MY DEAR DE VERMONT,

Paris.

IN your last Letter, you complain so heavily of the inconsistencies which you have remarked in our national character, and you express so much wonder at the discovery, that I suspect you went to England with most exaggerated and mistaken ideas of our perfectability. -I fear we have no pretensions to the reputation of being free from the common failings of humanity; yet I think that the longer you reside in Great Britain the more you will be convinced, that no country ever attained so high a degree of civilization with morals so little corrupted.

Vanity is so potent a stimulus, that you rightly attribute to its dictates the excessive homage paid to rank in the private societies of London. Lords, dukes, and even princes are really not more respected than the rest of their fellow subjects; and in the numberless journals, pamphlets, and other publications which issue daily from the press, you will find that these high titled personages are much oftener made the object of attack than that of commendation. Indeed, of all classes, their's is the one which is most exposed to scandalous invective and satirical abuse.

The cause of that deference which is paid to them in certain houses is the selfish calculation of the owners, who, by the basest adulation, purchase the appearance of the great at their entertainments, in order to bestow on themselves a borrowed splendour, while they appear to be the associates and consequently in some degree the equals of those distinguished individuals. In short, as the champaigne sparkles in their Grecian vases, and the gold glitters on their servants' liveries, not for the enjoyment or convenience of the guests, but in order to impress on their minds the wealth of their host, so these grandees are flattered and

invited to their festive boards, not from any attachment to their persons, or from any respect for their station, but for the purpose of exciting the admiration of the rest of the company, and in the hope of making them believe that they, who live thus familiarly with the first characters in the Metropolis, must be themselves persons of no little importance.

I have said so much, not by way of justification of such faults (for they are neither to be excused nor justified,) but in order to do justice to your penetration in attributing them to the vanity of the parties, which is the real cause of all such absurdities.

But if you are surprised at seeing the nobles of the earth treated with so much respect by the sons of freedom, I am not less so at remarking the gloom and formality which reign in the private circles of this capital, which is generally considered as the very centre of gaiety.

I must begin with acknowledging that nothing can be livelier than the appearance of the streets and public promenades; and one of my most agreeable occupations is that of observing the motley, merry crowds, who hasten to their favourite haunts as soon as a brilliant sun tempts them to leave their houses.

If I take a turn into the Garden of the Thuilleries, 1 find persons of both sexes and of all ages, ranks and countries in the world, enjoying the pleasures of that delightful spot. While the young, the active, and the handsome, accoutred in all the extreme of the fashion, trip lightly along the terraces, or join the more brilliant circle of the Grand Alley, I see older persons under the shade of those magnificent trees, which prevent the heat of the hottest sun from being felt, seated on chairs, and reading the daily newspapers, both of which conveniences are always to be had here for a few sous.

If I extend my walk to the Champs Elysées, Imeet carriages of every description, from the fiacre, the cabriolet, and still humbler diligence of St. Cloud, Marli, or Versailles, to the most elegant English equipage; while numerous parties of the smartest beaux and belles of Paris gallop by me on horseback, all hurrying away to the Bois de Boulogne, and all displaying in their countenances a vivacity truly French.

If, instead of accompanying this gay cavalcade any farther, I return by the side of the river, I see on the quays another class of people, less elegantly dressed but not less disposed to pleasure; while formed in groups, some laugh at the wit of punch, some play at balls for oranges, some witness the performance of a learned dog, some collect round the vendors of prints, maps, and caricatures, and some listen in mute and anxious attention to the noisy eloquence of a lace-coated mountebank, who, while vaunting the infallible effect of his proffered pill, promises them a cure for all their different infirmities.

If I then visit the Palais Royal, (which I am told some of your countrymen style the metropolis of Paris, as others call Paris the capital of the world,) I find an equally gay crowd, formed of persons presenting the utmost diversity of character, Here it is difficult to force one's way amidst soldiers, abbés, women of the town, and women of fashion, powdered beaux of the old régime, and black-haired and black-whiskered heroes of the new school, Knights of the Post, and Knights of all the Orders of Christendom, displaying the badges of their respective honors, though worn in many instances on coats whose torn sleeves and discoloured hues are little in unison with these splendid decorations; and the crowd of French people of every description is almost equalled by that of foreigners of all nations under the sun. Turks, Jews, Germans, Russians, Greeks, and Englishmen, who come hither to stare at the articles displayed in the manycoloured shops,-to eat ice-dinedrink coffee to be cheated in purchasing clothes, books, or trinketsto lose their money at the gamingtables, or their health at some of

