CHAPTER XXXII.

CONTRASTS--FRENCH KITCHENS--SHOPS AND SIGNS--THE SEINE--TREES AND FLOWERS--A PRETTY THIEF--FRENCH WIT--FRENCH SILVER--THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

In narrating the incidents that came under my personal observation, and the impressions produced by many of them on my mind, during a residence of eighteen months in the French capital, I have to suffer the disadvantage of a lapse of ten years, during which some tremendous visitations have produced very disastrous effects, which may be attributed not only to the successful hostility of a foreign enemy, but also to the unrestrained and sanguinary violence arising from domestic turbulence. These unhappy events may have occasioned changes in the morals and habits of the Parisians, which would prevent recent travellers from deeming my descriptions correct or my conclusions reasonable. Having premised the possibility of a considerable social alteration, I resume, and shall advert to certain comparative qualities of persons in this country and in Paris, belonging to similar classes, presuming to recommend them to the consideration, not only of those who may visit the French city, but to all who are desirous of the improvement and civilized progress of thousands around us. Let me put some unpleasant but truthful contrasts. If I walk, between the hours of nine and twelve at night, from Stephen's Green, by Grafton Street, Westmoreland Street, and Sackville Street, to the Rotundo, I shall see from two to three dozen intoxicated females, and hear many loathsome expressions. On Monday mornings, there have been frequently upwards of fifty females convicted before me for drunkenness; and it would appear, by the statistical tables of the Dublin police, that the numbers have not decreased since my retirement from office. Now, without stigmatizing my own native Dublin as a peculiar locality of public impropriety, I would fearlessly assert that the English Metropolitan district is as bad, that Liverpool is worse, and our own Cork not better. The contrast presented to the reader is, that during a residence of eighteen months in Paris, and in that time frequently passing at late hours through quarters in which much poverty is to be seen, and to which great immorality is generally ascribed, I never saw a female under the influence of liquor, and never heard an expression or witnessed a gesture of an indecent character.

I ascribe much of the intemperance of the operative classes in Ireland, aye, and in Great Britain also, to the absence in general of each sex from the potations of the other. I shall venture on a narrative, which the stenographic talent of Mr. Hughes enabled him to acquire whilst waiting in the yard or lobby of the police-court, and listening to a woman detailing the misfortunes of some of her friends:--

"Mrs. Rafferty had just run out to get a grain of tay and a quarther of shuggar. Mrs. M'Mullen, the shoemaker's wife, had a few half-pence left after paying for a pair of soles and some binding; and was it not quare that they should meet Jenny Riordan just round the corner at Cassidy's door? Cassidy always kept 'the best of sperrits,' and Jenny Riordan stood for little Patsy M'Mullen only a fortnight before. Mrs. M'Mullen insisted that half a glass a-piece would do them no harm, if they'd slip into Cassidy's. Well, in they went; and just as they were passing 'behind the tay chests,' that all the world mightn't see them, who should be there but Kitty Laffan and Betty Rooney. Poor Betty had just left her sarvice, and had half a quarter's wages in her pocket; and she wished to explain why she wouldn't stay in that place, as her mistress was too particular entirely. They were all decent women, that never took more than 'half a glass' at a time. But they were all very genteel, and had a proper spirit; so each insisted on 'standing' until each half glass had become half a pint. Mrs. M'Mullen got home after losing the pair of soles on the way, and got terrible usage from her husband. Mrs. Rafferty had a little difference with Betty Rooney, and as Betty felt herself rather strong after the last little sup, she cut Mrs. Rafferty's head with a pewter quart that happened, unluckily, to be 'convenient.' Mrs. Rafferty put Betty's eyes into mourning for the next week; and the big polisman (I don't know his name, but they call him 'Coffin-foot', because you might bury a child in his shoe) escorted the combatants to Chancery Lane." Some more of the party were picked up on their way home, and taken to Newmarket, and were brought up to the Head Office next morning. The husbands of these half-glass takers could not say much about the matter, for they had a little jollification amongst themselves on the previous Monday, and two of them beat their respective wives very severely, for daring to go skulking and prying after them, and disturbing them, under the pretence of getting them home.

