MI LORD ANGLAIS AT MABILLE.

He is smiling, he is splendid, he is full of graceful enjoyment; on thetable are a few of the beverages he admires; but above all he adores theease of the French ladies in the dance.

THE

COCKAYNES IN PARIS

OR

"GONE ABROAD."

BY

BLANCHARD JERROLD.

WITH SKETCHES BY

GUSTAVE DORÉ,

AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE ENGLISH ABROAD FROM A FRENCH POINT OFVIEW.

LONDON:
JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75, PICCADILLY.
[All Rights Reserved.]

PREFACE.

The story of the Cockaynes was written some years ago,—in the days whenParis was at her best and brightest; and the English quarter wascrowded; and the Emperor was at St. Cloud; and France appeared destinedto become the wealthiest and strongest country in the world.

Where the Cockaynes carried their guide-books and opera-glasses, andfell into raptures at every footstep, there are dismal ruins now. TheVendôme Column is a stump, wreathed with a gigantic immortelle, andcapped with the tri-color. The Hall of the Marshals is a black hole.Those noble rooms in which the first magistrate of the city ofBoulevards gave welcome to crowds of English guests, are destroyed. Inthe name of Liberty some of the most precious art-work of modern dayshas been fired. The Communists' defiling fingers have passed over thecanvas of Ingrès. Auber and Dumas have gone from the scene in thesaddest hour of their country's history. The Anglo-French alliance—thatsurest rock of enduring peace—has been rent asunder, through thetimorous hesitation of English ministers, and the hardly disguisedBourbon sympathies of English society. We are not welcome now in Paris,as we were when I followed in the wake of the prying Cockaynes. My oldconcierge is very cold in his greeting, and carries my valise to myrooms sulkily. Jerome, my particular waiter at the Grand Café, no longerdeigns to discuss the news of the day with me. Good Monsieur Giraudet,who could suggest the happiest little menus, when I went to hisadmirable restaurant, and who kept the Rappel for me, now bowssilently and sends an underling to see what the Englishman requires.

It is a sad, and a woful change; and one of ominous import for ourchildren. Most woful to those of my countrymen who, like the reader'shumble servant, have passed a happy half-score of years in thedelightful society and the incomparable capital of the French people.

Blanchard Jerrold.

Rue de Rome, Paris,
July, 1871.

CONTENTS.