Here I recognised the "Major." Suddenly
interrupting him, I said, "You don't come to
me again about that young man Hawkesworth,
do you?"

"That is exactly my errand, Sir!"

"Then," I said, indignantly, "you will be
kind enough, another time, not to take me by
the hand, nor to address me with such
unauthorised familiarity."

"Not take you by the hand, and why not,
Sir? My name is Howard. I am a Royal
Academician. I reside at Cloudesley Terrace,
Hammersmith; and I often have the honour
to take Sir Robert Peel by the hand, and to
dine at his table."

I charged the fellow with having personated
the Major, the father of Hawkesbury, and the
relative of a baronet. With unblushing hardihood,
he affirmed that I laboured under a
delusion. He had never stated himself to be
"the father" of the young man, but "the
intimate friend of the father," and, turning to
the magistrate (whom I had addressed by
name in his hearing), he solicited the honour
of a visit from him at "Cloudesley Terrace,
Hammersmith," where he should be happy to
see him, and disabuse his mind of all suspicion,
by proving to him his real name and station.
Thereupon, making me a cold and stately bow,
he withdrew.

As I had supposed, on sending to inquire,
neither Cloudesley Terrace, nor Mr. Howard,
were to be found in or near Hammersmith.
The subsequent career of these two worthies
is soon told. They went on thriftily in their
nefarious calling for a few years longer, until,
at length, they were apprehended, at Cowes,
for picking pockets at a ball of the Yacht
Club, to which, doubtless, they had gained
admission by finesse. They were taken before
the local magistracy, and committed for trial
at the ensuing session or assizes. With great
despatch they sued out a writ of habeas
corpus, and were, in consequence, taken
before a Judge in Chambers, in London, who
allowed them to be bailed; but the two
fashionable scoundrels decamped to America,
doubtless preferring the sacrifice of their
bonds to the all but inevitable certainty of
transportation.

A BALL AT THE BARRIERS.

THE visitor to Paris who has only seen the
lions, has seen nothing. Though he hunt
them with the avidity of Mr. Gordon
Cumming, it is with this difference— that he kills
nothing but time. For all the knowledge he
gains of his own species, he might as well
remain by his own fireside, cramming
Galignani's "Guide" for his facts, and cultivating
his French accent by means of a pronouncing
dictionary. Let him who would gain a knowledge
of national characteristics, seek it—not
in the English hotels—not even at the "best
houses" in private society; for, in the first,
he will find himself in only a transplanted
Piccadilly; and in the second, as among the
better classes of all nations, he will observe
no very perceptible difference of manners and
customs. Indeed, these places are in what
the author of "Eöthen" would call a state of
"utter civilisation;" the knives, for instance,
are positively fit for use, and even salt-spoons
are not absolutely unknown. Let the student
of character betake himself, then, to the
haunts of the "common people," with whom,
if it is in the Quartier Latin, the students are
usually associated. Here, in the quarter in
question, the aborigines unite with a few
civilised customs the charm and simplicity of
savage life. The contaminating influence of
railroads and steamboats, and the diffusion of
knowledge, have been scarcely felt. The
people talk, walk,— and shall we say?— dress,
as if they had never heard of the Champs
Elysées, or even of the Palais Royal. The
conventional is unrespected or unknown.
Human nature falls back upon itself; lives
in seventh stories; keeps its hands in its
pockets; spurns pomade; and addicts itself
to short pipes. The general characteristics
of the neighbourhood, in short, are those of
an Arcadia, with gas-lights and a dash of
slang.

The mention of Arcadia, by the way, is
suggestive of the pastoral amusement of
dancing; and dancing, by an association of
ideas inevitable in the Quartier Latin, leads
us direct to the outside of one of the Barriers,
whence, leaving the last taint of the city
behind, we emerge into a paradise of rustic
simplicity and cheap wine. Of these two
attractions, by the way, it must be confessed
that the latter has the greatest number of
votaries in the quarter: certain it is, that
while deriving equal benefit from the
ordinaire wine and extraordinaire simplicity of
the locality, the visitor generally brings home
with him a larger amount of the one than of
the other.

Let us suppose the particular paradise to
be the Barrière du Mont Parnasse, and the
particular occasion a ball-night. The
inevitable impression of the Englishman who
knows what he conceives to be a turnpike
turned into a barrack, is that he is entering
Greenwich Fair. To be sure, there are
neither booths nor beer (in an English sense),
and the majority of the persons are not
intoxicated. But there are the same sweet
scents of oil, sawdust, and tobacco; the same
streaming-coloured lamps; the same vendors
of curious condiments for the temptation of
the appetite; and the same opportunity for
the purchase of everything that one doesn't
want, at ruinously low charges to the buyer.
The rival bands of musicians, too, are as
energetic in their performance of opposing
polkas as the most devoted Greenwichite
could desire.

In one respect, however, there is no
resemblance whatever, and this is one in which the