a particular reference to the bootjack. Tom Hood said that sudden waking was the best test of a man's temper. No doubt it is so; but it is anything but pleasant to me to put people to that test. I fancy I can always read in a man's eyes, as he uncloses them with a start, that for the moment he regards me as his deadliest foe, or, at least, with that mitigated form of aversion with which we instinctively regard the man who brings us bad news. However, being awakened at Rouen, we turned out, and yawned and stretched on the platform, and took coffee and a slice of pâte in a gorgeous saloon, served by a drowsy maiden and handed by dreadfully taciturn waiters (who contracted "Monsieur" into the shortest and sharpest form of "M'sr"), and then the bell rang, and we re-entered the carriages and prepared to smoke our way to Paris.

It seems to be the rule to smoke in French railway carriages; but it is always customary first to ask the company if it is agreeable to them. An illustration of this custom was given in the papers the week we were in Paris. Somebody entered a carriage in which a nobleman was seated and lit a cigar; the nobleman objected (there were other circumstances of an aggravated character which I have forgotten), and finally knocked the cigar from the somebody's hands; this was resented, and the nobleman threw the unpolite individual out of the window, the train being then in motion! The somebody scrambled to his feet and showed fight, whereat the nobleman threw the unpolite individual's great coat after him, and there was an end to the matter! But what a terrible warning to Englishmen not to violate the customs of a polite nation like France!

It was a quarter to twelve when we arrived at Paris, at the Terminus which serves for all the lines to the westward of that city, and which is situated at the junction of the Rue d'Amsterdam and the Rue Saint Lazare. There is nothing to be said of the Terminus, except that it is very large and very commodious. Some of the porters were attired in the English bottle-green; but others had a far more characteristic aspect. They wore loose pegtops of blue and the blouse of the same colour, which is the proper dress of the French ouvrier, and this was set off by a broad belt of showy colours, sometimes red and yellow in stripes, always very striking. The dress is peculiar, but eminently picturesque, only to our English notions it seems better adapted for little boys of from three to six. Still, that is a matter of national taste, and from the manner in which Francois and Hercule carried the luggage (when it had been passed) from the counters at which it is served out to the cabs in waiting, it was evidently a very good working dress.

It is not pleasant to arrive a stranger in a great city at midnight, though perhaps, on reflection, it is better than arriving at a small town at that hour. But the Englishman need be under no apprehension of

having in Paris to pass the night in the streets with only the "blanket of the dark" to cover him. Around the Terminus every house seems to invite the stranger to refreshment and repose. Many of the names are English, as also are those of the persons keeping them; but we did not explore these places, in which we might expect and probably would find about as much comfort as in an English railway coffeehouse, having already decided upon an hotel in the neighbourhood of the Rue de Rivoli. We therefore chartered a voiture-there was a long row of vehicles in the Terminus-and set off at once. It was the smallest construction of the cab order of vehicle I ever entered. The two back seats were adapted only for the comfort of living skeletons, and as for the front seats, well, they constituted a sort of mantel-piece upon which a couple of sixpenny china dogs might have reposed in tolerable ease. But for my friend! I think it was with a look of serious apprehension that he exclaimed, "What manner of men can these Frenchmen be for whom such vehicles are made ?" The age of miracles being past, he regarded the probabilities as utterly against his ever reaching the hotel.

You would like to know something about the French cabs? It is well to do so if you intend visiting the sprightly capital. Well, for my own part I have nothing to tell beyond the fact that we often rode in them and paid I am afraid a great deal more than our proper fares. True, the driver always asked us the time when we got in, and was very particular about the odd minutes, and made very thoughtful calculations over them; but as we, as a rule, paid the highest fares for the shortest distances, I have suspicions which I will not further enlarge upon. Instead, I will do what many travellers of more pretensions and less honesty have often done without any acknowledgment. I will "crib" for you a few facts from some authority. I am not barefaced enough to rifle Galignani, who is great on voitures de remise and fiacres, and coucous, and the rest of them; but I may state from another authority that " every ride within the barriers, short or long, is paid for at one fixed price, according to the quality or size of the vehicles. A tariff is fixed up inside. The driver gives you his number when you enter. The cabs generally belong to companies. Their number is not limited by law; but the prefet of police is very cautious in augmenting it. Although the prices are so low, ranging from eleven to fifteen francs, a cab is a valuable property. Five thousand franes are given for the number alone. There are still some free cabs called voitures de remise, which stand under cover, are a little dearer, but more expeditious. Every class in Paris uses cabs. A milliner takes a cab when she takes home a bonnet, and a washerwoman, dressed out neatly with a pretty cap on her head, uses the same mode of conveyance to distribute clean shirts to her customers." So far my authority. If you are familiar with his elegant want of

style, you will readily name him; if not, "your state is the more gracious," and I won't introduce him.

Although it was midnight, the streets were tolerably lively. The cafés were closing; but streams of people passed along the streets, probably on their way home from the various theatres. These people were all quiet and orderly. They were not singing, or shouting, or rapping at shutters; and manifestly they were not intoxicated. That is the one great redeeming feature of French society. Frenchmen may erect barricades, and worship the Virgin Mary, and covet their neighbour's wives, and regard the English with that feeling which the devil is supposed to entertain toward holy water; but they don't get drunk as a "ule. It is not their practice. There are exceptions, of course. There are people who go raving mad with absinthe, and die in the streets drunk. But a Frenchman does not regard a 66 a big drunk" as the most congenial form of enjoyment. "Tis not the custom of his nation. And all honour to them for preserving that national distinction.

