My mother’s family was Scottish, and it was judged fitting I should pay a visit, on my way Paris-ward, to my uncle Adam Loudon, a wealthy retired grocer of Edinburgh.  He was very stiff and very ironical; he fed me well, lodged me sumptuously, and seemed to take it out of me all the time, cent. per cent., in secret entertainment which caused his spectacles to glitter and his mouth to twitch.  The ground of this ill-suppressed mirth (as well as I could make out) was simply the fact that I was an American.  “Well,” he would say, drawing out the word to infinity, “and I suppose now in your country things will be so-and-so.”  And the whole group of my cousins would titter joyously.  Repeated receptions of this sort must be at the root, I suppose, of what they call the Great American Jest; and I know I was myself goaded into saying that my friends went naked in the summer months, and that the Second Methodist Episcopal Church in Muskegon was decorated with scalps.  I cannot say that these flights had any great success; they seemed to awaken little more surprise than the fact that my father was a Republican, or that I had been taught in school to spell colour without the u.  If I had told them (what was, after all, the truth) that my father had paid a considerable annual sum to have me brought up in a gambling-hell, the tittering and grinning of this dreadful family might perhaps have been excused.

I cannot deny but I was sometimes tempted to knock my uncle Adam down; and indeed I believe it must have come to a rupture at last, if they had not given a dinner party at which I was the lion.  On this occasion I learned (to my surprise and relief) that the incivility to which I had been subjected was a matter for the family circle, and might be regarded almost in the light of an endearment.  To strangers I was presented with consideration; and the account given of “my American brother-in-law, poor Janie’s man, James K. Dodd, the well-known millionaire of Muskegon,” was calculated to enlarge the heart of a proud son.

An aged assistant of my grandfather’s, a pleasant, humble creature with a taste for whisky, was at first deputed to be my guide about the city.  With this harmless but hardly aristocratic companion I went to Arthur’s Seat and the Calton Hill, heard the band play in Princes Street Gardens, inspected the regalia and the blood of Rizzio, and fell in love with the great castle on its cliff, the innumerable spires of churches, the stately buildings, the broad prospects, and those narrow and crowded lanes of the old town where my ancestors had lived and died in the days before Columbus.

But there was another curiosity that interested me more deeply ­my grandfather, Alexander Loudon.  In his time the old gentleman had been a working mason, and had risen from the ranks ­more, I think, by shrewdness than by merit.  In his appearance, speech, and manners, he bore broad marks of his origin, which were gall and wormwood to my uncle Adam.  His nails, in spite of anxious supervision, were often in conspicuous mourning; his clothes hung about him in bags and wrinkles, like a ploughman’s Sunday coat; his accent was rude, broad, and dragging.  Take him at his best, and even when he could be induced to hold his tongue, his mere presence in a corner of the drawing-room, with his open-air wrinkles, his scanty hair, his battered hands, and the cheerful craftiness of his expression, advertised the whole gang of us for a self-made family.  My aunt might mince and my cousins bridle, but there was no getting over the solid, physical fact of the stonemason in the chimney-corner.

That is one advantage of being an American.  It never occurred to me to be ashamed of my grandfather, and the old gentleman was quick to mark the difference.  He held my mother in tender memory, perhaps because he was in the habit of daily contrasting her with uncle Adam, whom he detested to the point of frenzy; and he set down to inheritance from his favourite my own becoming treatment of himself.  On our walks abroad, which soon became daily, he would sometimes (after duly warning me to keep the matter dark from “Aadam”) skulk into some old familiar pot-house, and there (if he had the luck to encounter any of his veteran cronies) he would present me to the company with manifest pride, casting at the same time a covert slur on the rest of his descendants.  “This is my Jeannie’s yin,” he would say.  “He’s a fine fallow, him,” The purpose of our excursions was not to seek antiquities or to enjoy famous prospects, but to visit one after another a series of doleful suburbs, for which it was the old gentleman’s chief claim to renown that he had been the sole contractor, and too often the architect besides.  I have rarely seen a more shocking exhibition:  the brick seemed to be blushing in the walls, and the slates on the roof to have turned pale with shame; but I was careful not to communicate these impressions to the aged artificer at my side; and when he would direct my attention to some fresh monstrosity ­perhaps with the comment, “There’s an idée of mine’s; it’s cheap and tasty, and had a graand run; the idée was soon stole, and there’s whole deestricts near Glesgie with the goathic addeetion and that plunth,” I would civilly make haste to admire and (what I found particularly delighted him) to inquire into the cost of each adornment.  It will be conceived that Muskegon capitol was a frequent and a welcome ground of talk.  I drew him all the plans from memory; and he, with the aid of a narrow volume full of figures and tables, which answered (I believe) to the name of Molesworth, and was his constant pocket-companion, would draw up rough estimates and make imaginary offers on the various contracts.  Our Muskegon builders he pronounced a pack of cormorants; and the congenial subject, together with my knowledge of architectural terms, the theory of strains, and the prices of materials in the States, formed a strong bond of union between what might have been otherwise an ill-assorted pair, and led my grandfather to pronounce me, with emphasis, “a real intalligent kind of a chield.”  Thus a second time, as you will presently see, the capitol of my native State had influentially affected the current of my life.