Such was not an exaggerated picture, nor did it deal with an unusual occurrence; but there was a vast difference between it and the indulgences of the corresponding class in Paris. There, if a married operative took himself to the fair of St. Cloud, to the Bois de Boulogne, or Vincennes, his wife almost invariably not only accompanied him, and if they had a family, brought one or two of the children with her, but she also assumed the direction of the humble festivity over which she presided. Then, as to the refreshments, no seclusion was sought: on the contrary, if the weather was fine, the open air was preferred. Their landlord, their employers, their neighbours might be passing, or perhaps occupying the next tables, whilst the Frenchman and his family were enjoying themselves. The woman shared the wine, beer, coffee, cakes, or whatever formed the repast. Their superiors were recognised, and saluted with grave respect. Their acquaintances were accosted with politeness and apparent cordiality, but were not invited to join. Wine was not much used; beer, of German or English manufacture, especially the latter, was the drink most desired. The man sat, chatted, and smoked; the woman occupied herself with the children, or perhaps with needle-work. The various incidents of a French metropolitan thoroughfare or pleasure-grounds amused and sometimes excited them. Intoxication and its concomitant indecencies and absurdities were ignored. A man could not but feel repugnance to excess in the presence of his wife, and with his children almost at his knees; and, moreover, publicity is an important auxiliary to the promotion and maintenance of decorum. In the British empire, the respectability of a neighbourhood is considered a valid reason against granting a licence for the sale of liquor to be consumed on the premises, in the vicinity. In Paris, there is a _restaurant_ in the gardens of the Tuileries, another at the Luxembourg, and two within the palatial grounds of St. Cloud, unless recent events have caused their suppression, which there is no reason to suppose to have occurred. In every part of France that I visited, I felt convinced that the policy was to have liquors moderately supplied to sober customers, and to impart full publicity to the sale and consumption. Amongst us the classes of society are separated from the view, and consequently from the moral influences of each other; and licensed public-houses in all our populous localities are provided with places arranged for the reception and refreshment(?) of the lower orders, where they may meet "no one better than themselves"--where they may skulk in and reel out.

I turn to another topic which involved a great and very apparent difference between the operative and labouring classes who came under my observation in Paris and those of corresponding grades in my own country. In the French capital, works were in progress of a most extensive nature. Great eminences were to be levelled, and valleys filled up; old streets were to disappear, to be replaced by spacious Boulevards, lined with splendid mansions. I was informed that upwards of 200,000 labouring men were employed in daily toilsome work, but to avoid any imputation of an exaggerated statement, I shall suppose the number not to exceed one-half of the thousands mentioned by my informants. As to those whom I saw engaged in mere labour, one look at their wrists and ankles--one glance at their weather-bronzed features and high cheek bones would suffice to satisfy any observer of the unceasing exertions incident to their avocations. Their necks were open, and a hat or cap, a blouse, trousers, shoes, and stockings were the only garments to be seen. Their clothes in general appeared old and worn; a patched elbow, a patched knee was to be seen with the great majority: but amongst them I looked repeatedly, but invariably in vain, for even _one ragged man_. I may mention that the words "_une leque_" (a rag) was considered amongst the lower classes in Paris as expressive of the utmost contempt for the person, male or female, to whom it would be applied.

FRENCH KITCHENS.

To such of my readers as may visit Paris, I presume to suggest that they will be amused and perhaps surprised by examining two or three French kitchens. The space appropriated to culinary purposes, even in establishments containing numerous inmates, is in general less than one-half the size of the apartment used for similar purposes amongst us. The cooking is done by "a range," which usually occupies one-third of the room. Covers, stewpans, saucepans, salad baskets, ladles, &c., appear on the shelves or hang thickly upon the walls. They are very cleanly in appearance. The French own Cayenne, but I never met a French cook who was acquainted with such a stimulant as Cayenne pepper, nor did I ever see it at table. Mushrooms are profusely used in a variety of ways, and by their extensive artificial cultivation, are procurable almost in all seasons, but catsup appears to be unknown, nor is there a specific word in the language by which it can be expressed. The French have been contemptuously designated "frog-eaters," but if you wish to indulge in a repast of frogs, you will have to pay as much for it as would procure you a far larger portion of turtle in London or Liverpool. The hind-quarters of the frog are the only parts used in French cookery. Snails are highly esteemed, and enormous quantities are displayed for sale, in baskets or barrels, at certain houses, which exhibit inscriptions that they are celebrated for snails (_specialité pour escargots_.) I tried a plate once, and must candidly admit that the stomach overcame the palate, or perhaps I should say that prejudice conquered judgment. I have never seen them served up to table, unless in soup, and my plate contained at least a dozen. I took one, thought it a delicious morsel, swallowed it, and essayed another. Nothing could be nicer, and down it went, but then my stomach suggested that I was eating snails. In vain the palate pleaded; I could go no further, and compromised with the stomach that if it retained the two, no more should be offered. I do not consider myself an epicure, but can easily imagine that a lover of dainties might regret that he had not been trained in early life to take, without repugnance, _a mess of snails_.

