upon that of the Champs Elysees, which is a
burlesque upon that of Hyde Park. The
favourite covering for the head is a very large
white hat, with very long nap; which I
believe it is proper to brush the wrong way.
The coat is of the paletôt description, perfectly
straight, without shape or make, and
reaching as little below the hips as the wearer
can persuade himself is not utterly absurd.
The remainder of the costume is of various
shades of eccentricity, according to the degree
of madness employed upon its manufacture.
As for the beard and moustaches, their
arrangement is quite a matter of fancy: there
are not two persons alike in this respect in
the whole quarter: it may be remarked, however,
that shaving is decidedly on the increase.

The Luxembourg Garden is principally
remarkable for its statues without fingers,
almond trees without almonds, and grisettes
without number. Its groves of horse-chestnuts
would be very beautiful if, in their
cropped condition, they did not remind the
unprejudiced observer—who is, of course,
English—of the poodle dogs, who in their
turn are cropped, it would seem, to imitate
the trees. The queens of France, too, who
look down upon you from pedestals at every
turn, were evidently the work of some secret
republican; and the lions that flank the
terraces on either side, are apparently
intended as a satire upon Britain. However, if
one could wish these animals somewhat less
sweet and smiling, one could scarcely wish
the surrounding scene more so than it is, with
its blooming shrubs and scarcely less blooming
damsels, gaily decorated parterres, and gaily
attired loungers, the occasional crash of a
military band, and the continual recurrence
of military manœuvres.

Just outside the gates, near the groves of
tall trees leading to the Barrière d'Enfer,
there is always something "going on "—more
soldiers, of course, whom it is impossible to
avoid in Paris, besides various public
exhibitions, all cheap, and some gratuitous. On
one side, you are attracted by that most
irresistible of attractions—a crowd. Edging
your way through it, as a late arrival always
does, you find yourself, with the body of
students whom you followed from the hôtel,
"assisting " at the exhibition of a wonderful
dog, who is doing nothing, under the direction
of his master, in general a most repulsive-looking
rascal, bearded and bloused as if
hot for a barricade. The dog, by doing
nothing, is not obeying orders;—on the
contrary, he is proving himself a most
sagacious animal by having his own way in
defiance of all authority. This the master
attributes, not to the stupidity of the dog,
but to the absence of contributions from
the spectators. A few sous are showered
down upon this hint; which proceeding,
perhaps, brings out the dog's talents to a
slight extent; that is to say, he is induced to
lie down and pretend to be asleep; but it
is doubtful, at the same time, whether his
compliance is attributable to the coppers of
his audience, or the kicks of his spirited
proprietor. This is probably the only
performance of the wonderful animal; for it is
remarkable that whatever the sum thrown
into the circle, it is never sufficient, according
to the exhibitor, to induce him to show off
his grand tricks, so high a value does he place
upon his own talents.

Who, among a different class of the animal
creation, does not know what is called a
"genius," who sets even a higher value upon
his talents, who is equally capricious, and
who certainly has never yet been persuaded
to show off his " grand trick?"

You are probably next attracted by a crowd
at a short distance, surrounding an exhibition,
dear to every English heart—that of
"Punch." The same familiar sentry-box, hung
with the same green baize, hides the same
mysteries which are known to everybody. But
the part of "Hamlet"—that is to say, "Punch"
—though not exactly omitted, is certainly
not " first business." His hunch has lost its
fulness; his nose, its rubicundity; and his
profligacy, its point. He is a feeble wag
when translated into French, and has a
successful rival in the person of one Nicolet—
who, by the way, gives its name to the theatre
—and who is chiefly remarkable for a
wonderful white hat, and a head wooden enough,
even for a low comedian.

Nicolet is supposed to be a fast man. His
enemies are not policemen and magistrates,
as in the case of " Punch," but husbands—for
the reason that his friends are among the
wives. This seems to be the "leading idea" of
the drama of Nicolet, in common, indeed, with
that of every other French piece on record.
If it were not considered impertinent in the
present day to draw morals, I might suggest
that something more than amusement is to be
gained by contemplating the young children
among the crowd, who enjoy the delinquencies
of this Faublas for the million, with most
precocious sagacity. It is delightful, in fact, to
see the gusto with which they anticipate
inuendos, and meet improprieties half way,
with all the well-bred composure of the most
fashionable audience.

It is not customary amongst the students to
wait for the end of Nicolet's performances.
The fashionable hour for departure varies;
but it is generally about the period when the
manager's wife begins to take round the hat.

Any one who accompanies a party of
students in their morning rambles, will most
probably find himself, before long, in the
"Closerie des Lilacs," which is close by the
same spot. The " Closerie " is associated in
name with lilacs, probably from the fact that
it contains fewer flowers of that description
than any other place in the neighbourhood.
It is a garden somewhat resembling Vauxhall;
and at dusk there is an attempt made at
lighting it up, especially on certain evenings