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was right, said I, in rapture, as our old crazy vehicle rolled through the Rue St. Denis. There is no winter in Paris. I had either forgotten, or did not chuse to remember, that four days before this, when I left my little cottage at Kensington, the sky was clear and the air pure in England; I was in France and breathing a fine French air, had be come for the moment quite a French

man.

The ancients said that a coward, after eating a lion's heart, became a lion. In my own days I have seen honest little Capeas, the lawyer of Hammersmith, who is naturally mild and gentle, and above all, fearful of his wife, after drinking a good bottle of Xeres, become as haughty and full of ire as a Spaniard. Pluckquill, the wealthy poulterer of Newgate-street, who walks along the streets of London, looking as black and taciturn as the front of St. Paul's Church, no sooner has taken a few glasses of claret, than he be gins to jabber in French phrases; and Brazier, the tinman, when he has swallowed a bumper of Hollands, is as surly and obstinate as a Dutchman, I suppose it was something in the French air that gave me a high opinion of the French climate and character. I lost the John Bull so completely, that before I reached Meurice's Hotel, in the Rue St. Honoré, I had amused my travelling companions with a long eulogium upon France and French manners. If I had taken a dose of laudanum at Calais to set me asleep for the whole journey it would have been more to my credit than this ridiculous mania, but I have had time to repent, and have repented most heartily.

For a few days, climate, manners, dress, every thing was delightful. If the streets were a little dirty, I admired the neatness of the ladies, who held up their petticoats and walked along without soiling their shoes and stockings, instead of being disgusted by their want of modesty. When I saw two Frenchmen in the Thuillieres Gardens saluting each other, and talking together with their hats off for an hour together, I praised their politeness instead of censuring their affectation. In short, every thing French was delightful, and the recollection

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of English habits, English customs, and English climate detestable, whilst the weather continued fine, and I could walk about in a clear atmosphere. But the delusion was of short duration; the weather soon became foggy-the sky was hidden by clouds, and a dense mist rendered walking for pleasure impossible; if I ventured out, my eyes were in pain from the wood-smoke which descended from the chimnies, and my feet were wet through in a

moment.

December came.-In the first week the weather was tolerable, and I became a little reconciled. In the second week, the cold was excessive. How did I then long for old England, and my good coal fire in my snug cottage at Kensington! On the 15th of December the ice was three inches thick, and hundreds were skaiting in the Thuilieres Gardens, On the 16th it thawed and froze again; the pores of one's body were opened at one moment, and perspiration checked at another; at this moment the weather is what an Englishman calls muggy overhead and chilling under-foot. Every body has a cold, two out of six have their faces wrapped up, and all this in Paris, dear delightful Paris, where there is no winter. I am no longer a Frenchman-with the fine weather I lost my spirits-I have no longer elasticity of body or of mind-I am a miserable Englishman, shivering over a wood fire, cursing my uncle and the deputy, and all the rest of the fools who either were silly enough to be delighted with Paris, or who, like soldiers who repent of their folly in becoming such, advise others to do the same, merely that their folly shall not laugh them out of countenance. If, however, by sincere repentance, and exposing myself like a scarecrow to warn others againt misfortune I can expiate my fault, I shall be perfectly satisfied.

Here I am, however, locked up by gout and rheumatism for the winter, heartily tired of the French, and anxious to see Old England again with all her fogs and other disadvantages.

