A VERY great many have written down their opinions,-published them too, in respect of the morals, the political rule, and the general appearance of the great Continental Capital. Yet there may be, and doubtless are, many curious people, who, however well satisfied on these points, still would be glad to know what provision there may be made for the material wants, in the French metropolis, and how a stranger is to avail himself of the provision; in other words, what a man eats at Paris-where he eats it, and what he pays for it. Having run over with the reader, though near a year has slipped away since,--the inns, pot-houses, and country roads of England, we will now renew the acquaintance, in arming it together on the Boulevards, and in the crowded alleys of the cité.

With just so much of French on your tongue, as will enable you to pronounce intelligibly Hôtel Meurice, and so much understanding of all the questions that are addressed to you, whether "Oú logez vous?" or, "Combien de malles avez vous?" or, "Votre passeport, Monsieur?" that you reply to one and all, with the air of a man who know very well what you are talking about,-" Hôtel Meurice"-with such stock, I say, of ready conversation on hand, you find yourself some warm noonday of French summertime crossing the last bridge over the Seine on the railway from Rouen to Paris, in a first class car. Had you been longer in the country, you would in all probability have taken a lower priced carriage, where you would have found a seat equally comfortable, and a better position for viewing the country; as it is, you are shut up in a carriage for six, which con

ED. AM. REV.

tains besides yourself a red-faced Englishman, in the corner, whose air and dress have formed all along the subject of your speculations, and you have congratulated yourself on so good an opportunity for observing the bearing of a French gentleman. He, good soul, enjoying the privation of talk, wraps himself in his own contemplations, imagining you, all the while, to be some conceited booby of a Frenchman. Had you unfortunately possessed knowledge of enough French words to venture a trifling remark, you would have received in reply only an ominous shake of the head, that would have made you inwardly curse your awkward pronunciation, and envy the superior knowledge of your companion; who is five to one-ten times more ignorant than yourself. If, unfortunately, you should at such repulse, take a sly peep into your phrase-book, and practice a little upon a short query, under breath, and so, with a good deal of confidence, make a second venture, you will meet with a shake of the head still more ominous, and a repulsive gesture of the hand. At this, you may well give yourself up to despair; and John scowls, and curses the garrulous Frenchman. Nor do you find him out, till you hear him muttering a string of good English oaths, at the Douaniers, who insist upon ovehauling all his baggage for the third time.

Later experiences would teach you, that a first class carriage is no place to study French habits, for the reason, that French travelers in general are better consulters of economy and convenience, than to ride in them: and further, that nine out of ten first class passengers are English, who will not speak French-often be

cause they cannot-and who do not speak English, because they will not. Can stronger reasons be imagined?

But to return: You cross the heavy, but shaking timber bridge-you drive through the bellowing tunnels, and you come to a stop within the walls of the station of Paris. You find your luggage upon the bench of the officers of the Octroi; you unlock, wonderingly; their long fingers probe it to the bottom.

"C'est fini, Monsieur; quelque chose -a votre discretion," says the Examiner. "Hôtel Meurice." The Examiner turns up his nose at you as an incorrigible dog. The porter has caught your destination, and puts your portmanteau upon the omnibus, and he has shown you a seat, and says, Le facteur, Monsieur-quelque chose-pour-boire ?" Hôtel Meurice." The coachman cracks his whip, the conductor takes his place. Mais, Monsieur," says the pleading facteur; "quelque chose-quelque-argent."

66

The thought occurs that your pronunciation may be still misunderstood, -and to be lost the first day in Paris! You seize your pencil, and write in plain characters" Hôtel Meurice." You beckon to the panting facteur; he gathers new energy; he reaches up his hand; you put in it the slip of paper.

"Sac-r-r-e," says the man-you turn a corner, and the poor facteur has vanished. Our companions of the omnibus are strangely disposed to smile. How uncomfortable to be alone for the first time in Paris!

What strange wax floors are these in the sixth story of the Hôtel Meurice, and what odd little beds, in which a short man cannot lie straight, and what a view into the square court-on every side windows, and in the middle a traveling carriage or two, and a strolling courier with a gilt band upon his hat. Below, in the office, are three or four men writing violently; and in the outer court, strolling from smoking to coffee room, are little knots of men, the like of whom, in appearance and language, might be seen all over England. At the table d'hote you see only English faces, and you hear only English voices. Flowers and fruits in very pretty array stretch down the table, and the dishes, surprisingly small to one accustomed to American habits of abundance-are served by English-speaking waiters. After dessert-for there is little sitting over wine at a French table-we lounge into the coffee or smoking rooms,

or out under the arches of the Rue Rivoli, or across the way into the garden, among the throngs that are wearing out the after dinner hour in gossiping under the lindens, and among the oranges. Nursery maids with flocks of children-old ladies with daughters, old women with dogs, old men with canes-are walking, sitting, laughing, reading-for the sun is yet a half a degree above the top of the distant Arc de l'Etoile.

