Of course the weather was much finer than in England-they consider it always is. We must, however, just say one word more about" shop," because it annoyed us so much. It is to mention the universal opinion the French have, that in a war they could-" écrassent" is the word they use, which Brother Jonathan would translate-" chaw us up" in a very short time, and they also say that England, knowing this, "dare not go to war with them!" We exploded, of course, as is our wont when our national dignity is hurt, and, in the best French we could muster, endeavoured to show them the errors they laboured under, and if we did that every English regiment was now five thousand strong, so that we possessed two hundred thousand men which we were about to disband, having nothing at all for them to do, may we be pardoned in consideration of the cause we lied under.

say

Of course nobody ever rides in an omnibus in England; first, because it is not "correct;" and secondly, because some woman with a crying baby, a large bundle, or a wet umbrella, would be sure to sit next to you, which to minds of at all a delicate tendency are objects to be avoided; but we believe if they were built as wide, and had the scats as well separated one from the other in London as in Paris, many might save their pence by going by them instead of taking cabs to save appearances.

The Hansom cab is unequalled. It was tried on the streets of Paris but did not succeed, they said, on account of the pavement; but we could not see the philosophy of the reason, for the streets are better paved than those of London, the traffic not being so great. The cabs they use are much cleaner and in every respect better than our fourwheelers, being broughams and clarences of a very respectable build, whilst the drivers are as superior to ours as the vehicles they have charge of. It is doubtful which are the cheaper of the two, as they charge 1 franc 10 cents. (less than a shilling) for driving you to any part of the city; within the barriers; whilst our "cabbies" demand sixpence a mile; by the hour, a franc and a half: ours, two shillings-we believe.

Parisian habits could never properly flourish in England, because of the difference of the weather, and we could no more think of seeing thousands of Englishmen sitting at little round tables sipping cafe au lait and smoking cigarettes, all down each side of Regent-street, than of asserting that the British infantry soldier is at present properly dressed-we do not think we could make a stronger assertion than that. The inhabitants of the French capital are so different to what we have been accustomed to, that we could not resist the temptation of trying our hands at sketching them; so for that purpose we kept our eyes rather more widely open than they generally are, and the result has been the following truthful delineations of "Ye Paris Gent of ye Present Time;" "Ye Parisian Ladye of our Daye;" "Ye Englishman Abroad, First Classe;" and "Ye Englishman Abroad, Seconde Classe.'

Ye Paris Gent. of ye Present Time is to be met with everywhere, but his innate habits required that he should stroll more particularly on the Boulevards during the afternoon, and frequent the Jardin Mabile, Chateau des Fleurs, and other places where people fling their legs about in the evening. He wore a hat preposterously large for him, with a

vulgar turned-down brim, not unfrequently white in colour, and placed it jauntily on the side of his head, so that you fancied it fastened to his cranium by glue, or some other adhesive material; his coat was a cutaway, buttoned across his chest, with a velvet collar, much too small, too short, too tight, and the waist of which was nearly under his armpits; his waistcoat was so high up that you fancied he intended it to keep his throat warm instead of his waist, and his trousers appeared so shrunk that you were not surprised to see a pair of horrid white gaiters wrapped round his ankles, apparently for the purpose of hiding the solution of continuity between his pantaloons and low-heeled high-lows. He did not wear gloves-very few French people do, they are too dear, so that to say that they are better ganté than we are, is sheer nonsense. He never seems to do anything, excepting to walk about and stare at pretty-no, nice-looking, for there are no pretty Frenchwomen, and dance occasionally with a grisette in the evening-if she appear not to want a petit souper as a reward for her exertions; for Ye Paris Gent never seems to have any money, and is never seen dining or eating anything in any of the thousand restaurants or cafés in the city, where the proprietors graciously allow the non-eating public to look through the windows. At the Mabile and other dancing places we believe he has a mysterious free admission, and here it is he delighteth to be seen indulging in most unaccountable antics, for which the figure of Pastorale gives him such a valuable opportunity for showing off; we have seen him, in that part of the dance, making violent efforts to throw his legs away on one side, but finding it of no use, bounding over to the other, and trying to get rid of them in the same manner there, but being again unsuccessful, endeavouring to tie them into knotsplacing his hat on the ground, whirling round it, replacing it on his head, and arriving before his partner at the exact moment to turn her round, amidst bursts of applause from the lookers-on. The dancing gent. seemed to wear his hair longer than his fellows, which made us always shudder when we looked at him, as it involved in our minds the abstruse calculation: whether it were possible for water ever to pene. trate such a mass of grease! The gent. of the estaminets, or low billiard-rooms, which abound in the lower quarters of the capital, is merely a dirtier edition of the foregoing, there being no female influence to overcome his dirty habits and eccentricities.

