Paine, but I am not prepared to assert that he
might not have been the author of Junius,
taking a shady and secretive holiday, according
to his inscrutable wont. He wrote a book
about his travels, entitled, " A Rough Sketch
of Modern Paris," and he caused it to be
published anonymously, in a thin octavo, by a book-
seller in St. Paul's-churchyard. He did not
even favour the public with his initials, or with
three asterisks, or with a Greek or Roman
pseudonyme. At the end of four pages of
preface he signs himself " the author," which,
in default of any other explanation, is, to say
the least, baffling. To increase the bewilderment
of posterity, the work of this occult
traveller takes the form of a series of letters,
addressed to a friend, who is qualified as " My
Dear Sir ;" but who " My Dear Sir" was is
unknown to Everybody— except Nobody. At the
conclusion of each of his letters Mr. Nobody
observes, " As soon as I have anything to
communicate, I shall write again. In the mean
time I take my leave, and am, &c." What are
you to do with an author who persists in saying
that he is et cetera ?

Mr. Nobody, however, is not to be neglected:
for two reasons: the first, that he has drawn a
very curious and interesting picture of Paris,
as it appeared to an Englishman during the
brief peace, or rather truce, of Amiens; the
second that, his obstinate anonymity
notwithstanding, Mr. Nobody's pages are fruitful of
internal evidence that he must have been
Somebody, and somebody of note, too. He had a
wife who shared his pleasures and his hardships.
He was on visiting terms with His Britannic
Majesty's ambassador in Paris, and was
presented at the Tuileries. Mrs. Nobody even
dined there. Finally, he took his own carriage
abroad with him, and his letters of credit on
his bankers were illimitable.

On the twenty-sixth of October he left the
York House at Dover, and embarked on board
a neutral vessel, which he was compelled to
hire, no English packet-boat being yet
permitted to enter a French port. After a smooth
and pleasant passage of four hours, Mr. Nobody
found himself at Calais. As soon as the
vessel entered the port, two Custom House
officers in military uniform came on board, and
took down the names of the passengers. One
of them retired, to make his report to the
municipality of Calais, while the other
remained on board to prevent any of the
passengers from landing. While the French
douanier was on shore, Calais pier was crowded
by spectators, the greater part of whom were
military men. They seemed to derive great
gratification from staring at the English ladies,
and from examining the body of Mr. Nobody's
carriage, which was hung on the deck of the
ship; while Mr. N. himself was equally
entertained with the great moustaches — the italics
are his own— of the grenadiers, the wooden
shoes of the peasants, and the close caps of the
grisettes.

The douanier returning on board, Mr. Nobody
and suite were permitted to touch the
territory of the republic, and, escorted by a
guard of bourgeois, desperately ragged as to
uniform, were marched from the quay to the
Custom House, from the Custom House to the
mayor, and from the mayor to the Commissary
of Police. At each of these offices, examinations
— oral, impedimental, and personal— were
made. Mr. Nobody was fain not only to
surrender his passport, but also his pocket-book
and letters. The last-named were returned on
the following day. These little police amenities
coming to an end about seven P.M., Mr.
Nobody was then free to sit down to an excellent
dinner at the celebrated hotel formerly
kept by Dessein, now succeeded by his nephew
Quillacq— a very respectable man, who met
Mr. N. at landing, and, with the utmost civility
and attention, took care of his carriage and
baggage. The Unknown wished to set out on
the following morning for Paris, but, according
to respectable M. Quillacq, that was a simple
impossibility ; for, although the Unmentioned
had brought with him a passport in due form
from M. de Talleyrand, countersigned by M.
Otto, the French minister in London, and
backed by his Britannic Majesty's own gracious
licence to travel in foreign parts, it was necessary
to have all these documents exchanged for
a laissez-passer from the mayor of Paris.

Mr. N. accordingly passed the whole of the
next day in Calais, and on Wednesday morning,
accompanied by "Mrs.—— ", he left Calais,
with post-horses. Why won't he call her his
Araminta, or his Sophonisba? Betsy Jane,
even, would be preferable to this colourless
" Mrs.—— ". The roads were very bad,
particularly near Boulogne ; the posting charges
were moderate— six livres, or five shillings, a
stage of five miles ;— say a shilling a mile. How
much is first-class fare by the Great Northern
of France, in 1869? About twopence-half-
penny.

Montreuil, where the travellers were to sleep,
was not reached until sunset. Here was found
excellent accommodation " at the inn
celebrated by Sterne." The Reverend Mr. Yorick
seems to have been the Murray of the eighteenth
century and the beginning of the present one,
and it is astonishing that his publishers did not
put forth an advertising edition of the
Sentimental Journey. At Montreuil, Mr. N. (the
rogue!), in true Yorick-like spirit, noticed " the
smiling attention of two very pretty girls who
acted as waiters." He omits to state whether
Mrs.—— noticed their smiling attention. The
next day, through a fine country and bad roads,
Amiens was reached. The cultivation by the
wayside was good; the peasants were well
clad; the beggars were numerous. The waiters,
postboys, and landlords, were everywhere
remarkably civil, and expressed their joy at
seeing " Milords Anglais" once more among
them. Can Mr. Nobody have been a Noble-
man, and Mrs.—— only a shallow delusion
veiling an actual Ladyship? His Lordship—
I mean his Nonentity remarked that the
lower classes were more respectful than before
the revolution. The reason appeared to him