If you fancy corned beef and the vulgar vegetable which is abundantly used, but never named at our tables by lips polite, let your thoughts revert to home, and postpone the repast, until your return, for at a French table it is not to be seen. If you get a nice slice of ham you are at liberty to wish for a little strong Irish mustard to give it a relish; the French mustard is made with vinegar and flavored with garlic, and is certainly a very unpleasant contrast to ours. If you wish for pepper or salt, turn the haft of your silver or plated fork and help yourself with it. I never saw a salt-spoon or pepper-castor at a French table.

SHOPS AND SIGNS.

The shops on the principal commercial thoroughfares of Paris are tastefully constructed, and their internal arrangements, in almost every instance, appear creditable to the proprietor and convenient to his customers. Still, I do not think that Grafton Street, College Green, Dame Street, Westmoreland Street, or Sackville Street, would be disparaged by a comparison with the Parisian streets in which similar trades are pursued as those to which, in the above-mentioned places, the Dublin shops are appropriated. Perhaps I should not employ the term "shop," for it appears to have fallen greatly into disuse, and to have been supplanted by houses, temples, halls, emporiums, magazines, bazaars, institutions, and repositories. I like the old respectable, bread-winning word; and I cannot forget the expression attributed to the first Napoleon, that he overcame every difficulty until he had to encounter the hostility of "ships and shops." However, I fear I am digressing, and shall proceed to notice some differences which a tourist may observe between our shops and those of Paris. In my opinion, nothing proves the advance of education, although of a very limited nature, in Dublin more than the almost universal abandonment of signs and peculiar designations over our shops. In my early boyhood, few of the laboring class, or even of the domestic servants, could read. It was hazardous to send a messenger to Messrs. Worthington and Dawson, hardware merchants, 27 Thomas Street. Signs were absolutely necessary for those who could not read; so we had the "New Frying Pan," the "Golden Boot," the "Three Nuns," the "Plough," the "Raven," and hundreds of others displayed. Nicknames were sometimes advantageous to traders; O'Brien of Christ Church yard would rather have his till plundered than be deprived of his designation of "Cheap John." "Squinting Dick's" was an unfailing direction to a rich trader's in Mary's Abbey, where he viewed both sides of the street at one glance. In France. I feel convinced that the education of the "million" has not advanced as it has with us, and consequently signs and peculiar titles for commercial establishments are extensively used. In Paris the number and variety is astonishing, and in some instances very irreverent. That name, at the mention of which every knee should bend, is over more than one shop. Saintly names and effigies designate many houses engaged in the sale of mere worldly wares or fashionable vanities. A picture of the first Napoleon is displayed on one house as "La Redingôte Grise," (the grey riding coat,) and on another he appears as "Le Petit Caporal" (the little corporal.) Some signs bespeak the patronage of the aristocratic legitimists, others refer to French progress in the arts, or prowess in the battle-field. Some of the shops amuse by ludicrous propinquities. In the Rue de Rivoli one house, over the door of which Cupid appears persistently stationary, is inscribed with an announcement of marriage outfits; next door to it is an extensive establishment of baby linen. On one of the Boulevards, St. Michael the archangel is only a door removed from--the prophet Mahomet.

