large book. "What title?" "I don't know."
"What subject, then, at least?" "It's all
one to me, if it's only big." "But, monsieur!"
"Pray give me the largest volume you've
got." "But, in fine, for what end does monsieur
wish it?" "To sit on—Parbleu!" Among
these are men who wear the St. Helena medal;
who knew the actors in the Great Revolution:
men who have seen much, and are entertaining
historical gossipers. As ready to talk as to gad
and gaze, or fall asleep—quiet little rentiers and
philosophers. They toil not, neither do they
spin, these rather seedy lilies. When the
winter is past, and the time of the singing-birds
is come, they transplant themselves to the
Tuileries and other public gardens. It is not
merely idleness, nor love of spectacle, nor
economising of fuel, nor yet any merely English
cause, that brings to the Hotel this sort of
frequenters. They are drawn hither by the
assurance that they will find others there.

Let the germinating shrewd observer of
foreign manners and customs, freshly arrived in
Paris from the other side of the Channel, as he
lays down his luggage and trifling insular prejudices
at his Hotel, hang up this axiomatic guide
poster before his mind's eye, thus: the chiefest
need and comfort and luxury of a Frenchman
are some more Frenchmen. I often think that
the love and sympathy of the French for the
First Napoleon, flow largely from compassion
for the loneliness of his exile in St. Helena.
Had he been transported to some thickly
inhabited part of the globe—China, for instance—
he could at least have amused himself, have seen
people, have talked—and Sir Hudson Low and
perfide Albion had been spared much anathema.

Up-stair sales of the better sort are preceded
by a day "on view." These exhibitions
attract numerous visitors, and are commended
to the attention of the foreign observer. As
he may in the market-place of a strange town
catch glimpses into the very bowels of the land
—see on what meats its people feed, and at what
cost, and gather thence quite invaluable suggestions
and inferences as to their physical,
economical, politico-economical, and et cæteral
conditions—so these varied expositions of the
"clothes" of society offer a certain subtle
measure of its wants, its tastes, and the mode of their
gratification. Ninevite bulls are pastured in the
cultivated modern mind, mummies are developed
in our thoughts, we unpuzzle the Sphinx like a
last week's conundrum, we eagerly grope amid its
ashes to kindle extinct Pompeii into life again,
we greedily inspect the porridge-pans and spoon-
victuals of deceased Anglo-Saxons and anti-
Christian Gauls. But, living French folk are
more entertaining. And The Hotel is a place to
study them, in the matériel of their life, and in
propriâ personâ. On Sundays, when there are
no sales, and ordinarily many expositions, it is
thronged with Parisians of all classes. They
resort to the Hotel as they do to the public
museums. Nothing is more usual than to meet
ladies there, prayer-book in hand, who have taken
the Hotel on their way home from mass. A
consequence is, that pretty pictures, decorative
female gear, ornaments, useful household wares,
and the like, are apt to sell better on Mondays
than on other days. The fond (or subdued)
husband, the indulgent father, the loving suitor,
the kind brother, the dutiful nephew even (if the
aunt be rich and aged), comes on the morrow and
bids under the impulse of tender affection, or a
tough imitation of it. But, bidding from emotion
rather than calculation, a counter-bid affects him
like a personal insult, rather than an obstacle
expressive of mercantile opinion. So his vanity
is engaged; and so the commissaire-priseur sees it,
and the crier—both of whom take his part, as he
seems to see, and the other man's part as growing
plainer to him, and are meantime impartially
eloquent to the house at large; withal they
grow excited and the house grows excited, and
the two combatants, who are already grown, yet
more aggravate themselves; and the bids grow as
Indian corn does in Texas.

OUT OF THE CROWD.

I AM what some people would call a disagreeable
old hunks; indeed I once, when listening
outside a door, heard myself described in those
very identical words. I have also before now
heard the epithets "crusty," "crabbed," and
"churlish" coupled with my name, while on one
occasion I overheard my own niece mention me
casually to a mixed assembly as "Old Grumpy."

What I have done to earn all this distinction
I am wholly at a loss to say. It is true that I
generally disapprove of everything that other
people like, and that I have an invincible
dislike to my species, but what of that? I don't
harm any body. I only maintain that man is an
odious animal, and I simply do my best to get
out of his way. I don't like him. Why should
I like him? Is he not always trying to cheat
me, to get my money out of me? Is he not in
my way continually? Is he not always putting
himself into cabs and omnibuses in order to
prevent me from crossing over the streets?
Does he not pack up huge quantities of goods
in bales and send them about London in
Pickford's vans, with the same intent? When a
horse tumbles down in the street, does he not
get in my way and prevent me from seeing?
When a house is on fire and promises a
magnificent spectacle, does he not always go and put
it out just as I get to the scene of action?
When I take it into my head suddenly to go to
the play, does he not occupy all the good places
before I can get to them?

This is the first time I have contributed to
the literature of my country. I don't like the
literature of my country. It is too genial—
a great deal too good natured, to use a ridiculous
phrase. I have been watching for some time
for an opportunity of infusing a little ill nature
into it—a little wholesome acid. I intend to
write a genuine "old crusted" article, if I may
be allowed the expression. You can do as you
like about printing it.