debutant, a tall, pale fellow sprang from his stool and (without the

smallest preface or explanation) sang out, "All English and Americans to

clear the shop!" Our race is brutal, but not filthy; and the summons

was nobly responded to. Every Anglo-Saxon student seized his stool; in

a moment the studio was full of bloody coxcombs, the French fleeing in

disorder for the door, the victim liberated and amazed. In this feat of

arms, both English-speaking nations covered themselves with glory;

but I am proud to claim the author of the whole for an American, and

a patriotic American at that, being the same gentleman who had

subsequently to be held down in the bottom of a box during a performance

of _L'Oncle Sam_, sobbing at intervals, "My country! O my country!"

While yet another (my new acquaintance, Pinkerton) was supposed to have

made the most conspicuous figure in the actual battle. At one blow, he

had broken his own stool, and sent the largest of his opponents back

foremost through what we used to call a "conscientious nude." It appears

that, in the continuation of his flight, this fallen warrior issued on

the boulevard still framed in the burst canvas.

It will be understood how much talk the incident aroused in the

students' quarter, and that I was highly gratified to make the

acquaintance of my famous countryman. It chanced I was to see more of

the quixotic side of his character before the morning was done; for as

we continued to stroll together, I found myself near the studio of a

young Frenchman whose work I had promised to examine, and in the fashion

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