I left Edinburgh, however, with not the least idea that I had done a stroke of excellent business for myself, and singly delighted to escape out of a somewhat dreary house and plunge instead into the rainbow city of Paris.  Every man has his own romance; mine clustered exclusively about the practice of the arts, the life of Latin Quarter students, and the world of Paris as depicted by that grimy wizard, the author of the Comédie Humaine.  I was not disappointed ­I could not have been; for I did not see the facts, I brought them with me ready-made.  Z. Marcas lived next door to me in my ungainly, ill-smelling hotel of the Rue Racine; I dined at my villainous restaurant with Lousteau and with Rastignac:  if a curricle nearly ran me down at a street-crossing, Maxime de Trailles would be the driver.  I dined, I say, at a poor restaurant and lived in a poor hotel; and this was not from need, but sentiment.  My father gave me a profuse allowance, and I might have lived (had I chosen) in the Quartier de l’Étoile and driven to my studies daily.  Had I done so, the glamour must have fled:  I should still have been but Loudon Dodd; whereas now I was a Latin Quarter student, Murger’s successor, living in flesh and blood the life of one of those romances I had loved to read, to re-read, and to dream over, among the woods of Muskegon.

At this time we were all a little Murger-mad in the Latin Quarter.  The play of the Vie de Bohème (a dreary, snivelling piece) had been produced at the Odéon, had run an unconscionable time ­for Paris ­and revived the freshness of the legend.  The same business, you may say, or there and thereabout, was being privately enacted in consequence in every garret of the neighbourhood, and a good third of the students were consciously impersonating Rodolphe or Schaunard, to their own incommunicable satisfaction.  Some of us went far, and some farther.  I always looked with awful envy (for instance) on a certain countryman of my own who had a studio in the Rue Monsieur lé Prince, wore boots, and long hair in a net, and could be seen tramping off, in this guise, to the worst eating-house of the quarter, followed by a Corsican model, his mistress, in the conspicuous costume of her race and calling.  It takes some greatness of soul to carry even folly to such heights as these; and for my own part, I had to content myself by pretending very arduously to be poor, by wearing a smoking-cap on the streets, and by pursuing, through a series of misadventures, that extinct mammal the grisette.  The most grievous part was the eating and the drinking.  I was born with a dainty tooth and a palate for wine; and only a genuine devotion to romance could have supported me under the cat-civets that I had to swallow, and the red ink of Bercy I must wash them down withal.  Every now and again, after a hard day at the studio, where I was steadily and far from unsuccessfully industrious, a wave of distaste would overbear me; I would slink away from my haunts and companions, indemnify myself for weeks of self-denial with fine wines and dainty dishes; seated perhaps on a terrace, perhaps in an arbour in a garden, with a volume of one of my favourite authors propped open in front of me, and now consulted a while, and now forgotten:  so remain, relishing my situation, till night fell and the lights of the city kindled; and thence stroll homeward by the riverside, under the moon or stars, in a heaven of poetry and digestion.

