a son of Rebe, another a daughter of Trovatore, and a third drawd injured, but Lady Edna won.

The Amesbury meeting was quite in a state of paralysis, though better things were said to be in store last year. The Brothers Lister were in the breach as usual, and won the Great Western Cup with Courier by Racing Hopfactor from Chloe, and ran second with Camomile for the Lady's Plate to Mr. Power's Pauline, which moulted none of her Ashdown form. If we remember rightly Chloe's Racing Hopfactor litter consisted of a dozen, and all save one are dead, so her puppy representation this season is almost a blank one. Camomile's own brother Claud divided the Druid Stakes with Lord Craven's Cognomen by Jacob, which beat one of the Calabaroono get in her second course. The Challenge Cup was divided between Charming May and Animus. The former ran rather wild as usual in her first course, but made a most brilliant kill in her second. Still she did not quite please the lookers on, and they thought that Animus by Bonus from Theatre Royal who went in great form, would have beaten her if the £65 had not been divided. This dog was second to Bab-at-the-Bowster for the Great Scarisbrook Cup last season, and was sold as an unweaned puppy at the late Mr. Thompson's sale at Aldridge's. We remember as Willie Scott held him or some other of the seven up, asking Mr. Warwick how many of those little mites he ever expected to judge over. His answer was "Perhaps two." Down running seems Animus's forte.

Sixty-eight out of 210 paid forfeit for the Bothal St. Leger, and it is a most remarkable thing that although 142 were running, Covet, which divided with his own sister Envy and Macdonald, was first favourite at starting at 16 to 1. There were eleven Cauld Kails in the fot. The dogs and bitches were not divided as they were last year, and the number of entries 15 less, while the acceptances were in a majority of eight. At the sixth round Mr. Hyslop's Covet by Strange Idea-Curiosity beat Mr. Wilson's Warkworth, one of the Rather Improved-Tirzah litter, and own brother to Better Still after one no go, and Mr. Murray's Macdonald by Chancellor beat Lord Howard de Walden's El Moro by Patent out of Jessica. Warkworth may not have brilliant расе, but he is a regular sticker, and ran nine courses before he was beaten. The Bentinck Stakes brought out old Belle of the Village and Requiem array, but the old lady after winning two courses was beaten by Mr. Barras's n d, Flying Dutchman, who divided the stake with Lord Howard de Walden's Elshikari by Elsecar. Belle of the Lodge, last year's winner, was disposed of by Fairy Dell in the first round. Flying Dutchman is the dog which divided the first Bothal St. Leger with Dr. Richardson's Mouse Ear. Morpeth was very full; the weather on the first day was fearful, but became very pleasant as the week proceeded. Hares were not very plentiful on the third day, and 26 courses stood over. "Johnny Hay" did not judge this time, and Mr. Boulton gave great satisfaction.

Behold us now in Paris! More than two months had elapsed since our Gretna folly. Our affairs had been securely arranged according to the Chancellor's orders; the Captain's useless, and my own strict settlements, duly signed, sealed, and paid for, and a fresh and more civilised wedding gone through, to oblige our ma's, and pa's, and our the ladies and gentlemen who live upon only what is right. All before us looked couleur de rose. Mr. Layhard's enthusiastic delight in me remained unaltered, and his warm-hearted friendship had not in the least cooled. Wadham's letters filled me with joy at his reception, and the affectionate adoption of him by his uncles, and my trustee; Mr. Nosyde's very plausible expressions of regard gave promise of future smoothness and comfort in the conducting and management of all family and pecuniary matters. This was the hopeful state of things mundane, as we descended at our hotel in the great and glorious capital of France, now nearly forty years ago.

Nevertheless, this bright prospect was mentally somewhat marred, for in spite of all my exertions to disperse it, the cloud that "lowered o'er me," and which had, upon the occasion of the morning after my return from Scotland, faintly shaded my love and happiness, still increased, and I plainly distinguished a dark spot in the atmosphere of my dreamy "castle in the air." To define it thus early were impossible; the cause was not even visible or tangible, and so I consequently placed the disagreeable presentiment to the effect of over-strained nervous susceptibility, created by the sudden change in my circumstances, and the excessive excitement which had preceded and followed it.