the various temples of vice, which abound in these purlieus,

If I next wander to the Boulevard, I witness a similar scene of general gaity. Indeed, I know not any sight more delightful than that promenade towards the close of a fine daythe string of carriages in the centre filled with elegant and well-dressed women, and under the avenue of lofty trees on each side the numerous parties of chattering pedestrians, and the picturesque groupes formed of distinct family circles,or friendly coteries, and seated on chairs near the Cafe Hardi, who seem here, while breathing the pure air, to enjoy all the pleasures of social converse. Farther on, the stalls covered with books, prints, and baubles of every kind, which arrest for a moment the lounger's attention, which is soon withdrawn to the poodle dogs, foreign birds, quack medicines, or forbidden pamphlets, which are forced before his eye or recommended in whispers to his ear by their importunate vendors. These objects, the animated countenances of the pedestrians, the well lighted coffee-houses, and the shops, hotels, baths, panoramas, theatres, puppet-shews, fountains, and triumphal arches, all found on the Boulevard, present together such a picture. of variegated liveliness, that the stranger is bewildered in beholding it, and on leaving it he only retains a general idea of having visited a spot peculiarly consecrated to pleasure.

And now to the subject of your soirees or evening parties. After spending an hour in one of the promenades which I have just described, when I repair to an assembly given by some of the many distinguished personages to whom you have had the goodness to introduce me, I can not help observing the contrast which presents itself. The stiff curtsey, and cold" Bon soir, Monsieur,' with which, half rising from her chair, the mistress of the house receives me; the two equal rows of armed chairs which divide the room, and in which her female guests are ranged side by side, (reminding me of the no less formal avenues of trees by which your ancient Chateaux are approached) the dispersed parties of men, talking politics in suppressed tones of voice, and the total absence of that noise and loco

motion to which we are accustomed on similiar occasions in England, make a party of this kind appear to me the very personification of ennui. Yet the natives of different nations vary so much in their opinion on such subjects, that I heard a French Duchess, by way of apology for refusing to receive one of our countrywomen at ses soirées observe, "I will have no more English ladies at my house, for they will not stay in their places, but bustle about, and thus convert one of our elegant Parisian circles into a London rout, which ought more properly to be called a London mob.'

A foreigner finds himself much embarrassed in going into one of these soirées. After making his bow, what is he to do? If he happens to be acquainted with any one of the ladies who sit in awful state in the centre of the saloon, and has the courage to approach her, the conversation which he may begin on the weather, the spectacle or the last novel, is soon ended by a chilling oui, or non, Monsieur; and he is again left to seek occupation. If he then attempt to address some of the gentlemen whom he sees talking together, he probably receives as laconic a reply; and so adieu to all chance of amusement for that evening.

Indeed, a few nights since, finding myself at one of these assemblies near a groupe of quid-nuncs, who were discussing your late and present mode of electing the members of the Corps Legislatif, I continued a patient listener for more than an hour; expecting every moment that, as the subject was one on which an Englishman might be supposed qualified to give some useful information, a question or an observation would have been addressed to me, by which means I should have had an apology for joining in the conversation; but none of the talkers condescended to take the least notice of the foreigner who had ventured to become the auditor of their harangues, by which, no doubt, they thought he was highly edified.

Now whether it arises from national jealousy, or from the hatred engendered by the late war and the peculiar circumstance which attended its close, I cannot pretend to say, but no fact is more certain than this,

that the English are most unwelcome guests in the circles of the Parisians; and nothing short, my dear Vermont, of your strong and too partial recommendations would have procured me admittance into any of them. By the friends to whose patronage you committed me I am treated not only with urbanity, but kindness; yet I experience such frigid civility in those whom I meet at their houses, that I often pass a very dull day, when the wish of the donor of the fête is to procure me every possible enjoyment.

Nobody seems to volunteer an acquaintance (if I may use the phrase); and, though I cannot complain of actual rudeness in any one, I see no marks of that general attention to strangers for which France was once so celebrated. You must not suspect that this is a peculiar or a peevish remark of mine all the few English who occasionally find the means of creeping into French society make a similar observation. For instance, Mrs. who, from being nearly related to a Parisian family of distinction, enjoys advantages greater than those possessed by any other of her countrywomen or countrymen, tells me that she shall go no more to Madame weekly parties, to which she has a general invitation, and which I need not tell you are reckoned the best in this capital. She accounts very naturally for this determination by assuring me, that, after frequenting these assemblies for three months, she has not made a single acquaintance. "I am told," says she, "that the people I see at this house form the best company of Paris; but what consolation is this to me for going every week into a splendid crowd, in the midst of which, seated with due state in an old-fashioned armedchair, I am condemned to pass two hours in the worst of all solitudes, while not one of the party condescends to speak to me?"

Such is the picture drawn by this lady of the situation in which she finds herself at one of these boasted soirées, and I confess, from the experience I have had of similar entertainments, I think the sketch is by no means an exaggerated one.

Adieu.

C. DARNLEY.