One such indulgence led me in the course of my second year into an adventure which I must relate:  indeed, it is the very point I have been aiming for, since that was what brought me in acquaintance with Jim Pinkerton.  I sat down alone to dinner one October day when the rusty leaves were falling and scuttling on the boulevard, and the minds of impressionable men inclined in about an equal degree towards sadness and conviviality.  The restaurant was no great place, but boasted a considerable cellar and a long printed list of vintages.  This I was perusing with the double zest of a man who is fond of wine and a lover of beautiful names, when my eye fell (near the end of the card) on that not very famous or familiar brand, Roussillon.  I remembered it was a wine I had never tasted, ordered a bottle, found it excellent, and when I had discussed the contents, called (according to my habit) for a final pint.  It appears they did not keep Roussillon in half-bottles.  “All right,” said I, “another bottle.”  The tables at this eating-house are close together; and the next thing I can remember, I was in somewhat loud conversation with my nearest neighbours.  From these I must have gradually extended my attentions; for I have a clear recollection of gazing about a room in which every chair was half turned round and every face turned smilingly to mine.  I can even remember what I was saying at the moment; but after twenty years the embers of shame are still alive, and I prefer to give your imagination the cue by simply mentioning that my muse was the patriotic.  It had been my design to adjourn for coffee in the company of some of these new friends; but I was no sooner on the side-walk than I found myself unaccountably alone.  The circumstance scarce surprised me at the time, much less now; but I was somewhat chagrined a little after to find I had walked into a kiosque.  I began to wonder if I were any the worse for my last bottle, and decided to steady myself with coffee and brandy.  In the Café de la Source, where I went for this restorative, the fountain was playing, and (what greatly surprised me) the mill and the various mechanical figures on the rockery appeared to have been freshly repaired, and performed the most enchanting antics.  The café was extraordinarily hot and bright, with every detail of a conspicuous clearness ­from the faces of the guests, to the type of the newspapers on the tables ­and the whole apartment swang to and fro like a hammock, with an exhilarating motion.  For some while I was so extremely pleased with these particulars that I thought I could never be weary of beholding them:  then dropped of a sudden into a causeless sadness; and then, with the same swiftness and spontaneity, arrived at the conclusion that I was drunk and had better get to bed.

It was but a step or two to my hotel, where I got my lighted candle from the porter, and mounted the four flights to my own room.  Although I could not deny that I was drunk, I was at the same time lucidly rational and practical.  I had but one pre-occupation ­to be up in time on the morrow for my work; and when I observed the clock on my chimney-piece to have stopped, I decided to go downstairs again and give directions to the porter.  Leaving the candle burning and my door open, to be a guide to me on my return, I set forth accordingly.  The house was quite dark; but as there were only the three doors on each landing, it was impossible to wander, and I had nothing to do but descend the stairs until I saw the glimmer of the porter’s night-light.  I counted four flights:  no porter.  It was possible, of course, that I had reckoned incorrectly; so I went down another and another, and another, still counting as I went, until I had reached the preposterous figure of nine flights.  It was now quite clear that I had somehow passed the porter’s lodge without remarking it; indeed, I was, at the lowest figure, five pairs of stairs below the street, and plunged in the very bowels of the earth.  That my hotel should thus be founded upon catacombs was a discovery of considerable interest; and if I had not been in a frame of mind entirely business-like, I might have continued to explore all night this subterranean empire.  But I was bound I must be up betimes on the next morning, and for that end it was imperative that I should find the porter.  I faced about accordingly, and counting with painful care, remounted towards the level of the street.  Five, six, and seven flights I climbed, and still there was no porter.  I began to be weary of the job, and reflecting that I was now close to my own room, decided I should go to bed.  Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen flights I mounted; and my open door seemed to be as wholly lost to me as the porter and his floating dip.  I remembered that the house stood but six stories at its highest point, from which it appeared (on the most moderate computation) I was now three stories higher than the roof.  My original sense of amusement was succeeded by a not unnatural irritation.  “My room has just got to be here,” said I, and I stepped towards the door with outspread arms.  There was no door and no wall; in place of either there yawned before me a dark corridor, in which I continued to advance for some time without encountering the smallest opposition.  And this in a house whose extreme area scantily contained three small rooms, a narrow landing, and the stair!  The thing was manifestly nonsense; and you will scarcely be surprised to learn that I now began to lose my temper.  At this juncture I perceived a filtering of light along the floor, stretched forth my hand, which encountered the knob of a door-handle, and without further ceremony entered a room.  A young lady was within:  she was going to bed, and her toilet was far advanced ­or the other way about, if you prefer.

