houses, not, as in London, repressed, but protected by the Government. You walk up stairs, leaving hat and stick in an anti-room, where are gens d'armes in attendance; whose presence is understood as a protection to all in pursuit of their game, and you may stroll from room to room, where rouge et noir, or trente et un, or roulette, &c. &c. are continually finding fresh victims. All ranks may meet some suitable table, down to a stake as low as two francs. Women are permitted at some of the tables, and are too surely to be found there.

The annual expences of the public gaminghouses of Paris are estimated at nearly 8,000,000 francs, including the duties paid to Government: the revenue of the tables averages nearly 10,000,000 francs, which thus pays to the contractors, who farm them, all their expences, and leaves a profit of nearly 2,000,000 francs. This gain is partly the result of the doctrine of chances, a doctrine founded upon as clear principles as any other science, and partly results from certain small advantages given to the table, or the proprietors of it, from the constitution of the game. Hence how evident the inevitable loss to which a player in the long run subjects himself, yet an occasional lucky chance, the hope of a fortunate hit to retrieve all, for ever and ever, is hurrying away so many to their utter ruin. The value of paper, and rouleaux of gold and silver laid out in glittering heaps upon the tables, is really tempting.

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Pere La Chaise.

Wednesday. Explored the Chamber of Deputies, with its paintings and sculptures of Roman and Grecian legislators, and orators, &c. &c.; the palace of the Prince of Conde, very humbly furnished, by the bye; and the cemetery of Pere La Chaise. This latter is worth recording. An enclosed space of 100 acres, on an eminence about a mile and a half from Paris, and commanding a beautiful panoramic view, appropriated to the graves of the deceased. Any portion of ground may be bought, either in perpetuity, or for five, or for ten years, &c. &c. Thus the survivor has permission and scope to erect any sort of monument suitable to his regrets, to his taste, or his purse. The variety and beauty of these tombs is consequently endless. No one but the relative can intrude upon the enclosed space that contains those mortal remains; his hand alone can alter or remove; and he only can replace the votive chaplet, and renew the fading flower. Urns, pillars, columns, even chapels are erected; so that, as a public cemetery, here is included every species of monumental beauty, though no unhallowed foot can tread the soil sacred to the dead we deplore; and our hand alone may remove the cypress, the willow, or the yew, which we planted to shade their loved remains. Here, under a lofty canopy of stone, rest the marble effigies of Abelard and Eloisa.

The libraries of Paris deserve to be recorded, as

well from the treasures of literature they contain, as from the liberal access afforded to all who wish admittance. La Bibliothèque Royale is the first and the noblest, containing above 300,000 volumes, and about 80,000 manuscripts. Charles V, or rather his father, John, was its founder, in whose time it did not amount to 100 works, and it has been successively increased to its present colossal value with the spoils of Rome, Florence and Venice; and from the conquests, or munificent purchases, of Charles VIII, Louis XI and XII, Francis I, and Henry II, while it continues daily to increase by the law which demands a copy of every printed work for this national establishment. Besides its books, there are cabinets and collections of prints, Etruscan vases, antiquities, and medals: also two globes, celestial and terrestrial, coloured and gilt, and of no less a diameter than twenty feet. This admirable geographical and astronomical labour was the work of a Jesuit, father Coronelli. Among the curious manuscripts, are some letters from Voltaire to Madame de Châtelet: some writings of Rousseau; some amatory epistles from Henri Quatre to his mistress; and some original correspondence of our Henry VIII.

Being now impatient to quit Paris for Switzerland, I leave further sights for future times. Of the French character generally, and as a nation, very far am I from wishing to speak invidiously, or

ungraciously. Few indeed, I should think, are the English who go to France to form permanency of attachment; but if amusement, sociality, reciprocity of good will, and courtesy, be the object of the passing hour, then, nowhere, and I am bound to acknowledge it, will it be met with more frankly, or more politely bestowed, than in Paris. From the earliest records of time, England and France have ever been implacable rivals: the very recent events are little calculated to extinguish all past animosities, and if the French be accused of insincerity, what else, let me ask, can be expected? Is it not sufficient for a visitor to receive exterior politeness, courtesy, and attention? In the men, perhaps there is no ingredient in common intercourse which obtrudes itself so perpetually, and overweeningly, as vanity. Be the subject or occupation what it may, a Frenchman is sure to imply, or insinuate, the superior greatness and grandeur of La Grande Nation. Nevertheless they do now condescend to include Englishmen sometimes, and to say that France and England united would beat the whole world. In lesser topics, their own superior fortune is still and ever the theme; and at dinner, one day, in conversation with a French Count, comparing London and Paris, he concluded by assuring me—“ Ah! Monsieur, vraiment il n'y a que Paris!"

Of the women of Paris, and of their very attract

Public Decorum.

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ive manners, I have already spoken. One commendation is due to Paris most specially. In no capital city is there, perhaps, a greater proportion of a certain class of females than is found here. Yet in public, in the theatres, the Cafés, the promenades, &c. all is external propriety and decorum. No immodest dress, word, or gesture, is seen to shock the eye, or wound the purity, of innocence. Striking contrast indeed to our own city, where, it must be acknowledged by ourselves, and is still more repulsive to foreigners, are hourly beheld and heard in the theatres, and the streets, women, and scenes, and language, which outrage every principle of propriety and decorum, restrain the good from many a public association for fear of contact with the unblushingly bad, and are a real and indefensible national reproach. In France there may be less private virtue, but there is more public decorum. In England the inverse argument applies.

Strange contradiction in man who sets the highest value upon a woman's chastity, and yet whose greatest aim is to despoil it!

Dress, and the toilette are courted and studied in Paris to the very utmost refinements and attractions. Beaux equally with belles deem it a matter of the highest importance; no excuse can atone for negligence; no mortification greater than to appear on the promenade, or to present oneself to our chere belle, without being bien mis. French