Fifteenth, the well-beloved.  Ah!  Louis the
well-beloved; if you could only ponder over
my handful of change, and see how the seeds
of love you sowed, fructified into a harvest of
blood and tears, when the gross copper sous
of your grandson Louis the Sixteenth came
into circulation!  The obverse sides of these
three kingly coins bear also the arms of
France and Navarre: the crown, the shield
argent, and three fleurs de lis.  These were
the arms of France, but shall be never, never
more, I think.

Come we to the coppers.  Here we progress
towards something like an uniformity of coinage.
The monetary chaos on the silver side
is relieved by the sober aspect of these pieces
of one and two sous. But what sobriety?
The sobriety of Louis the Sixteenth, by the
grace of God, in 1779, trembling on his throne,
pricked by encyclopedical pens sharpened
with regicide penknives—of the same Louis,
no longer King of France but "Roi des
Français," in the "third year of liberty,"
1792—of the same Louis, backed with the
republican fasces and the legend "la foi, la loi,
le roi," in 1793—and finally, the sobriety of
these sprawling rugged two-sous pieces—
les gros sous of the republic one and
indivisible, cast from church bells, monumental
brasses, bronze candlesticks and palace gates,
and stamped with the head of a brazen
woman with dishevelled hair and a red
nightcap.  Stay!  One little silver piece
yet remains: so thin, so fragile is it, that it
has lain perdue between two of these
corpulent democratic pence.  But for all it is
of silver, and bright, and neatly milled,
and worth full twenty centimes, it is also
democratic, and claims kindred with Madame
Republique in the nightcap.  This little
coin is dated 1848, and bears the head of
a female in a semi-Grecian costume, a sort
of medley of Madame Tallien, Laïs, Aspasia,
and Mademoiselle Mars.  It bears for legend
the redoubtable words, "liberté, égalité,
fraternité" (similar inscriptions on the walls and
public edifices were unfortunately grazed
therefrom by stray cannon-balls last
December).  Liberty, equality, fraternity!  Oh,
liberty!—oh, Madame Roland, what right
have I to take your words out of your
mouth?

The sun has sunk to rest; the twilight has
commenced and ended, while I have been
pondering; and when I raise my eyes from
my handful of change, I am dazzled by the
gaslight festoons from the "Château des Fleurs"
close by, and light suddenly upon an animated
tableau of Paris by night.  Students and
grisettes are hurrying to the joys of the polka,
and the valse à deux temps.  Open air concerts
have commenced, which those who choose to
invest capital in the purchase of cooling
beverages are privileged to witness in garden
chairs before little marble tables, where they
listen as luxuriously to the strains of
Donizetti and Bellini as though they were amateurs
in their well-cushioned stalls at the opera.
So much for the aristocracy, but, the vile
multitude, as M. Thiers politely termed them
—in the shape of good-humoured soldiers
and bearded connoisseurs in blouses, are kept
from the penetralia of the café concert by a ring
fence, and pass criticisms on the ravishing
strains which greet their ears through the
leaves of the trees, and the fumes of the very
strong tobacco emitted by their and their
companions' pipes.  The highway resounds
now with broughams and coupés with brilliant
lamps, hastening to ball or soirée.  Franconi's
Cirque Olympique is surrounded by playbill
sellers and loungers between the entertainments,
while, from the open skylights, pour
enlivening gushes of equestrian music.  The
man with the dancing dogs has led his
dramatic company home to their kennel; the
proprietor of the rouge et noir table, with
whom the young and simple play for
macaroons and lose, has also retired—to try his
infallible martingale, I suppose, in the privacy
of domestic life.  But, the magicians yet
remain in full force; the vendors of elixirs,
unctions, and lotions, expatiate with the full
force of their lungs on the unrivalled efficacy
of their nostrums; the professors of electricity
and galvanism paralyse whole strings of
little boys.  Swords are swallowed, flames
vomited, duets and trios chanted, merry-
go-rounds revolve; we have all the fun of
the fair without any of the fighting.

Not towards these, do my thoughts incline
this summer evening.  Still, do I fumble
my handful of change; still, do I meditate
on these dull and mute pieces of metal.
Ah!  could some power endue them with
tongues, though but for a moment, what
eloquent tongues theirs would be! what lessons
of history would be poured into my ears!  Of
all memoirs, what could be more interesting,
more enthralling, more wofully instructive,
than those of these silver and copper tokens?
Who is to write the history of money, and
when shall it be written?  Who shall trace
the history of the widow's mite, of Cæsar's
tribute, of the forty pieces of silver with which
the potter's field was bought?

Of these pieces of money I hold, thou,
O Palace of Tuileries, lowering in the night,
with one solitary illumined window like a
glowworm in the midst, hast seen the birth
and the career!  Could the walls speak;
could the windows be mirrors; could these
inanimate heads start from their silver or
copper frames; what tales would they tell!
They are but emblems and symbols; and the
men of whom they are shallow counterfeits,
are dust.

As I muse, a gentleman who has stopped
to observe me, taking me perhaps for a
despondent lover, or a dramatic author
meditating a complicated denouement, accidentally
lets fall a five-franc piece close to me.  As he
stoops to pick it up, I observe that it is new
and bright; and the light from a gas jet