I have to enunciate a deliberate opinion, which to those who have not visited the French capital will undoubtedly appear extraordinary, and perhaps be by them considered exaggerated. It is to the effect that if I had to select the Parisian shop most worthy of a prize for comparative cleanliness, beauty of internal arrangement, quality and variety of productions incident to the trade, I should feel bound to award the preference to some one of the many shops belonging to BUTCHERS. In nearly all these concerns, whether small or spacious, it would be almost impossible to suggest any improvement. There is one belonging to Duval, in the Rue Tronchet, just at the rere of the Madeleine, well deserving of an express visit. An entire house is appropriated to make a shop, and nothing intervenes between the floor and the roof. Over the front, as emblems of the trade, you see gilded ox-heads and the horns of deer displayed. You enter on a floor neatly matted, or in summer sprinkled with white sand. The meat lies on slabs of white marble, or hangs from hooks of polished steel, and the scales are sheeted with porcelain. Stools, well padded, and covered with green leather afford you a seat. On the shelves, and in the recesses, bouquets of flowers and pots of the choicest exotics gratify your sight and smell. A fountain with a rock-work basin exhibits gold fish and scarlet carp. The cashier is a handsome female, elegantly attired. The aspect of the place tends to excite an appetite, for no idea of an impure or disgusting nature can be suggested by anything in your view. The front closes with lattice rails, which admit the air, and the meat in warm weather is covered with a gauzy kind of canvas which excludes the flies. If you admire a nice plant or bouquet, it is intimated that you can have it at a certain price, and the fish will be sold if you fancy any of them. Any articles you purchase are succeeded next morning by a fresh supply. One word, however, as to the Parisian butchers' shops. Never lodge very near one, unless you are satisfied to lie awake from about four o'clock in the morning. The beasts are all slaughtered at the public "abattoirs," the carcasses are conveyed to the shops on strong and loudly-rattling carts. The work of cutting up, cleaving, sawing, chopping, then commences, and to sleep, within fifty yards of the place, is out of the question.

The transition is natural from the butcher's stall to the poulterer and fishmonger. Their shops are far inferior in arrangement or appearance to those of the flesh vendors, but the fowls in France are uncommonly fine, which is ascribed to the feeding being _finished_ with maize and milk. I would back Paris against London for a Christmas turkey or pair of fowl. Truffles are an addition seldom seen at our tables, but a splendid turkey would be considered in France, a very ill-treated bird, if it went to the spit unaccompanied by the honors of a truffle-stuffing. I may here incidentally mention that I have seen flocks of turkeys at _St. Germain en Laye_, and also in different parts of Normandy and Brittany, feeding eagerly on haws picked from the foot-stalks and crushed in wooden troughs. What numbers of turkeys might be fed in Ireland by a similar process! Fish, in Paris, is scarcely ever of first-rate quality, and it is always dear. They eat many kinds which we seldom touch. Carp, tench, and perch are frequently to be seen at table, and the gudgeon is used to an extent calculated to surprise a Dublin man, in the vicinity of whose city it is most abundant, but at whose repasts it is unknown.

THE SEINE.

The Seine, which at Paris is a considerable river, not being affected by any tide, and also being protected from the access of such quantities of filth as are conveyed into the Liffey by our public sewers, presents always a clear, and sometimes a limpid, appearance. The banks are a great school of practical patience. There may be seen numerous anglers watching the floats of their lines, and tranquilly awaiting the bite of some unwary member of the finny tribe, whilst hours are absorbed into past time, but without pastime--not even "one glorious nibble" rewarding their perseverance. I have sauntered along the quays of Paris for an hour or two almost every day, and never saw but one capture, which was a small eel. The proprietor of the rod and line seemed very proud of his solitary achievement, and it was evident that he regarded it as an unusual occurrence.

Persons who rescue others from drowning at Paris receive from some public fund, either police or municipal, a reward of twenty francs (16s. 8d.) I have been credibly informed that it is not an infrequent arrangement between two scamps, that one is to fall into the river, and then the other takes a heroic plunge, seizes the sinking victim, and emulates the skill and courage of Cassius, when, "from the waves of Tiber he bore the troubled Cæsar." But the modern Cassius and Cæsar, if the reward is attained, devote it to a gastronomic sacrifice, and feast sumptuously on what was so nobly acquired. A young female on the Quai Voltaire, having excited suspicion by falling too frequently into the river, was told that no reward would be given for any future salvage; consequently the subsequent wettings of her garments were reserved for the washing tub.

TREES AND FLOWERS.

