going about with a fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of his
terrible waxwork for another sunny day.
The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I,
announcing our departure with an engine shriek to sleepy Paris,
rattled away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the
Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees – the hoar frost lying cold
in shady places, and glittering in the light – and here we are – at
Poissy! Out leap the butchers, who have been chattering all the
way like madmen, and off they straggle for the Cattle Market (still
chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all
shapes, in coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horseskins,
furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin,
anything you please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a
frosty morning.
Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground and
Strasburg or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little
Poissy! Barring the details of your old church, I know you well,
albeit we make acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know your
narrow, straggling, winding streets, with a kennel in the midst,
and lamps slung across. I know your picturesque street-corners,
winding up-hill Heaven knows why or where! I know your tradesmen’s
inscriptions, in letters not quite fat enough; your barbers’ brazen
basins dangling over little shops; your Cafes and Estaminets, with
cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, and pictures of
crossed billiard cues outside. I know this identical grey horse
with his tail rolled up in a knot like the ‘back hair’ of an untidy
woman, who won’t be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by
clattering across the street on his hind-legs, while twenty voices
shriek and growl at him as a Brigand, an accursed Robber, and an
everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your sparkling town-fountain,
too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle-market, gushing
so freshly, under the auspices of a gallant little sublimated
Frenchman wrought in metal, perched upon the top. Through all the
land of France I know this unswept room at The Glory, with its
peculiar smell of beans and coffee, where the butchers crowd about
the stove, drinking the thinnest of wine from the smallest of
tumblers; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle with the longest
of loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar; where Madame at the
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counter easily acknowledges the homage of all entering and
departing butchers; where the billiard-table is covered up in the
midst like a great bird-cake – but the bird may sing by-and-by!
A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty
payment and departure on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame
reproaches Ma’amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to
the devotion of a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord
of The Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an
unobliterated inscription, or an undamaged crowned head, among
them.
There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion.
The open area devoted to the market is divided into three portions:
the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at
eight, cattle at ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very clean.
The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four
feet high, open on all sides, with a lofty overspreading roof,
supported on stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort
of vineyard from Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie
innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, and
all trembling violently – perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear,
perhaps with pain; for, this mode of tying, which seems to be an
absolute superstition with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause
great suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in rows, among the
straw, with their stolid faces and inexpressive eyes, superintended
by men and women, boys and girls; here they are inspected by our
friends, the butchers, bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time;
plenty of room; plenty of good humour. ‘Monsieur Francois in the
bear-skin, how do you do, my friend? You come from Paris by the