The arrival of guests at a French hotel always creates a commotion apparently quite out of keeping with the event. That on the drawingup of a cab and the stepping-out of two quiet Englishmen with two portmanteaus, a porter should make his appearance, is natural. But we were literally surrounded by a troupe of waiters, we were confronted by a stout proprietor; and while the utmost excitement prevailed, while everybody shouted and gesticulated to their hearts' content, we were conducted to a sort of rabbit-hutch, from which there emerged a brown woman en papillotes, who handed us each a wax candle in a silver candlestick, and a key, and requested us to follow the garçon. Then we formed a little procession in this wise:-A garçon, with a dirty napkin round his arm, leading the way; my friend and myself, each with a taper and a key, as if doing penance; two waiters, shouldering our portmanteaus; the stout proprietor, with uplifted arms, perhaps invoking a blessing upon us; madame, en papillotes, turning up her expressive eyes, which at once looked a welcome and took stock of us. In this order we mounted the first flight of an ancient well-staircase with oaken balusters. After that flight the tail of the procession dropped off, but we continued our way, leaving the stairs behind, and traversing many passages, and at last stopping before a door inscribed " 48.” This door was locked. There was no reason, by the way, why it should have been locked, or why Achille should have made so much ceremony in unlocking it, seeing that the staple was loose and the lock would at any time come off in your hand. Faith in that lock was, notwithstanding, a fixed idea in the hotel, and every morning we solemnly went through the ceremony of turning the key in those wretched wards, and handing it up to the brown woman in the rabbit-hutch below with a polite bow; and every

E

night I repeated the bow to that brown woman at the door of the rabbit-hutch, and was handed the clef with a smile, and received it with a bend, and-I put it in my pocket and walked into my room as if the door wasn't locked at all. But that outer door led to a short passage paved with glazed tiles of a very slippery nature, which was somewhat awkward to me, as I have not been accustomed to slide into my bedroom. At the end of the passage was another door.

It was closed.

At which remarkable point in a narrative Mrs. Radcliffe, in her romances, invariably ended a chapter. I will do the same.

Authoress of "The Surface and the Deep; or True to the Last."

"I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels."-SHAKSPEARE.
"There is a mystery."-Ibid.

CHAPTER I.

PART OF THE FAMILY.

HAT shall I do with myself?" exclaimed Alice Woodward in the languid tone of one whose life is burthensome.

"Call upon one of your young friends, my dear," responded the parent, to whom the appeal was made. "No, I do not care about them," answered the first speaker, yawning. "I hope you are not fickle, Alice."

"Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken in forming such a supposition. It is because I find them insincere."

"You must not expect to discover real and true friends in all. Such a friendship as you crave, child, rarely occurs twice in a lifetime; it may spring up where you least suppose, but requires the growth of years to strengthen and to prove it. Meanwhile acquaintances mutually contribute to each other's amusement and happiness."

romantic girl, it is true; but it only to grow like those selfish,

"Dear mamma, I am only a silly, seems to me as if to grow wiser were untruthful beings I despise and pity. I may confess all I feel to you. If the world is like this, dear, dear mother, I cannot be happy," she cried, flinging herself on the stool at her mother's feet, and looking

up as she spoke. "I am not satisfied with life. I am ready to love everyone; why should they despise or dislike me? Why should we not all speak the truth ?-why should we not all deal kindly by one another?-why need there be so many petty subterfuges, false appearances, and envious heartburnings? You advise me to be satisfied simply with amusement. Amongst those girls whom I know, I can neither give nor receive it. There is Helen, who in her sweet, winning way, has led me on in confidential parley, only to divulge my sentiments presently to half a dozen flippant comrades, and expose every opinion and fancy to the laughter of the group."

"Do you think on such an occasion that you spoke advisedly? Young girls should hesitate to assert opinions, love.".

"But between young friends, mamma, may we not discover something of our minds? My companions do not care for anything serious or good. You call me ignorant, but they have no knowledge even of the common objects which surround them; and worse-no wish to know; not even a blush to tinge an exposure of deficiencies; on the contrary, such ignorance is no unfrequent boast; they seem to fancy it innocent, childish, charming! Oh, I am disgusted with them all."

"Darling, you are indeed superior in mind; but remember, acquaintances may be useful."

"There it is again. Mamma, I cannot fawn upon people I despise. With these girls dress and lovers are the object and aim of life; they are selfish, artful, and ignorant, yet admired, courted-in a word, successful. I know their opinion of me-they think me a little fool, whilst I almost regard them as knaves. I am ugly, and poor, and modest; there is nothing to be got out of me by courting, nothing to fear which requires propitiation."

"You must not become a misanthrope, Alice, but accept life as you find it."

"I am a misanthrope, and would rather court solitude than society. I know how to get on with these girls; to boast myself and family, to assume haughty airs, to push forward to obtain notice, to trample upon all weaker than myself, to condescend to falsehood, and to forget the humility that becomes the children of mortality."

The young girl poured out her grumblings with great volubility; suddenly she added, "Mother, I wish you had made me religious." "I do not want any Methodists in the family, Alice. My poor father used to say they were a set of canting hypocrites."

"Cannot one be religious without being a hypocrite ?" the girl asked doubtfully.

"Oh, not so dreadfully religious. I should like you to go to church, of course; but you won't go. You might read Blair's Sermons' or a chapter in the Bible on Sundays, but you never take up a good book." "Of course not, because you never taught me to do so; you don't."