turned down collars, over which were inscribed, "Chemises pour 1rs Communistes."1 On turning round the corner I almost ran against four soldiers, carrying on their shoulders a bier or tressel, concealed by little hoops about two feet high, covered with brown canvas, and evidently containing a human body. On inquiry I ascertained it was a sick soldier, going to hospital. The streets of Paris at once announce to any stranger that he is in a dry climate, inhabited by a gay people. In passing along them, on whatever subject I was reflecting, the extraordinary startling clearness of the atmosphere, which descended to the very pavement, continually attracted my attention. I used sometimes to fancy I saw before me the picture of a town with people walking about it, in which the painter, like the man who built his house without a staircase, had forgotten to insert the smoke. The air was as clear as, indeed much clearer than, English country air usually is. Early in the morning the roofs and grotesque shapes of the tall crooked chimneys were to be seen reflected in sunshine on the opposite houses, while the remaining portion of the buildings, as well as 1 Shirts for first Communicants. the pavement, which had just been swept, were cool, clean, and distinct. But the streets, especially the narrow ones, have at all times a picturesque appearance, the cause of which I was unable, for some time, to comprehend. After a little observation, however, I found it proceeded from the jumbled combination of an infinite variety of façades. For instance, even in the Rue St. Honoré, the houses are like a box of mixed candles, composed of short sixes, long fours, "bed-rooms," and rushlights; and, besides being of different heights, the alignements are different. Some of the houses have stepped a few inches forward, some have retired backward: again, some have attics, some have spikes on the roof, others neither the one nor the other. Some have balconies only at top, some only at bottom, others from top to bottom. Again, the shops are not only on the basement, but often in the middle, and occasionally at the very top of a house. There exist scarcely two together of the same height. Some have two, some three, advertising boards over them. Above the row of shops on the ground floor there exists an entresol, or low, intermediate story, exhibiting a stratum of windows of the most astonishing variety: one contains a single pane of glass, in the next house are seen two one above another, in the next two alongside of each other, then sixteen, then four, then an arched window. In one single compartment of the Rue St. Honoré, namely, between the Rue des Frondeurs and Rue St. Roch, the number of panes of glass in this stratum eccentrically run as follows,—20, 4, 8, 12, 12, 4, 16, 2, 2, 8, 8, 8, 9, 4, 9, 16, 16, 12, 12, 12, 12, 4, 12, 2, 2, 8, 2, 12, 8, 8, 16, 5, 2, 18, 12. Of the above the smaller number often form larger windows than the greater, and of those marked 16 and 12 almost all are of different shapes. Lastly, the chimney-stacks and chimney - pots are of every possible shape, size, and colour; and as the street itself is not straight, but writhes, its motley-coloured architecture appears twisted and convulsed into all sorts of picturesque forms. But besides this exraordinary variety I found, at first to my utter surprise, that the houses of Paris during the day actually change their shapes, and that an outline, which in the morning had been imprinted in my memory, appeared in the evening to be quite different, simply because every house in the French metropolis has Venetian blinds, which, according to the position of the sun, and occasionally in spite of the sun, at the whim of the inmates of the different stories, are opened and closed in an endless variety of forms. There is one other change which often attracted my attention. In driving through Paris towards the east, I always observed that, as the poor horse that was drawing my citadine slowly trotted on, the wealth of the shops, especially in the Rue St. Honoré, appeared gradually to die away. During spring, summer, and autumn, the people of Paris, as might naturally be expected, are infinitely fonder of their atmosphere than the inhabitants of London. Besides balls and concerts in the open air, in the boulevards, avenues, and outside all the great cafés, crowds of people are to be seen seated al fresco on chairs. The windows of the 'buses, no one of which has a door, are, even when it is cold, usually all down, and not only are many windows in the streets wide open, but they are almost invariably made with a contrivance for keeping them throughout the day ajar. But the climate of Paris has two extremes, and I was informed that in winter, just as if all had suddenly become chilly, the clear, fresh air, so profusely enjoyed in summer, is carefully shut out from almost every habita tion. THE ÉLYSÉE. As the ordinary Paris fiacres, which go anywhere within the city for twenty-five sous, are not allowed to drive into the great gate of the Elysée, the residence of the President of the Republic, and as the "entrée" is granted to those of forty sous, regardless of expense I hired one of the latter, and had not rumbled in it a hundred yards when I came to the line of carriages proceeding there. As my coachman, however, was for the occasion gifted with an ambassador's pass, we were permitted to break the line, and we accordingly at once drove into the court, in which I found assembled a strong guard of honour. On walking up the long steps, and entering the great hall, I saw in array before me, in very handsome. liveries ornamented with broad lace, several stout, fine-looking, well-behaved servants, one of whom took my hat, for which he gave me a slight bow and a substantial round wooden counI then proceeded into the first of a hand ter. |