if he did not love Paris, and if Paris did not love him.
But though he is completely "at one," according to his own statement, with most of the celebrated personages of the day, if not all, he cannot tell you the most commonly known facts about them to save his life. And though—again according to his own statement—he has read every book ever published, visited every picture gallery, "salon" and theatre in Europe, he cannot pronounce the name of one single foreign author or artist correctly. His English is bad enough, but his French is worse. He seldom makes excursions into the Italian language—"Igh—talian" as he calls it, but it is quite enough for the merest beginner in the Tuscan tongue to hear him say "gondòla" to take the measure of his capacity. "Gòndola" is a word so easily learned and so often used in Italian, that one might think any child could master its pronunciation from twice hearing it—but the American Bounder makes the whole tour of Italy without losing a scrap of his own special nasal lingo, and returns in triumph to talk of the "gondòla" and the "bella ràgg-azza" (instead of ragàzza) till one's ears almost ache with the hideous infliction of his abominable accent. In Switzerland he is always alluding to "Mount Blank"—the "Cantone Gry-son"—"Noo-shatell"—and the "Mountain Vert"—and in Great Britain he has been heard to speak of Loche Kay-trine and Ben Neevis, as well as of Conisston and Cornwàll. But it is quite "correct" he will tell you—it is only the English people who do not know how to talk English. The actual, true, pure pronunciation of the English