Whilst I remain in Paris I will give you the news faithfully, which is more than any of the newspapers can say; and when I find an honest

Frenchman I will send you word, but I fear that if I were to keep back my letter for a postscript, stating that I had found one, you would never receive either letter or postscript. In the literary way all that we have new that is worth notice will be found in the "Trois mois en Portugal”—“ "Le Commerce de la France," by the Count de Vaublanc, and the letters of M. Gastinel upon the Saving Banks and Insurance Offices. An English work called the Voyage of Polycletus is in the press, and report speaks of it very favourably. The "Three Months in Portugal" contains an account of Mr. Bowring and Sir Robert Wilson, of the former it is said, that he speaks all the languages of Europe. I wonder they did not say of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and of the latter, that although he has been deprived of his commission by an ungrateful Sovereign, he is still in commission by the people of every nation. The work on the Trade of France is more important in as much as it proves that, notwithstanding the boast of the French ministry, the resources of France are far from considerable. M. de Vaublanc,speaking of the balance of trade, says that the French annual exports exceed the imports only three million francs annually, and he then proceeds in detail to shew the general unfavourable state of French commerce. Having heard so much of the resources of the great nation, I am surprised to find these facts stated by a Frenchman; but it appears that they are facts which cannot be refuted. From what has fallen under my own observation I see that their manufactories are in a bad state. The common calico, which we make for 8d. a yard, is here at 30 sous, and yet, even at that price, the workman cannot earn 40 sous a day. A lace very inferior in quality and appearance to that which we buy in England for 6s. per yard, is here 15 francs: and, indeed, every thing of that description is dear in the same proportion.

An anecdote is stated of the Duke de Cazes and the Duke de Richelieu, which is very curious; it tends to shew the difference of character between these ex-ministers, one of

whom has paid the debt of nature. When the King was advised to accept the resignation of the Duke de Richelieu to make way for de Cazes, the former was waited upon by M. de — who very politely, and with an affectation of sympathy, told him that he was desired to ask for the portfolio of office. The Duke appeared thunderstruck, and for many minutes was incapable of speaking; at length in a fit of indignant rage he said, "Go, Sir, and tell the King that I regret to leave him in the hands of a set of scoundrels." Some time afterwards, when De Cazes was turned out, or, in the courtly phrase, had his resignation accepted, the same personage waited upon him, De Cases was in bed, and, on hearing the name announced, desired his servant to "undraw the curtains." M. de who had received many favours from the Duke, was still more cautious with him than he had been on a former occasion with M. de Richelieu. He took a chair by the bedside, regretted to find his excellency indisposed, remarked how unpleasant a task he had to perform, trusted that things would come round, uttered a great many unmeaning sentences of compliment and condolence, and ended by stating that his Excellency was longer his Excellency. De Cazes heard him patiently, and without expressing more surprise or agitation than if he had merely been informed of the state of the weather. When the message was completed he called his servant to "draw the curtains," and fell asleep as if nothing had happened.

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This anecdote I have mentioned because I thought it worth notice for its singularity: I must now give two merely on account of their absurdity, such precious morsels ought not to be lost to the British public. They are fine specimens of French literature, French folly, French servility. In order that nothing may be lost of these important communications, I will give you a correct translation from the articles as I find them in the Ruke d'Aquitaine of the 15th, a Bordeaux newspaper, published under the patronage of the Royal Family, and edited by M. Alphonse de Beauchamp, a gentleman who is considered one of the props of the Royalist party.

CONTEMPORARY ANECDOTES. Great hopes rest upon the two children of the illustrious and unfortunate Duke de Berry; one of them, His Royal Highness the Duke of Bordeaux, is the precious pledge of our future happiness. France will find in him a worthy successor of the heroic Prince whom she has lost. This child of heaven will be the pride and joy of his noble and courageous mother. Her Royal Highness, Mademoiselle, will one day prove herself the worthy sister of the young Henry; in the mean-time she is destined by her sex to form the happiness and consolation of the august widow of the martyred Prince. She will certainly fulfil this sweet task. All that we hear of her announces that she is kind, amiable, and full of grace and vivacity. We hear that she utters words full of wit and naïveté; that she performs the most striking and pleasing actions, which are wonderful in so tender an age. The two following anecdotes which we have, among others, from a person worthy of confidence, and who has the felicity of being near the sweet infant, display with equal charms her good sense and character.