“I hope you will pardon this intrusion,” said I; “but my room is N, and something has gone wrong with this blamed house.”

She looked at me a moment; and then, “If you will step outside for a moment, I will take you there,” says she.

Thus, with perfect composure on both sides, the matter was arranged.  I waited a while outside her door.  Presently she rejoined me, in a dressing-gown, took my hand, led me up another flight, which made the fourth above the level of the roof, and shut me into my own room, where (being quite weary after these contra-ordinary explorations) I turned in and slumbered like a child.

I tell you the thing calmly, as it appeared to me to pass; but the next day, when I awoke and put memory in the witness-box, I could not conceal from myself that the tale presented a good many improbable features.  I had no mind for the studio, after all, and went instead to the Luxembourg gardens, there, among the sparrows and the statues and the fallen leaves, to cool and clear my head.  It is a garden I have always loved.  You sit there in a public place of history and fiction.  Barras and Fouché have looked from these windows.  Lousteau and De Banville (one as real as the other) have rhymed upon these benches.  The city tramples by without the railings to a lively measure; and within and about you, trees rustle, children and sparrows utter their small cries, and the statues look on for ever.  Here, then, in a seat opposite the gallery entrance, I set to work on the events of the last night, to disengage (if it were possible) truth from fiction.

The house, by daylight, had proved to be six stories high, the same as ever.  I could find, with all my architectural experience, no room in its altitude for those interminable stairways, no width between its walls for that long corridor, where I had tramped at night.  And there was yet a greater difficulty.  I had read somewhere an aphorism that everything may be false to itself save human nature.  A house might elongate or enlarge itself ­or seem to do so to a gentleman who had been dining.  The ocean might dry up, the rocks melt in the sun, the stars fall from heaven like autumn apples; and there was nothing in these incidents to boggle the philosopher.  But the case of the young lady stood upon a different foundation.  Girls were not good enough, or not good that way, or else they were too good.  I was ready to accept any of these views:  all pointed to the same conclusion, which I was thus already on the point of reaching, when a fresh argument occurred, and instantly confirmed it.  I could remember the exact words we had each said; and I had spoken, and she had replied, in English.  Plainly, then, the whole affair was an illusion:  catacombs, and stairs, and charitable lady, all were equally the stuff of dreams.

I had just come to this determination, when there blew a flaw of wind through the autumnal gardens; the dead leaves showered down, and a flight of sparrows, thick as a snowfall, wheeled above my head with sudden pipings.  This agreeable bustle was the affair of a moment, but it startled me from the abstraction into which I had fallen like a summons.  I sat briskly up, and as I did so my eyes rested on the figure of a lady in a brown jacket and carrying a paint-box.  By her side walked a fellow some years older than myself, with an easel under his arm; and alike by their course and cargo I might judge they were bound for the gallery, where the lady was, doubtless, engaged upon some copying.  You can imagine my surprise when I recognised in her the heroine of my adventure.  To put the matter beyond question, our eyes met, and she, seeing herself remembered, and recalling the trim in which I had last beheld her, looked swiftly on the ground with just a shadow of confusion.

I could not tell you to-day if she were plain or pretty; but she had behaved with so much good sense, and I had cut so poor a figure in her presence, that I became instantly fired with the desire to display myself in a more favourable light.  The young man, besides, was possibly her brother; brothers are apt to be hasty, theirs being a part in which it is possible, at a comparatively early age, to assume the dignity of manhood; and it occurred to me it might be wise to forestall all possible complications by an apology.

On this reasoning I drew near to the gallery door, and had hardly got in position before the young man came out.  Thus it was that I came face to face with my third destiny, for my career has been entirely shaped by these three elements ­my father, the capitol of Muskegon, and my friend Jim Pinkerton.  As for the young lady, with whom my mind was at the moment chiefly occupied, I was never to hear more of her from that day forward ­an excellent example of the Blind Man’s Buff that we call life.