A WINTER FAIR AT BOULOGNE. 207 



menced. I watch the motley throng eagerly starting 

 on the voyage sans fin, or, as we should describe it, 

 riding on a "merry-go-round." There is the shoeless 

 gamin, the staid middle-aged Frenchman, the mate- 

 lotes and their admirers, the sailor and his lass, the 

 demoiselles de comptoir, and the young men of the 

 town, revolving round the gorgeously decorated and 

 brilliantly lighted temple of pleasure, to the festive 

 accompaniment of drum and organ, playing continu- 

 ously the popular air of the " Jolie Parfumeuse," all 

 for the small sum of one sous for the course, and a 

 long course too. 



By sports like these are all their cares beguiled 

 The sports of children satisfy the child ; 



and why not ? I ask. Tempted by the title of one parti- 

 cular show, Iresolved to witness the exhibition of L'Enfer, 

 and, paying my vingt-cinq centimes, the price of admis- 

 sion to the first-class seats, with a feeling somewhat akin 

 to awe, I lift the heavy curtain and enter the myste- 

 rious chamber, amidst a clash of cymbals, the roll of 

 the drum, and the deep -toned notes of the organ, and, 

 taking my seat in front of the proscenium, I read these 

 startling words : "A la plus grande gloire du Satan." 

 The walls, the ceiling, the panels, are decorated with 

 symbols more or less devilish in their designs. The 

 people flock in, the house is crowded, the curtain draws 

 up, and you behold Satan reviewing the army of dmes 

 condamnees, who, having crossed the Styx, are rele- 

 gated to the cavernous depths below, amidst the 

 beating of the gong, the rattle of the drum, and the 

 explanatory remarks of the showman. First to appear 

 on the scene was the avocat, whose manner of life was 



