it was necessary to proceed with my body bent
almost double, in consequence of the close proximity of the ceiling and
the steps. At the foot of this staircase came another dim passage and
another oil-lamp over a low door, at which Dalrymple paused a moment
before entering. The sounds which I had heard above now resolved
themselves into their component parts, consisting of roars of laughter,
snatches of songs, clinkings of glasses, and thumpings of bottles upon
tables, to the accompaniment of a deep bass hum of conversation, all of
which prepared me to find a very merry company within.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE HONORABLE SOCIETY OF LES CHICARDS.

"When a set of men find themselves agree in any particular,
though never so trivial, they establish themselves into a
kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice a
week."--_Spectator_.

It was a long, low room lighted by gas, with a table reaching from end
to end. Round about this table, in various stages of conviviality and
conversation, were seated some thirty or forty men, capped, bearded, and
eccentric-looking, with all kinds of queer blouses and wonderful heads
of hair. Dropping into a couple of vacant chairs at the lower end of
this table, we called for a bottle of Chablis, lit our cigars, and fell
in with the general business of the evening. At the top, dimly visible
through a dense fog of tobacco smoke, sat a stout man in a green coat
fastened by a belt round the waist. He was evidently the President, and,
instead of a hammer, had a small bugle lying by his side, which he blew
from time to time to enforce silence.

Somewhat perplexed by the general aspect of the club, I turned to my
companion for an explanation.

"Is it possible," I asked, "that these amazing individuals are all
artists and gentlemen?"

"Artists, every one," replied Dalrymple; "but as to their claim to be
gentlemen, I won't undertake to establish it. After all, the _Chicards_
are not first-rate men."

"What are they, then?"

"Oh, the Helots of the profession--hewers of wood engravings, and
drawers of water-colors, with a sprinkling of daguerreotypists, and
academy students. But hush--somebody is going to sing!"

And now, heralded by a convulsive flourish from the President's bugle, a
young _Chicard_, whose dilapidated outer man sufficiently contradicted
the burthen of his song, shouted with better will than skill, a
_chanson_ of Beranger's, every verse of which ended with:--