This, however, was not the only drawback to my ideas of matrimonial bliss; Agnes's great apparent and continued sorrow, and expresed regret that her mother was not with us, was certainly no compliment to my attentions, and I could find no possible excuse or reason for so strong and marked a desire on her part for wishing for the addition. Vexed at the oft-made repetition of it, I hastily, in my chagrin, went so far as to say, " Then we had better go back, my dear, and fetch her." To what extent this answer might be considered by the prudent observers of etiquette as off-hand and impolite, I know not; but that it was the right remedy, there ean be no doubt, as it effectually stopped both this, and other little complaints.

Of all cities in the civilized world, Paris is unexceptionbly the most inherent and engendering Revolutionist nest-egg ever yet discovered, or written of in the pages of history. It possesses

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no political qualms of conscience whatever, but is changeable a weather-cock, and on that subject is "toujours prés" for any kind of action. It is a city that insists upon having its Own way in everything connected with its own government, if it once fancies so to do; there is no medicine for it, but the bullet. It is the self-willed, spoiled child of its own singular ideas of 1lberté and civilisation, and its inhabitants are a peculiar or special race, dangerous when roused, " perplexed in the extreme" when calm, brave, bloody, end bold at the cry of" à la barrière," instantly indifferent to life or death, blind to all save "la gloire," national pride, and imaginary independence; heroes when awakened and let loose in blouses, effeminate when slumbering, and checked by "la toilette." Religiously, morally, and socially it issues its commands, directing and influencing the whole institutions of France, and those of a great many other nations besides.

These are its fiery elements, and in which it has often expired, but from which, Phoenix-like, it failed not to rise again from its own ashes of rebellion, and as history, both ancient and modern tells us, upon each occasion with increased glory and renown. It was upon a resuscitation from one of those temporary outbursts, wherein all the worst passions of its diabolical atmosphere were displayed, barefaced and uncontrolled, that I first stepped upon its Boulevards des Italiens. It had just recovered from one of those violent onslaughts for "Liberté," political fits of epilepsy, in which "les peuples" had gained the day, or rather the three bloody days of July, and had succeeded to their hearts' contents in knocking off his perch that silly, sly, imbecile, tyrannical Charles X., to stick up that fawning, plausible, cunning Robert Macaire, that last it is to be hoped of the sycophant, selfish, and worthless Bourbons, Louis Phillippe, Roi des Français.

How he treated them, and how he left them by the back-door with his old umbrella and pea-jacket, we will not here repeat. This convulsion again lasted only until the haunted city was once more entered in '48 by their "cauchemar la Liberté," which, to all outward and visible signs, is at present even more limited in its actions and independence than ever we await with anxiety the result. The change in other respects is undoubtedly for the better. Nous verrons la fin.

The effect constitutionally upon an Englishman, especially a young one, with a disposition for gaiety and those sports which form part and parcel of his national tastes, if not habits (of course I am writing of many years ago, and before our neighbours were so completely Anglicised), upon his first visit to Paris, is very extraordinary and depressing. He generally commences by despising all things, men and women included, that meet his eye. He wonders what they can be about: no one seems in a hurry, there is no pushing or scrambling to get on, no one seems to have anything particular to do; and yet, from the earnestness with which they address each other, the confidential whisper, and the impressive action of the hands and arms, there must, to his uninitiated mind, be something of consequence on the move. Experience will soon teach him, that it is simply their manner, that really there is "nothing in it," and that they are only discussing either past pleasures or those that are on the programme of the day; for he is in the para

dise of women, and the enchanted city of idleness and fashion. His next wonder, and a very natural one too, is, where do they all get money from? for everybody seems to lead the same sort of extravagant life, and business appears out of the question, to indulge themselves with so many luxuries, and such fascinating elegance. To learn that carefully-hidden secret, my friend, requires time, and an admittance behind the scenes up-stairs "au quatrième."

Your true Parisian lives but for outward show; he is always in the open air, he must be out of doors; indeed, to confine him or lay him up ill for three weeks in Paris, during the season, would be his certain death-warrant; therefore to guess where, when, or how he domiciles and sleeps would seriously puzzle even an old frequenter, an habitué to their ways and means, much more one who is seriously on his own trial.

But fresh causes of wonderment meet him at every step, and perhaps none more so than to find himself on his first promenade, as he fancies, "the observed of all observers," which will undoubtedly throw him into a state of alarm, unacquainted as he is with their character; this he will soon discover arises from that peculiar vivacity of eye which distinguishes the Frenchman from all other nations; and however disagreeable it may be to the young and bashful Englishman to be looked at, let me assure him that there is nothing in it," for he is absolutely staring at nothing, and is in truth so taken up in his own conceit, that the chances are, were he to speak the truth, he would tell you that he thought in his heart-you were all the while admiring him.