The young Princess had been reading the fable of the Fox and the Crow; she asked what was meant by a flatterer; a flatterer, said her governess, is a person who praises without cause and discretion the beauty and good nature of children, which you frequently experience when you are overwhelmed with eulogium-you must be on your guard against such eulogiums. Mademoiselle remembered this definition, which had been conveyed to her in terms suited to her age. A few days afterwards a lady of the Court paid her a visit; seduced by the amiable and gracious manners of the child, this lady could not help praising her in terms which bordered on exaggeration: at first the royal child heard her with astonishment; but finding there was no end to her compliments she turned towards her governess, and, in a sweet expressive tone, said "I think, Madam, this lady wants my cheese." This anecdote has been applied at least a bundred and fifty times to different children: but our sapient editor of the Ruke d'Aquitain is either ig

norant of the fact, or imagines that there is no danger of his royal patrons supposing that he wants their cheese.

The Bourbons are accustomed to large doses of flattery, and no man who would stand upon trifles ever made an advance in their favour. The second anecdote related by the editor is more ridiculous even than the first.

A lady of the Court, who has a very pretty daughter of the same age as the princess, had taken her with her on a visit to the Chateau : in order to repress the turbulence of her child she was told that, out of respect to the princess, she must stand perfectly quiet in the august presence. When the princess saw a new companion of her own age, holding the maternal gown in silence, and perfectly straight, she ran to her, and in the most amiable manner invited her to join in her amusements. The child, who remembered the severe admonition of her mother, remained mute and motionless. In vain were all the playthings exposed, in vain did the young princess exhibit her doll upon springs, and offer to make it walk-the same want of motion, the same silence. Mademoiselle, naturally lively, was on the point of becoming angry; but suddenly, by an inspiration perfectly original, she took her doll and desired the child to touch a spring; the doll was instantly in motion, the child laughed, Mademoiselle threw her arms round her neck and kissed her, and they instantly began to play together.

M. Belzoni's Egyptian tomb, on the Boulevards, has been numerously attended since its opening. Several members of the Institute have visited it, and two distinguished members of the Royal Family have promised Mr. Belzoni to honor his exhibition with an early visit. It is impossible not to wish this enterprising and indefatigable man success in his undertaking, but I much fear, that he will find a difference between a Parisian and a London public, by no means to the credit of the former. It is generally believed, and indeed I know from an unquestionable source, that Mr. Belzoni realized upwards of five thousand pounds by his exhibition in London after paying the expense previous

to the opening, and all the subsequent charges. It is reported that M. Belzoni intends to make another excursion in Egypt, but I understand that he has no such intention; he has made arrangements for the purchase of a small estate in his native country, Italy, upon which he proposes to pass the remainder of his life. However the friends of science may desire the further researches of this intrepid and discriminating traveller, we must want generosity and feeling, if we do not approve of his proposal to enjoy the fruits of his labours in the bosom of his fa mily, whilst he is in the vigor of life to have a proper zest for enjoyment, M. Belzoni has a younger brother, Mr. Francis Belzoni, a gentleman of good education and gentlemanly manners, who is likely to follow up the discoveries made by Mr. John

Belzoni. He is, I believe, under the immediate protection and pa tronage of Mr. Salt, the British Consul in Egypt, and of several distinguished members of the Antiquarian Society.

The discovery of a temple, and a great number of beautiful statues in a field in France, has excited the attention of the philosophers in Paris. The discovery was made by a peasant, who struck his spade against a finely sculptured head of black marble. A gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood who heard of the circumstance agreed to purchase the whole field, and instantly set a number of persons digging; in a few hours he found several statues, and the walls of a Roman temple; we are promised a scientific account of this discovery.

JEALOUSY.-A DRAMATIC SCENE.

Bertha. Good morrow, gentle friend, Thou hast mislaid thy better looks to-day;

"Tis that ill-fashioned guise which misbecomes thee. Constance. Ay, thou sayst rightly, it doth misbecome me,

For what have I to do with gaudy trappings?