Ye Parisian Ladye of our Daye is known by her crinoline; in saying crinoline, we do not mean what is vulgarly understood in England by the mysterious term "bustle," which is applied to a more mysterious article; nor do we allude to-ladies, forgive us for invading your mysteries-"stiff petticoats," but to a formidable affair lately invented by some insane being who seemed to fancy women were birds, and required a cage to live in. This enormous sous-jupe tubulaire is sometimes made of India-rubber, and blown out like air-pillows, until a formidable conical edifice is erected, composed of stiff circular bars, to which the term "triple Malakoff" is often applied, to denote their impregnability; at other times, gutta percha, steel bars, wood ribs, &c., are used for building this extraordinary article of female attire. These balloons are generally covered with bright-coloured dresses, blue silk being the greatest favourite; sometimes they are called sonnettes, so we might

often call them the blue-bells of France without impropriety. She wears shoes-if she has pretty feet, and she generally has-and parts her hair at the side; but when she does so we always fancy it is particularly thin about the centre. She has nice hair-all Frenchwomen haveand it is always neatly and tastefully arranged. She wears thin black mittens, half covering her hands, and several rings-if she has them. At the dancing-places she is admitted free-all women are in Franceand does not think it beneath her to enjoy a polka or valse to the uttermost; but her greatest delight is in the ordinary Parisian quadrille. Here she can dance in as extraordinary a style as Ye Gent., and of a new step in which she has to kick out backwards she is extremely fond. Her bonnet is small but placed on her head;-this remark is necessary, as ladies have lately been in the habit of placing them on their shoulders instead it is in good taste with the rest of her dress, as is also her shawl, or tight jacket, if she wears one.

Such is Ye Parisian Ladye of our daye, and her haunts are very similar to those of Ye Parisian Gent. She must not be mistaken for an improper character, although, from the quantity of pearl powder and paint she uses, such a mistake might easily be made, but she will probably be found to be a respectable shopkeeper's wife, with merely the ordinary taste for amusement that all French people have.

Ye Englishman abroad, Fyrst Classe.-He wears a dog-collar round his neck and under his chin, a Noah's-ark coat nearly reaching his feet, trousers wide at the knees, narrow at the ankles, and patent leather boots. He always has a stick in his hand, and has a partiality for Lavender kid gloves. He thinks he is immensely condescending to go to Paris at all; so he walks in the streets with his nose turned up to the skies, and thinks he honours the pavement by treading on it. Meurice's, the Hotel Bristol, the Hotel de Louvre, or some other of the most expensive hotels, are the only ones in which he will trust his precious person; and he is so high and mighty, that speaking to anybody, especially an Englishman, requires more condescension from him than he cares to submit to. He goes to all the best shops, pays all the best prices, considers he is cheated shamefully; says so, and if he were to listen as he shuts the door, he would hear the French shopkeeper murmur between his teeth, "Un bête Anglais !"

Ye Englishman abroad, Seconde Classe.-We wonder he was ever allowed to leave the land of his forefathers; and although he may be a good man and true, we wish Old England had some restrictive power by which such persons might be desired to stop at home. His avocation is not at all apparent in his appearance; he may be a cook's shopkeeper, a merchant captain, a gentleman's butler, a pork-butcher, a commercial traveller, or a thousand trades else for aught we know; one thing, however, is evident,—he is a snob. Your attention is first called to him by hearing some Frenchmen laugh, whilst a quizzical speech, in which the word" Anglais" is mentioned, annoys you. An old anecdote, from the "Critic," we think, will give an idea of the manners of a seconde classe Englishman abroad. Two such personages were dining at the Café Foy, one of the most select literary cafés in Paris, where none but the most classical French is ever used, when the following conversation astonished the ears of the audience. "Garsong," shouted

one of these seconde classe gentlemen, "Donnez-moi un escalier, si vous plait." Of course the garçon looked astonished; and a laugh was perceptibly rising on the countenances of those present. "Un escalier, garsong," reiterated the Briton. An English gentleman present, seeking to help them out of their difficulty, said, Mais, garçon, ces Messieurs desirent une cuiller." What was his reward? "Oh! thank you; we can talk French without your assistance." "Doubtless you can, gentlemen," was the reply, "but you were asking for a staircase, when you wanted a spoon."

Ye seconde classe gentleman seldom speaks French, and when he does, it is always badly, and with a wretched accent. He stares about him like a Goth, and is most insulting in his manners towards the French. He is always dressed in the most wretched vulgar taste, wearing loud trousers, staring handkerchiefs, &c. At the table d'hôte he always talks very loud, cuts off his h's, and puts his knife in his mouth. he is an enigma, and how it is possible that such a person should ever be found in Paris, is a question that can only be answered by the Sphinx.