As soon as Agnes and I had completely settled ourselves, and presented our letters at the embassy, and made use of other advantageous introductions, undergone a certain quantity of necessary and laborious "lionising," and to a certain extent "done Paris," we gave ourselves up to a round of those pleasures which were unequalled for perfection and style in any other part of the world, at the epoch I am recounting. A reaction had taken place in the hearts of this vacillating, capricious people; they believed they had at last got the "right man in the right place," and that their new king was wholly and solely devoted to their interests and the cause of "la liberté."

Poor, weak fools! they had only once more sold themselves to the betrayer, and wound around them tighter than ever the chains they had so lately shaken off. Nevertheless, their confidence was strong and enthusiastic in their own election, the chosen one of the barrières, and the peoples' King, and the King's ministry, guided by the masterhand of Talleyrand-their political Vicar of Bray-played as they liked with these blind and willing slaves. Under these circumstances, Paris gave way to a succession of unrestrained, licentious fêtes. The glory of the three days, the heroism of the students, the invincibility of the people," the murder and the rapine that had accompanied them, the drunkenness and debauchery, the cowardice and the blasphemy, were alike thrown away and cast aside with that emblem of civil war the immortal and imperishable "blouse." Every species of imaginable gaiety and distraction was offered them by their cunning masters, on first taking hold of the reins-held with a slack hand-to induce them to "forgive and forget," and by way of tickling their

pride a most essential point" as a recompense for their undying bravery and independence."

Though somewhat subdued, this was much their state of mind, during their first Carnival, under the "King of the French." They were positively frantic with delight and excitement: they were literally turned loose into an irresistible stream of dissipation and folly, unchecked by law or license, and with no other chance or means of getting safely to shore than what little propriety or discretion they could pick up as it floated by them on their struggles to avoid the engulfing vortex which awaited them open-mouthed, of either ruin or suicideand perhaps both-for your true Parisian takes the former to heart, and gives up, demoralized; whilst the latter is almost a part of his creed, which he seldom fails to carry out, should he happen to be attacked by either of those demons-ennui or bankruptcy.

Intoxicated with the novelty of the scene around me, it is not very surprising that at twenty years of age I should, to some extent, have yielded to its fascinations. Theatres of all descriptions, the opera, concerts, and every other sort of musical attraction, were never so much in their glory; but the grand bals masqués had especial charms for me they were truly irresistible. There was so much positive fun in them-such downright joyous extravagance of gaiety-such a true true display of character-and unbounded opportunity for hidden enjoyment-that I confess to my weakness and passion for them. On the night of the last bal de l'opera of the carnival two London friends of very old standing dined with us, and on the retirement of Agnes late in the evening, it was proposed that we should go en domino to the bal. This was readily accepted by myself-the third, who was rather sanctified, preferring to go home. Now Captain Merryturn, my remaining guest, was one of the most original creatures in his jokes imaginable, and, cost what they would, he always carried out his fancies. Of a school far above the coarse practical nonsense of Waterford, he was, nevertheless, a far more dangerous and resolute "larker:" there was always some wit, or sting, or sarcasm in all he did whilst on the spree, and being rather Byronic in his notions-by whom he swore, having had the mighty poet's rooms at college-he stuck at nothing to enjoy his joke.

"Guy, old friend," he quaintly asked, "what do you say—shall we go in character ?"

"With all my heart, Merry," I replied; "but what shall we go as?" "I have a capital idea, Guy: that is, if you don't mind chancing a row," he answered, brightening up.

"Not in the least," said I, "if it isn't too strong."

"Well, my boy," he continued, "I have been thinking that you will make a first-rate monk. With your cowl and your sandals, and your rope around you, you will positively look sublime. What say you?" "There can be no great harm in that, I should imagine," I replied, ignorant of the law and the consequences.

"None whatever," returned Merry, laughing heartily and chuckling at my so easily yielding to him, "and I will go as the Devil, and we shall be hail fellow well met,' and the talk and admiration of all— especially in the grand gallopade round the entire pit. You know we shall have our masks on, so that no one can recognize us,"