I will have robes of black and suits of mourning,

So be my garb the colour of my fate;

O! give me widow's weeds, for I am a widow,

A wretched woman who hath lost her husband.

Bertha. And truly were't a husband made me wretched

I'd take his loss for gain: Nay, do not weep.

Constance. Not weep? have no enjoyment? Would to Heav'n
Life were a juice I could exhale in tears;

A vapour, that I might by one long sigh
Abridge the breath of all my days to come.

My lord! my

lord! I've lost his heart for ever.

Bertha. Thinking it lost is not the way to win it. To love thy husband thou defraudest thyself,

And art a prodigal to his deserts,

A miser to thine own; and, therefore, 'tis

Doubting thyself which makes thee doubt thy lord.

Sweet friend, be calm, and I will shew thee comfort.

Constance. Comfort? what comfort-why he hath not two hearts?

Bertha. No more-this must not be, so young, so sad,

I marvel any should be found so witless

To cherish sullen care, th' ungrateful churl
Will break the very heart that fosters him."
In truth, it paineth me to mark how he
Hath been at havock on thy blooming form,
Hath grav'd with rigid finger on thy brow
His crooked characters, and left the trace
Of his hoar breath among thy raven hair.
Constance. I'm glad of it, these ravages shall be

Signals hung out to catch death's icy eye

Who mowing round with an industrious hand,
As to get forward in his endless task,

May take me in the desolating sweep,

Forget my date of years, and think me old.

Bertha. If thou dost love me, talk not thus, my Constance ; Make me a partner in thy grief, and so

Diminish sorrow, by dividing it.

Constance. Divide! ah, never may'st thou feel as I do;
My brain is bloated with unwholesome thought;

My blood so wildly traverseth my veins
That ye may hear it rushing; in my breast,
Feeding and festering on the core of life,
There is a scorpion with a thousand stings;
And ev'ry sting of a peculiar torture.
Heav'n in its vengeance on primeval sin

Condemn'd our race to toil, and shame, and anguish,
A needless sentence sure, had God pronounc'd
This comprehensive curse, let man be jealous.
Oh! what have I now done to my St. Leon,
That he should fly my empty arms so long?
Is then my rival such a peerless witch,
Her speech so eloquent, her wit so rare ?
A dainty thing to look on, I'll be sworn,
That so his eyes find fair excuse at least.
Doth he not prate of her surpassing beauty,
And wear her at his side for ornament,

Is she not meat, and mirth, and health, and life to him.
Bertha. Be more advis'd, my Constance; 'tis not well
To creep into St. Leon's inmost mind,

And with the subtle key of dark suspicion

Unlock its avenues and secret springs,

And set thy fears to watch its every movement;

Leave this to meaner souls, and take this counsel,
Be wise and trust, and in thy trust be happy.

In truth, I ween St. Leon's outward seeming

Hath ever been most fond, and kind, and courteous.

Constance. Canst thou be so deceiv'd? Nor knowst how oft

The most kind husband is the most inconstant.

His fondness is but asking for forgiveness;

But I have wrought me to a resolution

Shall even startle his indifference.

I will unmarry me:

Divest my finger of this golden link,

Break it in two, and render it to his hand

To tell the story of his broken faith.

Ah! magic ring! ah! necromantic circle!

What breadth of bliss, and what a drear extent
Of mis'ry, will thy narrow compass span.

Ha! see, he comes, he comes, my prince, my lord!
Mark how his haughty soul intrusts his bearing,
Dictates his step, and rears his lofty brow;
Nature was made a bankrupt at his birth

To mould a form at which the gods should envy;

That voice, that smile, those eyes made out of Heaven
Of the sun's brightness and the ether's blue.

O! look at him, dear Bertha, look at him.

'Tis wise to whip my ambitious spirit,

To rob me of himself a little while,

Lest I should grow too proud in my possession.
O! how my heart reproves my tardy foot,

And leaps to meet him. Would I were his shadow.

ARIA.

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