HERE we are shadows— and our lives but dreams,
  And dreams perchance our inner waking life;
  For all unreal is the thing that seems,
And airiest visions oft with truth are rife.
Why should we perish in this pinfold strife,
  Of passions wild— thoughts vain— and purposes
  Wild as the baffled might of stormy seas,
And not with this world war— even to the knife,
Knew we our glory? From a distant land,
  Thro' the long vista of the years we pass,
  Like pictures fleeting o'er the wizard's glass,
To learn to suffer, ere we may command;
And yet we sink supinely— like the grass
  That heaves on the dead surf of Lethe's strand.

II.

Formed of unknown immortal elements,
  Bright segments we of Heaven's vast central sun,
  Whose essence all pervades and nought prevents,
The great, mysterious, self-existent One!
Some, like dread comets in their courses run;
  And steadfast some, like earth's superior orb,
  System on system in themselves absorb;