the Lowther Arcade—but all the world is
familiar with the flexibility and grace of their
movements. But whatever they looked like,
those infants, who were the latest arrivals,
were certainly the most comfortable lot in
the apartment, and, contrasting their passive
enjoyment of the fire whose influence they
felt with the screams of the victims of eau
sucrée,

"——the philosophical beholder
Sighed for their sakes that they should e'er grow
older."

Young as they were, however, it would
have been a difficult matter to say which was
the youngest, for every second hour throughout
the four-and-twenty brought a new comer.
One of these arrivals happened while we were
on the spot. We heard a bell ring, and at
the same time saw a Sister of Charity leave
the apartment. In a few minutes she
returned, carrying something in a flannel bag,
from which issued the semblance of a small
Swedish turnip of a pinkish-yellowish hue.
This was the head of a child, and when the
contents of the bag were gently turned out
on a blanket, they proved to be the remainder
of a male infant just deposited. It was
immediately submitted to the process of weighing,
the test which generally decides the
infant's chance of life. The arbiter of its
destiny was a six pound weight, and we were
very sorry to see that the Foundling kicked
the beam. But though the odds were against
it, the nurse to whose care it was confided
omitted no precaution that might prolong its
existence. It was clothed and swathed like
the rest, and was assigned the warmest place
on the mattrass; and as we left the Crêche,
Sister Petronille, whose organ of hope was
very strongly developed, expressed her belief
that it would survive, for she had seen
smaller children than that who had turned
out something quite astonishing both as to
size and strength.

We now took leave of our guide, who
with some difficulty was made to accept
a small gratuity, and returned to the gate of
the Hospital. But before we were let out
the portress suggested that we might be
curious to see the registry of arrivals in the
office, the blank baby having just been
entered. We did so, and read the following
personal description (signalement):—
"October 4, 185—. No. 9. A male child; newly
born; weakly and very small; ticket round
the neck with the name of Gustave; coarse
linen; red stain on the left shoulder; no
other mark."

These are all the credentials necessary for
the candidates for admission to the Paris
Foundling Hospital.

"THE CORNER."

Few people are so serious in their amusements
and so easy in their business transactions
as the English. A Frenchman buys
or sells stock or merchandise in gross with
the air of being engaged in a deadly duel;
while Capel, who concludes an affair of ten
thousand pounds with apparent indifference
and perfect good humour, is only to be
found truly grave and unhappy at a ball or
concert.

Even the Germans, the most industrious
and penetrating of foreign travellers, who
dive into cellars, study life in temperance
coffee houses, coal-heavers' taps, and other
resorts still less known but not less worth
studying by the common race of travellers
generally, miss an exchange or mart, which
combines to a large class of Englishmen all
the charms of gambling on the Bourse, of
lounging on the Boulevards of Paris, the
casinos and gardens of Hamburgh and
Baden-Baden—at once a place of business
and of speculation to the extent of
hundreds of thousands; while to an unlimited
number who neither buy nor bet, it is a regular
promenade and lounge at least twice a week.

This place, hitherto overlooked by book
making visitors from abroad, is Tattersall's
—the Garraway's of horses, and the Stock
Exchange of racing men; where the
supporters of two leading national institutions,
fox-hunting and horse-racing, most do
congregate.

Piccadilly has been widened and beautified,
the Green Park drained, levelled, and
cleared of encroaching houses and gardens,
St. George's Hospital has risen to keep the
monuments of our victories in countenance,
and the mean suburb of Knightsbridge and
the dingy houses of Grosvenor Place are
rapidly giving way to palaces as gorgeous as stone
and stucco, with much money and little taste,
can make them. But one cluster of desultory
buildings, stretching their vast length many a
rood between Belgravia and Constitution Hill,
remains unchanged. Take an omnibus from
any part of London that will pass Hyde
Park Corner. If it be Saturday, Sunday, or
Monday in the season, at any hour between
one and four P.M., a collection of the red-
waistcoated equestrian genii, who are to
be found at the corner of every fashionable
street in the London season, will direct your
attention to the narrow and sombre avenue,
which otherwise it would be as easy to pass
as any mews entrance, and which is technically
designated "The Corner." Suppose
that it is Monday, the day of the sale
of the stud of young Lord Crashington
(going abroad), consisting of some forty
horses, including everything perfect, from the
pony hack to the dozen of thorough-bred
hunters, beside two or three worn-out screws,
are to be offered to competition. There is
also a celebrated race-horse, sold in
consequence of a dispute; a lot of well-bred
yearlings, whose owner, having prepared his
mind by twenty years of jockeying on the turf,