Seets i' Paris: Sammywell Grimes's trip with his old chum Billy Baccus, his opinion o' th' French, and th' French opinion o' th' exhibition he made ov hissenHartley, John
General
Seets i' Paris: Sammywell Grimes's trip with his old chum Billy Baccus, his opinion o' th' French, and th' French opinion o' th' exhibition he made ov hissen
Hartley, John
British -- France -- Paris -- Fiction; Dialect literature, English -- England -- Yorkshire; Paris (France) -- Fiction
When we left that grand old pile, we crossed a street an' entered a
buildin whear daily can be seen th' mooast sorrowful an' sickenin seet
i' Paris. Aw meean th' Morgue. When th' remembrance ov ivvery other
seet has faded, that'll still be fresh. It will'nt be rubbed aght an'
yo connot blot it aght, aw wish aw could. Billy gave one glance
raand--"Aw'll wait for thi aghtside," he sed, an' he wod'nt ha had long
to wait if it had'nt been'at aw felt it a sooart ov a duty to see all at
wor to be seen. It wor a scorchin hot day aghtside, but as sooin as yo
entered this bare comfortless lukkin place, yo felt a chill creep all
ovver yo. Why it is'at places intended to contain objects soa repulsive
should be contrived i' sich a way as to add to th' painfulness o' th'
Exhibition aw could nivver tell; but soa it is. Even i' Payris, whear
glass an' glitter meets yo at ivvery turn, an' ornamentation runs wild
ovver ivverything, recent or ruined, they could'nt spare one solitary
touch to soften an' subdue soa agonizin a show--But th' place wor full
o' fowk an' 'at ther wor summat moor nor common aw could guess. Inside a
big glass screen, like th' winder ov a fish shop, wor a big braan stooan
slab wi watter tricklin ovver it, an' on it wor laid three bodies'at had
been pickt aght o' th' river; one a man, but aw will'nt say owt abaat
it--it wor too fearful for me to try to paint it--one wor a bonny little
lad abaat four years old, weel nourished, an' ivvery thing it had on
throo its shoes to its hat showed ha praad sombody had been on it--My
heart ached as aw thowt o' that poor mother at wor somwhear lamentin'
her loss, an' yet buildin up hooaps at one glance at that little face
wod settle for ivver--But it wor th' third, raand which th' craad wor
clusterin;--it wor that ov a young woman, beautiful i' booath face an'
form--soa beautiful'at it wor hard to believe her deead. What could
have caused her put an end to a life'at had hardly fully blossomed into
womanhood? It could'nt be poverty, for th' jewels still on her small
white hands, wod ha beep enough to ha warded off want for a long time;
'er whole dress showed signs ov wealth an' extravagance. Aw could nobbut
wonder an' feel sad an' repeat=
````"Has she a Father?
````Has she a mother?
````Has she a sister?
````Has she a brother?
````Or is there a nearer one
````Still, and a dearer one?"=
It lukt hard to see one soa young an' fair laid o' that weet stooan,
past all help--One could but sigh an' walk away=
````"Admitting her weakness,
`````Her evil behaviour;
````But leaving with meekness,
`````Her sins to her Saviour."=
When aw joined Billy agean aw wor startin to tell him all abaat
it--"Shut up!" he sed, "aw saw quite enuff, an' aw want to hear nowt
noa moor abaat it. If it suits thee to goa maunderin abaat seekin' foi
sorrow, it doesnt me. Aw want summat to ait, an' it'll have to be summat
substantial, soa leead th' way into th' furst place tha comes to at tha
thinks gradely."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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