the "Corsaire," of the "Charivari," of the
"Patrie," of the "Presse," and even of the
moderates—such as the "Constitutionnel"
and the "Débats "—how many francs, in fines,
they have paid, and how many months of
imprisonment they have endured since '48;
and for the expression of opinions that in
monarchical England are held blameless and
unimpeachable. Truly, these facts are French
Revolutions of some significance.

I have already alluded to the use of titles
in France. Legally, of course, these luxuries
went out with royalty, Louis Philippe, and a
few other little things; but they have
gradually been springing up again, as wild weeds
will in a soil to which they have been accustomed;
and they may now be seen blossoming
upon the tree of liberty in all directions—like
the mistletoe upon the oak—but it is to be
hoped, not with the same fatal fraternity.

In society, Monsieur le Comte and Monsieur
le Marquis are everywhere recognised by
their titles, which are blazoned on their cards,
and bawled out by their servants in a most
imposing style; but officially, they sink into
plain citizens, and even the distinctive "De,"
as a prefix to the name, is not considered
purely republican.

During a country walk, the other day, I
asked a peasant, who was talking of a
neighbouring nobleman belonging to what we
should call in England, one of the "county
families," why he continued to speak of the
great man by his title? The reply I received
contains the philosophy of the whole matter—
"It is a habit," said the peasant, with a shrug
of the shoulders. Truly Conservatism, as a
name, may rest on a less secure foundation
than this. "Une habitude" is certainly a
most difficult thing to repeal. It is this
habitude that still preserves the word royale
long after the thing royale has ceased to exist.
It will be a long time before we cease to hear
of the Palais Royal; before the Rue 24
Février shall have completely supplanted the
Rue Valois; and before the Place Louis
Quinze shall have entirely succumbed to the
Place de la Concorde.

Among the minor changes, which may be
ranked as little revolutions arising out of the
great one, a certain change in the manners of
the people is not unworthy of notice. I do
not speak of the "I'm-as-good-as-you" air
that may be observed among the fiercer class
of democrats of all countries and conditions.
The general manner of persons of the lower
condition in Paris is certainly not insulting—
seldom, in fact, demonstrative of anything,
except indifference; but it is apt to be cold
and slighting, short and sharp, to those whom
they believe to be above them—to foreigners
in particular. If you ask a question of an
ouvrier, in the street, you receive, in all
probability, a civil answer; but you will miss a
certain deference that those of a better rank
are accustomed to receive in most countries
—even in England; where the shopkeepers,
at any rate, attend to their customers with a
degree of respect and alacrity that seems to
be almost unknown in Paris. This sort of
independence—which is not without its
justification, and even its advantages—has been
fostered and encouraged to a great extent by
the numerous Trades Associations with which
Paris at present abounds. These associations
are combinations of workmen to manufacture
and trade at their own risk, without the
assistance of the capitalist or middle-man.
Into the merits or demerits of the system it
is unnecessary here to enter; but it is only
just to point out one fact in connection with
these associations, which people do not or will
not understand, even in Paris. Their object
is simply a social and economical one, and has
no more relation to politics than a Joint
Stock Company, or a Club, in England. Yet
there are very many wise people in both
countries who shrug their shoulders when the
principle of association is mentioned, and feel
bound to fly off at once into a tirade against
Fourrier, St. Simon—human perfectability—
and dangerous and destructive tenets generally.

A great source of annoyance to the populace
in Paris appears to be the small degree of
respect paid to their characteristic and universal
garment—the blouse—at any rate, whenever
the government has anything to do with
it. Into the public picture galleries, and
national exhibitions generally, every kind of
costume is admitted—except the unfortunate
blouse. A man may make his appearance in
as greasy and threadbare and disreputable a
condition as he pleases—so that he does not
wear a blouse—clean and convenient though
it be. It is almost impossible to enter a
public exhibition without seeing somebody
turned back for attempting to infringe this
regulation. An operative the other day gave
the public a little "bit of his mind," through
the medium of "Emile Girardin's" vigorous
newspaper, the "Presse." He had been
violently expelled, at the point of the bayonet,
from the gardens of the Tuileries, for appearing
there without a cravat! In his complaint
to the "Presse," he declared it to be "very
droll" that from a garden which had been
taken by the people in '48, one of the people
should be now expelled for appearing in the
popular costume! This objection to the
blouse,—which is certainly inconsistent with
a system of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity
—is simply a police regulation, and not an
effect of public opinion. Blouses, for instance,
are to be met with in cafés of considerable
pretensions, and I have never seen them
treated with any disrespect. Indeed the most
ragged-looking citizens may be seen sitting at
their ease on the Boulevards, on any
sunshiny afternoon, taking their absinthe,
unabashed by the neighbourhood of the most
stupendous dandies that Paris can turn out.

Apropos of costume, the directors of one of
the numerous Vauxhalls and Cremornes in