But

So much for some of the people met in Paris; now for other things. Dining in the cafés in the Palais Royal used to afford great amusement to our minds as well as great satisfaction to our bodies. Here all the rooms of the palace have been redecorated, and where courtiers were wont to assemble, Parisians now go to eat their dinners. Lookingglasses and gilding abound; for no one here seems to be able to eat anything unless surrounded by mirrors and gold. About five o'clock in the evening the business of the day commences, which lasts for three hours; now the people pour in for their prandial meal, people of all sorts and all ages, and at first much it astonished us to see families, including all the women and children, sitting down to dinner in this Bohemian style. The men take off their hats and gloves, the women get rid of their bonnets and shawls, and all sit down to dine with as much composure as we do in our own houses at home. These people, however, never dine at home, but always patronize some different café or other; a practice that is all very well occasionally, but abominable when it becomes a habit. The carte for the day is called for, and then selection is made by each individual of his or her favourite dishes. Soups, à la Julienne, au vermicelli, or au macaroni, are called for, Julienne perhaps being the favourite; but then it is not the Julienne we get in England, for each plate has about a quarter of a pound of vegetables of a dozen kinds cut up in minute pieces in it. After the soup, some fish, a fillet, a cutlet, or some other meat dish, is desired, and followed by cauliflower, French beans, or any vegetable, served up as a separate dish; to which is added some pastry, or light nutriment. Then comes dessert of apples, pears, grapes, peaches, &c., with half a bottle of wine of a very tolerable quality. Now, what does all this cost? Two francs! an absurdly small price, considering the quality of the articles given. There are about a dozen cafés in the Palais Royal at which you can dine for the same price; and then there are others where the prices are three, four, and five francs, the principal difference being that more expensive dishes and wine are included without extra charge, whilst at the cheaper houses you have to pay more for them, they being called supplements.

At the Café Anglais, Café de Paris, Trois Frères, Very's, &c., you can obtain a much better dinner than at either of these places, but then your bill will often amount to twenty or thirty francs without your seeming to have had anything very particular. The habit at the better class cafés of charging separately for each dish makes a dinner very expensive, and when you never think of paying more than eight shillings for a dinner without wine in England, it often runs up to three times that sum in Paris, in consequence of the separate charges for individual dishes.

After dinner the majority of the Parisians pass away the evening in amusement; those who have money go to the theatres, concerts, dancingplaces, estaminets or billiard-rooms, cafés chantants, &c.; and those who have none take a stroll in the Boulevards, and then go to bed.

In Paris there are many more theatres than in London, although the latter city is six times the size of the former; but then the French, from their pleasure-seeking qualities, are a much more theatre-frequenting people than the English. Every theatre here has a long queue or tail, as it is called, of people at the theatre doors for at least an hour before they are opened, and this queue consists of a long line, two persons only being abreast. From its narrowness this line would naturally extend a great distance, and, to avoid this, it is turned and twisted on itself, so that it looks like a long serpent in agony. In this way all stand quiet until the doors open, and then instead of there being a rush, as at our theatres, all move on gradually, without pushing each other, for they know that, chacun à son tour, they will obtain as good places as if they had rushed about like madmen. The great obstacle to adopting this mode of proceeding in London is, that there is no room on the pavement of the London streets to allow a long queue to be formed on them; and, again, the English people would require a long time before they could be taught not to push for the best places. The theatres are fitted up inside better than ours, but we do not think they are so well lighted. The prices of the places are a little dearer; private boxes much less frequent, and, when there are any, they are generally let out in separate seats, called avant-scenes.

The Opera Italien, Grand Opera, Opera Comique, and Theatre Lyrique, are for the performance of operas; the Theatre Français is for the classical dramatic works of France; the Odeon is for tragedies and comedies; and the Theatres du Porté St. Martin and Ambigu Comique are for startling spectacles of the blood-and-thunder school; but the majority are those where vaudevilles, or light farces, in which people commence singing whenever they find themselves in a fix, are performed. Such are the Theatres du Palais Royal, Vaudeville, Gymnase, Variétés, Gaîté, Folies Dramatiques, Dé'lassements Comiques, &c. There are several newspapers published expressly for selling in the theatres, containing criticisms of the new pieces, on dits regarding the theatrical world, and programmes of the different houses; for here there are no play-bills published, so that you are obliged to buy one of these papers. The Entr' Acte, Vert-Vert, and Figaro, are the names of some of them.

The orchestras are always better than those in England, if we except the operas; and we certainly prefer Costa's Covent Garden orchestra to