historical and poetical associations. We do
not venture this opinion because we would
ask of any visitor to emulate the feeling of the
royal enthusiast of Siam; nor do we even
object to the domestic sight of a private
gentleman's nursery being transplanted to an
elephant's back (where whilom rose a tower),
as he gravely perambulates the narrow winding
walks of the astonished "Gardens;" but
we cannot quite reconcile our high feelings of
his ancient dignity with the continual presentation
of pennyworths of little dirty cakes
and quarters of sleepy oranges. We feel—it
may be a weakness—yet we do feel, that it
rather partakes of the same spirit which has
corrupted (so Professor Key assured us in a
recent Lecture on Philology) the majestic sign
of the Elephant and Castle—into the Pig and
Whistle. The latter sign is to be found in
Liverpool, and as a curious instance of the
corruption of language, the Professor informed
us that it had originally possessed the high
and ancient title aforesaid.

PAINTING THE LILY.

ALL the world that is to say, myself and
about fifty of my acquaintances—were in
Paris. It was Easter, and a great gathering
of the idleness of all nations was making an
exhibition of itself in the Champs Elysées,
assisting at the fête of Longchamps. This
festivity—it is as well to say, for the benefit of
the "general reader," who is never supposed
to know anything—is an assemblage of the
elite of society, or of anybody, in fact, who
can make a show of belonging to that
favoured class—at which the fashions for the
ensuing summer are understood to be settled
and arranged. Feeble-minded persons never
dream of giving orders to their tailors or
milliners until Longchamps has passed. Those
who are more bold appear, during these
glorious three days, in the style which they
believe to be most unexceptionable, according
to the prevailing taste of the most
distinguished of their acquaintance. These,
tested by a yet higher standard, very often
find themselves miserably deceived; and, as
may be supposed, an immense amount of
admiration, envy, disappointment, and general
disgust, is given and exchanged. The only
persons who really seem to enjoy Longchamps
(with the exception of the satirical writer,
who, for obvious reasons, is in his element)
are the common people, who, at a respectful
distance from the principal promenade, divert
themselves with shows, billiards, and congenial
buffoonery, with a degree of indifference
to public opinion almost dignified.

I was "assisting," then, at the fête of Longchamps,
and, having bestowed two hours of
time and two years of anxiety, that morning,
in trying not to dress like a dandy, felt a
secret pride in my appearance. In order,
however, to appear careless and indifferent in
this respect, I took possession of the dirtiest
and most weather-beaten of those little chairs
which are such friends to flirtation and such
foes to costume; and prepared, not to make a
voyage round the world, but to let the world
make a voyage round me.

The first half-hour of the Englishman at
Longchamps is inevitably employed in
wondering what would be thought of the French
equipages in Hyde Park—where the French
gentlemen get all their broken-kneed nags—
and why, while adopting the costume of the
celebrated Mr. Chifney, they do not now and
then emulate his horsemanship. I had disposed
of all these speculations, and had been
further amused by the contemplation of some
more than usually absurd imitations of
English attire among the men, when my eye
fell upon a young Frenchman whom, I
thought, I had met before. As he was
dressed like an English groom, I knew him
to belong to the most fashionable classes; he
was, besides, indulging in a very unequivocal
yawn (Frenchmen do yawn now and then);
and, further, evinced sufficient good taste to be
tired of his own society. Our eyes met; we
recognised one another, and he seated
himself by my side. I had known him well in
London, where he had been attached to the
French Embassy, and had not seen him for
more than a year; having myself, during that
time, been figuring among the blest in what,
according to Mr. Emerson, is a "Paradise
of Fools"—in other words, I had been
travelling.

My friend having inquired after my health,
in which he took no interest, and I after his
family, whom. I had never seen—having, in
short, achieved the remainder of the amiable
untruths necessary upon such occasions, we
fell back upon nature, and by becoming
mutually egotistical, contrived to throw some
earnestness into the conversation. Amongst
other things of which my friend (whom I
will designate only by his baptismal name of
Auguste) was anxious to tell me, was an
adventure that happened to him immediately
after my departure from London, and which
had nearly made him a married man.

Interested in any events that could have
led to so serious a catastrophe, I pressed him
to tell me "all about it," being additionally
desirous to hear when he informed me that
his story would occupy but a very short time.
Moreover, Auguste did not, like many story-
telling Frenchman, talk like a newspaper
feuilleton; indeed he was half an Englishman
in language and turn of thought.

"It was not two days after you left
London," he commenced, "that I first made
the acquaintance of the celebrated English
beauty, Miss Walsingham, whom I remember
you had been vainly attempting to meet for
some two or three months. As a general
rule, one is of course disappointed with
celebrated beauties; but in this case it was the
reverse. She had every grace that the fairest
of complexions, the bluest of eyes, and, above