At our left, upon entering, is a long, low, verandah-looking building, with swarms of people at little round tables in front of it, where they drink a half cup of black coffee and a thimble full of brandy,-mixing them together, and so dissipate an hour, at the cheap rate of half a franc. We will sit down too, for an ice, or a bottle of the light-looking beer that some are drinking; and so watch the swarms of passers grouping away into the shadows of the trees, and the vast extent of the palace, lengthening away into obscurity, as sombre and thoughtstirring-seen thus for the first time, in the dusk of evening-as has been its history. Here are journals scattered over the tables, if there were not richer interest in observing than in reading; and the evening drums are beating, as the battalion moves down from the Place Vendôme, and they die upon the ear as they scatter over the city. The loungers lessen at the little tables, the crowd go out of the iron gates one by one, and none come in; the lamps of the café are extinguished, the white aproned waiter gathers up the journals, and it is night in the garden, though in the city, it has hardly begun.

The heavy voitures for Neuilly and Passy, and the Barrier de l'Etoile, with their red, green and blue lights, are thundering by. And at going out, is a man with a strange tin temple upon his back, covered with crimson satin, and from under each arm are peeping out silver-tipped water spouts, like the keys of a Scotch bagpipe, and he tinkles a little bell, which means, (for he says nothing,) that for a couple of sous, he will draw you from his temple, a glass of what he has the assurance to call lemonade. Perhaps an old woman is hanging off a yard or two, with a tray of very indigestible-looking cakes, which will be needed by whoever ventures the lemonade, and the last doubly needed by whoever favors the old lady's cake. There is an understanding between the dealers. Gateways are favorite stations for them, and at all the

gateways in Paris you will find them: sometimes one saunters up the Boulevard des Italiens, sometimes under the Obelisk of Luxor, and between the fountains; and on occasions they are adventurous enough to appear within the aristocratic precincts of the Place Vendôme. Their customers are, in general, work people in blouses, small and unruly boys, who are led about by nursery maids, and families of provincial tourists.

We, of course, as strangers, and not knowing but so strange a receptacle may contain some stranger liquor, and still further ignorant, but that our smallest coin may over-pay the vender, regard not the bell, adopting the surer method of paying our two francs for an execrable punch compounded at the hands of an English factor on the corner of the Rue des Pyramids.

Among the first, and most interesting acquaintances, which the stranger finds at Paris, and they may be found in most of the other capitals of Europe, are the valets de place. The court and neighborhood of the Hôtel Meurice, are, we are able to say from experience, particularly favored in this respect. They talk English to a charm-they can understand the very worst of French, and say with an air that goes quite to the heart-" Monsieur, parle fort bien; sa prononciation est vraiment, charmante ?"`

How is there any resisting the advances of such a man? Beside, he knows the town throughout-the best eating-houses, the best shops, and the churches, to a fault. His conversation is piquant; he overflows with a fund of light and lively anecdote ; he is a perfect chronicler of dates and events-not barely those commonplace ones which have crept into printed histories, but his observations are more recondite; what, forsooth, cares he for such notable truths as that in 1770 a thousand persons were crushed on the Place de la Concorde, and that in the time of terror the blood ran down the ditches, and tumbled through the parapets, red and sparkling as wine, into the muddy Seine? But when he tells you, with all the energy of inspiration, some private details of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, or that the surgeons in the Hôtel Dieu cut off regularly two legs a day before breakfast, and gives you sundry memoirs of the dead bodies at the Morgue, you may well congratulate your self on finding so efficient an aid for exploring the wonders of Paris. What

is five francs a day to a man of such resourceful spirit? You want a book; who can do without Galignani's Paris Guide? He takes you to the nicest shop of the town, and at the naming of the price, your valet whispers you, in an under tone, and confidentially, "fery sheep -fery sheep, indeed."

