large number); those which require to be
specially ordered in the morning (not a
few); and you will find that as to selection
the remainder is not very bewildering—
especially when it is remembered that two
different names very often refer to one dish
or to two, with a difference so slight as to be
scarcely distinguishable.

Having thus, I hope, justified myself for
finding promiscuous dining in Paris
monotonous after a few months of it, I need not
farther explain how I came to test the
resources of the Barriers in this respect,
and how, in the course of not finding what
I was looking for, I met with the Père
Nicolet.

The Barriers, I may premise, are a grand
resort, not only of dancers (to whom I have
already alluded in this journal) but of diners
and drinkers of all descriptions and degrees.
It is owing to their happy attraction that so
few drunken persons are seen about the
streets of the city; and not, as has been
sagaciously inferred, because drunken persons
are by any means rare phenomena among
a Parisian population. The octroi duty
upon viands and wine entering Paris, was
diminished a few months ago by a popular
act of the President, but not sufficiently so
to injure the interests of the restaurants outside.
It is when  the neighbourhood around
becomes so thickly populated that the Government
find it desirable to extend the boundary
and bring it within the jurisdiction of the city
authorities—which has happened now and
then—that these establishments suffer.
Placed under the ban of the octroi, their wines
and viands are no longer cheaper than in the
heart of the city; and their customers forsake
them for new establishments set up on the
outside of the new Barriers—destined perhaps
some day to be themselves subjected to a
similar proceeding.

Meantime, on every day of the year—but
on Sundays more especially—thousands upon
thousands, attracted perhaps as much by the
excursion as by other considerations, flock to
these restaurants to transact the mighty affair
of dinner. Let us plant ourselves—that is
to say, myself and two or three congenial
associates, at one of the largest and most
respectable. The place is the Barrière
Clichy, and the time, Sunday, at six o'clock.
The principal dining room, on the first floor,
is spacious and lofty, with all the windows
open to the air. Nearly all the long narrow
tables—which look very white and well
appointed—are occupied by satisfied or
expectant guests. Yonder is a respectable
shopkeeper at the head of his very respectable
family. See with what well-bred politeness
he places chairs for his wife and the elder
girls; who hang up their bonnets, and adjust
their already nicely adjusted hair in the
mirror with perfect composure—not at all
embarrassed by the presence of a couple of
hundred persons whom they have never seen
before. At the next table is a grisette dining
with a young gentleman of rustic appearance,
with red ears, who does not seem quite at
his ease. Never mind, she does, that's very
plain. They are waiting to order their
dinner. The young lady stamps impatiently
with her little foot upon the floor, and strikes
a glass with a fork to attract the attention of
a waiter—a practice that is considered underbred
by fastidious persons; and which, to
be sure, one does not observe at the Trois
Frères. The garçon at length arrives, and
the young lady pours into his ear a voluble
order;—a flood of Jullienne soup and a bottle
of anything but ordinaire wine, corking it
down with a long array of solid matters to
correspond. The young gentleman with the
red ears, meantime, grins nervously; and
indeed does little else during a very long
dinner, making up, however, for the
subordinate part he has hitherto played, by
paying the bill. Round the room are scattered
similar parties, arranged variously. Now a
lady and gentleman—then a gentleman alone
—then a lady alone (who partakes of everything
with great gravity and decorum); then
two ladies together, who exchange confidences
with mysterious gestures, show one another
little letters, and are a little lavish in the
article of curaçoa; then two gentlemen,
together, who are talking about the two
ladies, exchange a glance with one of them,
and depart.

Such is a specimen of the society usually to
be met with at a dinner outside the Barriers.
If you wish to exchange a little for the worse,
you will not find the process very difficult.
In the restaurants of a lower class, there is a
greater preponderance of cold veal and fried
potatoes among the viands, and of blouses
among the guests. The wine, too, is rougher,
and what Englishmen call fruity. You will be
amused, too, during dinner, by musical
performers (who walk in promiscuously from the
street), conjurors, and other ingenious persons
—some of whom whistle duets with imaginary
birds, which they are supposed to carry in
their pockets, and imitate the noises of
various animals with a fidelity which I have
seldom known equalled.

The sun is setting as I stroll forth with my
friends along the exterior Boulevards, rather
dull, as becomes inhabitants of our beloved
island, and anxious for "something to turn
up" to amuse us. One proposes a visit to a
suburban ball; another, an irruption into a
select wedding party, which is making a great
noise in a large house adjacent, where dancing
may be seen through the open windows. The
last proposition is negatived on the ground
that we are not friends of the family, and
might possibly be ejected with ignominy. I
had myself, by the way, assisted at one of these
entertainments a few days previously. It
had been given by my laundress, on the
occasion of the marriage of one of her "young
ladies" with a youth belonging to my hotel