from the verses conspicuously painted up over
the door:—

"Robinson! nom cher à I'enfance,
    Que, vieux, l'on se rappelle encore,
    Dont le souvenir, doux trésor,
Nous reporte aux jours d'innocence."

On entering, we see Robinson Crusoe on every
side— that is to say, all the walls are devoted
to his adventures: we see multiplied in every
corner the well-known goat-skin costume,
pointed cap, and umbrella. Here is Crusoe
outside his hut, tending his flock; —there he is
shooting down the savages from behind a tree.
In one panel he starts back at the sight of
the foot-mark in the sands, in the attitude
of the leading actor of the Gymnase, to
express violent surprise at the important
intelligence conveyed to his mind by that
powerful print. Over the window, he is
feeding his goat; close to the door, he
notches his calendar, or, not inappropriately,
cuts his stick. He welcomes to the lonely
isle the astonished white men, beside the stove;
and once more steps on his native soil, just
over the mantel-piece. Crusoe is everywhere.
He is engraved on the spoons, painted on the
plates, and figured on the coffee-cups. His
effigy reclines upon the clock; his portrait
on the vases peers through the flowers.
So completely do his adventures seem
associated with the place, that we almost expect
to see him in his own proper person, with his
parrots and dogs about him; discussing his
goat's flesh at one of the rude tables, which
might have been fashioned by his own hand;
or busy kindling a fire upon the tiled floor,
which might also be of home manufacture.

"We are interrupted in the midst of this
inspection, by the question where we will
dine ? Where ? Anywhere. This is the
salle à manger, is it not? Certainly; but we
can dine up a tree in the garden if we please.
In that case we do please, by all means,
provided the climbing is easy, and there are
good strong branches to cling to. The garçon
smiles, as he conducts us to the garden, and
introduces us to the resources of the immense
tree in the centre. Here we are instructed to
ascend a staircase, winding round the massive
trunk, and to choose our places, on the first,
second, or third "story." This dining
accommodation we now find to consist of a succession
of platforms, securely fixed upon the vast
spreading branches, surrounded by a rustic
railing, and in some cases covered with a
thatched umbrella, of the veritable Robinson
Crusoe pattern. With the ardour of
enthusiasts, who know no finality short of
extremes, we spurn the immediate resting-
places, and ascend at once to the topmost
branch. Here we find a couple of tables laid
out, and seats for the accommodation of about
a dozen persons. A jovial party of the savages
before alluded to, in glazed boots, and
transparent bonnets, are already in possession of one
of the tables; the other is at our disposal.

The soup now makes its appearance, not
borne upwards by the waiters, but swung
upwards in enormous baskets, by means of
ropes and pulleys; and we speedily bawl
down, with stentorian voices— according to the
most approved fashion of the habitués— our
directions as to the succeeding courses, which
are duly received through the same agency.
Everybody now gets extremely convivial, and
we, of course, fraternise with the savages, our
neighbours. At this period of the proceedings,
some of the boldest of our party venture upon
obvious jokes relative to dining "up a tree "
—a phrase which, in England, is significant of
a kind of out-of-the-way existence, associated
with pecuniary embarrassment; but, I need
scarcely add, that these feeble attempts at
pleasantry were promptly put down by the general
good-sense of the company. The Frenchmen,
bolder still, now indulged in various
feats of agility, which had the additional
attraction of extreme peril, considering that
we were more than a hundred feet from the
ground. The tendency of the Robinsonites,
in general, towards gymnastic exercises is
very sufficiently indicated by the inscription
—"Dêfense de se balancer après les Paniers"—
which is posted all over the tree. To my
mind the injunction sounded very like
forbidding one to break one's neck.

Being already a hundred feet from the
ground, the united wisdom of our party had,
by this time, arrived at the opinion that we
should descend; an operation at all times
less easy than ascension —more especially after
dinner. The feat, however, was satisfactorily
accomplished, after a pathetic appeal on the
part of two or three of my friends for another
quarter of an hour to sentimentalise upon the
magnificent view— rendered doubly
magnificent in the declining sun—of distant Paris,
with its domes and towers, and light bridges,
and winding river; and the more immediate
masses of well-wooded plantations, and well-
cultivated fields. I should have mentioned
that we had to drag away the youngest of
these sentimentalists by main force— which
rendered our safe descent somewhat
marvellous under the circumstances.

We had now to decide upon our mode of
return to Paris—a work of time, owing to the
numerous distracting facilities. A short walk
was pronounced to be desirable, and a walk
to Fontenay-aux-Roses delightful above all
things. So we set forward accordingly— our
way lying "all among the bearded barley"—
like the road to "many-towered Camelot."
At Fontenay-aux-Roses, which, strangely
enough, does justice to its name, lying in a
huge nest of roses, of all degrees of deliciousness,
we were fortunate enough to find that
vehicular phenomenon—in the existence of
which I had never before believed— the "last
omnibus." This was promptly monopolised;
and my next performance, I fancy, was to go
to sleep; for, on being informed that we were
again in Paris, I seemed to have some