Meekly you pay the price, and as you go out, our shopkeeper puts a franc or two in the hand of the valet-which is neither here nor there. Whatever may be wished, you will find the same obliging willingness on the part of the valet, and the same business knowledge of localities. You may find, indeed, from some good-natured friend or other, who knows the city better than yourself, that you have been paying double prices, no small part of which was in commissions to your valet, and that you have been listening to a great many cock and bull stories; but all this only adds to your lively experience of the gay capital, and should neither put you out of humor with yourself, nor your worthy domestic; for to be out of humor with one's self is always profitless, and to be out of humor with your conductor, would only give scope to renewed politeness in the form of apologies on the part of that individual,-afford him some private amusement, and in no way lessen his disposition to pursue a profession in which he is duly educated, and for which he has been duly licensed. ·

Whoever passes three days for the first time in Paris, without being thoroughly and effectually cheated--so that he has an entire and vivid consciousness of his having been so cheated-must be either subject to some strange mental aberration, which denies him the power of a perception of truth, or he is an extraordinary exception to all known rules. And the sooner a man learns this, and learns to take it good-naturedly, the better for his sleep, and the better for his appetite. It is done with good grace, and were better received with good grace.

Fancy the absurdity of a man, with a minimum of bad French, getting red in the face, and disputing prices, with a Parisian shopkeeper!

"Trop cher? Mon Dieu!" says the dealer. I sthink you pay vorty times so much at Londres: tenez-voyez-vous -ah! c'est magnifique! You ish long at Paris? C'est une ville charmante. Ah! sacre-quelle etoffe! la meilleur fabrique de la France. Trop cher! ah, c'est une

You, Diotima, know that I am a Phonician, by birth, of Sidon; though my father was a Cretan, and my mother a woman of Egypt. You see, then, by my birth and my parentage, I should be an inventor of improbable tales; but, rely upon it, the thing I mean to tell you is a truth; I call Hercules to witness.

It is now a year only, since I returned out of Bactria by the way of the desert, in the train of a caravan bringing merchandises from Sericana, a region far removed toward the east, wonderful, as I can affirm, for the ingenuity and innocence of its people, who are indeed the best of barbarians.

In this caravan there was a very aged man, a trader, whom you would have taken by his countenance for an Egyptian. He seemed to be the careful owner of a small but valuable stock of merchandise, which he carried before him, in a small bag, on his saddle.

On the day of our departure from the capital of Bactria, called by the Persians, Zariaspa, this merchant's horse fell lame, and but for a led horse of my own, which I instantly gave him, he would have been left behind in the wilderness, to contend with thirst and savage beasts; an event so common to those who follow the caravans, no one seems to have the least pity for the sufferers. Indeed, the traders who compose these troops are most part the cruelest and wickedest of men; such being the effect of their wandering and fraudulent lives. Without a home and some one to love and befriend us we easily become wicked. The old trader thanked me for my courtesy: "Friend," said he, “ thou hast a good heart, and the gods will not neglect the care of thee." I would have prevented his gratitude, by representing to him that I had no use for the horse, and must have left him behind had he not taken him; but he stopped my mouth with a proverb; which implied, that as I had none the less desire to do good, the smallness of the means I used was not to be taken into the account. "Come," said

"There is nothing more injurious to mortals," replied the old man, "than security. I will not gratify you in that particular. It is enough for you to have a good hope."

"You speak, sir," said I, not concealing my surprise at hearing such a strain of remark from a man of his appearance, "as if you were one of those wiseacres who pretend to divination, and predict future events. I have no faith in any such persons. If any man would convince me of his ability in this kind, it must be by something more than a mere assertion. I have known those who boasted they could see through stone walls, and be in two places at once; but to me they never gave any proof of their skill, and I think of them as of cheats and idle impostors." Friend," said the trader, with a smile, "I perceive thou art ignorant of the art of divination, and that no one who truly understood it has ever conversed with thee. For one master of it there are hundreds of pretenders; just as, for one true physician, there are an hundred, nay, a thousand quacks."

"I am the more incredulous," I answered, "because of all the celebrated names in that art, none have been famous for any thing but knowledge. They are either liars, I think, or the devil their master will not let them reap any enjoyment of their power. They are always poor, abject, and despised; objects of terror, or of pity, but never of love or of admiration: I would not for the world have any knowledge of their accursed science."

"Thou dost not consider, my son," replied the old man, "that there is a pleasure of knowledge, which is different from the pleasure of riches. To pursue both at once is not possible for a mortal. The art of