Perhaps the most general taste in France, amongst all classes and conditions of people, is for ornamental trees and flowers; you see them everywhere. On the Boulevards you find rows of the Oriental plane, acacia, horse-chestnut, hickory, catalpa, maple, and various other trees. Every nook or corner, not required for some industrial or domestic purpose, is planted. The yards of horse repositories or forges have trees or scandent plants trained on the walls; and in private residences, and the enclosures belonging to public offices, trees and flowers abound. Balconies and window-stools display boxes and flowerpots wherever the aspect is favorable; and even in northern aspects the hardy ivy is encouraged to push its verdant tendrils. In the palatial gardens and public parks, Flora appears to be not merely the presiding, but the monopolising deity. Great care is bestowed on the cultivation of those places; but it is worthy of remark and imitation on the part of strangers, that where an enormous population have free access, without any distinction of age or class, no trespass is committed--the blossoms are unplucked, and the boughs unbroken. Flower shows are very frequent in Paris, and are always certain of attracting a numerous and fashionable assemblage. I have attended on many such occasions; and my candid judgment of the gardens and horticultural exhibitions I have seen is, that profusion and mediocrity appear to be their leading characteristics. I can freely and fairly acknowledge that many of the choicest productions of our gardens, our best fruits and finest flowers, have been originally derived from France; but our cultivation, whether of trees or plants, results in a decided superiority. However, I have seen a vast deal worthy of admiration in their horticulture, and I hope that speedy improvement will attend their future labors. I shall now close my horticultural remarks with an anecdote which I ascertained to be strictly true.

A PRETTY THIEF.

In 1864 there was a show of fruits and flowers in the Rue de la Chausée-d'Antin, and the proprietor of a suburban nursery exhibited a collection of _orchides_, grown and blown to perfection. One flower was of surpassing size and beauty, and was deservedly considered the gem of the exhibition. On the second day, a young woman of prepossessing appearance, whose attire and manner indicated that she belonged to the industrial class, appeared to be quite enchanted by the splendid orchis, and her encomiums, and perhaps her good looks, attracted the attention of the exhibitor. He paid her some gallant compliments, and ventured to inquire her name.

"Monsieur, it is in the catalogue."

"Then, Mademoiselle, it must be 'Rose;' you are indeed worthy of the same designation as the pride of our parterres."

"Monsieur is right in his conjectures as to my name, but he is mistaken in the comparison by which he compliments me so greatly."

"May I presume, to ask where Mademoiselle resides?"

"I live, Monsieur in the Rue d'Amsterdam, No. --."

"I indulge the pleasing hope that Mademoiselle may permit me to have the honour of calling on her."

"Monsieur confers a great honour on me, I shall have much pleasure in receiving his visit."

The horticulturist became completely enamoured; he redoubled his compliments, and eventually requested Mademoiselle to remain in care of his flowers whilst he procured some ice and other delicacies for her refection. When he returned, Rose had disappeared, and with her his magnificent orchis had departed. The plant remained, but the stem was severed near the root, and the display of its loveliness was adjourned for at least twelve months. Furiously indignant, he denounced the pretty Rose as a thief. Proceeding quickly to the Rue d'Amsterdam, he found that the numbers of the houses stopped short by one of the number mentioned by her. He was despoiled, and had no available remedy. Towards the close of the next day, he was contemplating his stand, lamenting the loss of its greatest attraction, and recounting to his sympathising friends the circumstances of the spoliation, when a box and a note were delivered to him by a porter, who had been employed to convey them from a neighbouring street. The note was as follows:--

"MONSIEUR,

"You displayed too great a temptation to an ardent admirer of beautiful flowers. From the moment I beheld your orchis I determined that its artificial reproduction should not fall to the lot of any rival _artiste_. In the accompanying box you may behold your flower; and if you place it upon the stem, it will not wither for a considerable time. Receive, Monsieur, the assurance of my lasting respect and gratitude.

"ROSE."

The box contained an artificial orchis, so exactly resembling the stolen flower, that it would deceive the closest observer. It was placed upon the stand, and passed off admirably. The fair delinquent was not detected--indeed the search for her was not rigorously pursued--but copies of the abstracted orchis gained a general and deserved pre-eminence amongst the artificial flowers which graced the fashionable female dresses of the succeeding season.

FRENCH WIT.

Some of the lighter literary productions of the French press afford to a reader abundant instances of pithy and witty expressions. A stranger who has not been habituated to the language, and accustomed to think in it as well as to speak it, will be very likely to allow many sparkles of conversational wit to escape his notice, and may consequently impute more dullness to the social circle in which he mingles than he is justified in ascribing. I am sure that many ebullitions of genius totally escaped my observation, but I recollect an expression addressed to me by a cab-driver which I cannot omit relating. I had walked down the Rue St. Florentine towards the Place de la Concorde, when in turning the corner at which I had arrived, the driver accidentally let his whip fall. It lay just at my feet, I took it up and handed it to the owner, who respectfully touched his hat and said, "I thank you, sir; I hope that whenever misfortune (_malheur_) meets you, he'll lose his whip."

FRENCH SILVER.

I often thought, during my Parisian sojourn, that the instability of human dynasties was strongly evidenced by a handful of French silver, a coinage which has been left to public currency from the end of the last century. I met with coins of the old Republic, of Bonaparte, First Consul; Napoleon, Emperor; Louis XVIII., Charles X., Louis Philippe, the French Republics again, and Napoleon III. The silver coins of the Republic immediately preceding the last empire, have on the obverse, "Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité." I remarked to a shopkeeper in the Rue de Bac, that it was very strange the Imperial government left the coin of the Republic still in circulation. He took up a five-franc piece, and said, "_Liberté point. Egalité point. Fraternité point_." The forcible wit of his expression consisted in the double meaning which may be assigned to "_point_." It signifies a full stop or period, but taken as an adverb, it may be understood to denote "Liberty, not at all; Equality, not at all; Fraternity, not at all."

THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

There is no institution more worthy of a visit from a tourist than the Hotel des Invalides at Paris. An additional interest has been imparted to it since the remains of the first Napoleon have been deposited in a magnificent mausoleum immediately adjoining. In the front of the building, ranged along the terrace, and also on the eastern and western sides, were a considerable number of cannon, captured in war. I saw guns of Russian, Chinese, Dutch, Austrian, Prussian, and Moorish origin; but amongst them all I do not believe that the English artillery would find an old acquaintance. When you enter the church, your attention is immediately arrested by the flags of various nations pendant from the walls to your right and left, and placed there as captured trophies. On the left hangs an English flag. I asked, on four different occasions, and of different persons, where this color had been taken. The invariable reply was "Leipsic." I thought this very extraordinary, having always supposed that no English were at Leipsic, except a troop of the Rocket Brigade, and certainly they did not carry a color.

The Hotel des Invalides was under the direction of the Minister of War; and in the library of the War Office I have seen several rolls and registries of its former inmates. In such as relate to the period between 1700 and 1775, Irish names are not infrequent; Byrne, Bryan, Carty, Cavanagh, Dunne, Delany, Keogh, Kelly, Corcoran, Quin, Purcell, Redmond, Sullivan, &c., appear to attest the services and sufferings of the Irish Brigade. There are not many "O's"; and I am inclined to believe that in several instances that prefix was laid aside purposely. Scotch names occur, but not at all in such frequency as Irish. Of the occupiers of this splendid military asylum, I can safely affirm that I found them extremely civil, and by no means reserved in their communications. They were proud of their Institution and of the profession with which it was connected; but their conversations exhibited the human character in some thoroughly prejudiced phases. I did not meet amongst the veterans even one individual who had served under "The Emperor," and only three or four who had ever seen him; but all were well versed in the traditions of his military achievements. I had become intimate with Monsieur Turpin, the librarian of the War Office, who understood English perfectly, and he appeared to enjoy, as much as I did, frequent visits to the Invalides, and the peculiar feelings or sentiments expressed by the old soldiers, especially regarding the policy adopted by Napoleon, and the political and military operations to which he had recourse for the extension of French power throughout the world. It was almost an article of faith amongst them, that Napoleon was never conquered by any of his numerous adversaries. They could not admit that he ever committed a military mistake, or was guilty of a moral wrong. In Russia, he was repelled by the frost and snow. At Leipsic he suffered a reverse by the premature explosion of a mine. At Waterloo he was sold. At Paris he was betrayed. It was politically expedient for Napoleon to imprison Ferdinand of Spain, when he entered France as a suitor for the hand of his sister, Pauline; but it was infamous to send Napoleon to St. Helena. It was a noble idea for Napoleon to collect the choicest works of art from every capital on the Continent into the museum of the Louvre; but that their original owners should take them back was _robbery_. It was glorious to recollect that the victorious eagle of France had triumphantly entered Madrid, Lisbon, Berlin, Rome, Vienna, Milan, Naples, Munich, Venice, Hamburg, and Moscow; but that the European powers should ever think of returning the visit--that the Russians should have threatened to shell Paris from the heights of Montmartre--that the Prussians should have encamped in the Bois de Boulogne, and the English in the Champs Elysées, was a degradation, an insult never to be forgotten nor forgiven. After all, perhaps, these Frenchmen are fair specimens of human vanity, of human resentments, and only think and speak as we would think and speak if we had, like them, to revert to a series of astonishing military successes terminating in our complete discomfiture.