CHAPTER XXI.

_August 1st._--Our fine weather still continues--with the exception of one or two days, we have scarcely had any rain since we arrived here. Our army is breaking up from hence and going into Normandy. Some of our troops of horse-artillery marched the day before yesterday, and yesterday some regiments of cavalry. The infantry are also preparing for their departure. Ross’s troop and mine, belonging to the reserve, are to remain in the neighbourhood of Paris. This appearance of peace has, I suppose, induced the Beguines, or Sœurs de la Charité, to return to the village, much to our annoyance; for their house is the one in which we mess, and where Ambrose and Maunsell live. Five of the sisterhood called on me this morning for the purpose of obtaining the restoration of their house, and permission to return and inhabit it. I was at breakfast, but these good dames would take no refusal, and William was obliged to show them up. My little room was crammed.

I have always up to this date associated most inseparably in my mind youth and beauty with the term nun. It was, therefore, not without some trifling emotion that I awaited the five nuns whom William had announced, and heard them bustling along the narrow bricked passage leading from the head of the stairs to my room. Such being the case, it may easily be imagined that it was not without disappointment I saw entering, one after another, four ugly old women, in shabby black dresses, and at the same time became sensible of a very unpleasant odour accompanying the ladies. All this was enough; and, in the politest manner possible, I hastened to meet their wishes as soon as known, in order to get rid of them. Here I reckoned without my host. The good dames found my politeness so winning, that they were in no hurry to move, nor did they until they had inflicted on me the whole history of their adventures and sufferings from the first invasion by the Allies last year down to last night. When, at length, they did depart, I thought I could never sufficiently inhale the fresh air of heaven.

Having got rid of the ladies, after visiting the parade (which we hold in the park of the great chateau), I rode to St Ouen and Clichy. In the last and neighbourhood our fifth division is quartered, and I was astonished to see the Prussian-like manner in which the place is occupied. One very handsome villa I visited had its pretty pleasure-ground trampled and spoiled as much as the chateau at Stain; and, to my surprise, in the house I found two formerly splendid _salons_ converted into stables, and actually occupied by officers’ horses. I don’t know what the Duke will say when he comes to know this. The neighbourhood of Clichy is pretty--all villas and gardens, &c.

_August 2d._--Another beautiful day. More regiments marching towards Normandy. In consequence of the return of our nuns, we moved our mess establishment to-day into the Petit chateau, having prepared and made as comfortable as circumstances would admit the grand _salon_ in the centre of the front. This is a very fine room with a boarded floor in little squares (_parquet_), which looks very well, but is very creaky, as all these floors are. We collected what chairs were still serviceable as seats, and as they were few, the wheeler patched up others; a table was a more difficult article to procure; the floor served as a sideboard. There being no glass in the window, we are obliged to make the venetians (which fortunately are unbroken) answer, lowering those to windward when the air is too much. We are raised about six feet above the lawn, and two winding flights of steps afford the means of descending from the windows of the bowed front to the turf below. Fatigue-parties have been employed all yesterday and this morning clearing the lawn of the fragments of furniture, rags of curtains, torn books, and broken glass, that encumbered and disfigured it--so that now our domain looks decent, and we have actually wondered we could stay so long in the gloomy old house we have left. By way of a house-warming I gave my champagne on promotion, and we have had a merry evening, without excess, or I should not be able to write this.

_3d._--No headache this morning; our champagne was excellent and very cheap. In England we should pay from 10s. to 15s. per bottle. This cost me precisely 5 francs, or 4s. 2d., a bottle--some little difference. But to my journal. Rode to Paris, and as usual put up Cossack at a stable I have discovered in Rue de Malle, just by the Place du Carrousel, consequently very convenient. When I arrived, there were several people in the stable, who gathered round me and Cossack, asking with apparent curiosity if he was in the battle of Mont St Jean. I told them Yes, and all about his eight wounds--the scars of which were visible enough. This seemed to excite great interest; and I walked off, leaving them assembled round the fellow’s stall, having first, however, warned them of his heels. The Palais Royal, Rue Vivienne, and Boulevard were the scenes of my promenade. The first I have spoken of before, and hope to do so again; the second is a kind of Bond Street, leading straight away from the northern entrance of the Palais Royal. Like Bond Street, it is narrow--so narrow, indeed, that the London street becomes broad by comparison, and is infinitely its superior in the convenient _trottoir_ which the Rue Vivienne totally wants. In short, in London this narrow, badly-paved avenue, with its gutter down the centre, would only rank as a lane. Here is to be seen all the beauty and fashion of Paris; for here, as in Bond Street, are all the fashionable shops. If some of those under the arcades of the Palais Royal are more splendid, the articles in these are more substantially rich and good. But the Boulevard is the great point of attraction for me, and there I passed this morning, until it was time to return here before dark, lounging from the Rue Royale to the Boulevard du Temple and back again, with an occasional turn down the Rue de Richelieu, or the Passage des Panorama and Feydeau, into the Rue Vivienne and Palais Royal. The Boulevards (for there are many, every few hundred yards having a different designation) form a sort of circular road round what once was Paris, separating it from the Faubourgs, now forming part of the great whole; and these Boulevards form a street about as broad as Oxford Street, perhaps broader. This, without excepting the Palais Royal, is the most amusing part of Paris. The houses along this immense avenue are neither regular nor uniformly handsome, but high and low, rich and poor, wood and stone--from the cottage to the palace. A broad footway (not a paved _trottoir_) next the houses is in many parts shaded by rows of lime-trees, and separated from the road by a shabby wooden railing. The road is incessantly thronged with carts, fiacres, cabriolets, private equipages, and horsemen; every now and then a detachment of _gens-d’armes_ is seen urging their way soberly through the crowd. This forms a lively and amusing scene enough, particularly just now, from the contrast between numerous well-appointed English equipages and the clumsy vehicles and tinsel finery of the native. But it is in the footway one finds the greatest source of amusement, and most food for philosophical contemplation. Here one meets promenaders or passengers in every variety of European, and even some Asiatic, costumes. Some, you may know by their lounging gait, are employed only in killing time and dispelling _ennui_; others, bustling from shop to shop and from table to table, are people whose money burns in their pockets, and their amusement consists in getting rid of it as quickly as possible for articles utterly useless to them, and which, laid aside to-morrow, will quickly be forgotten. Again, a third, and by far the most numerous class one sees here, have a directly contrary employment to the last--they are people whose pockets burn to have money in them; and accordingly here, in this great thoroughfare, we find them resorting to all sorts, even the most ludicrous, the vilest, and the most degrading means of obtaining their end. Here tables innumerable are set out under the trees covered with all sorts of cheap articles--toys, perfumery, cutlery, combs, and articles in horn, bone, wood, metal, glass--every thing and every article upon each table of the same price. In passing along, one is deafened by the incessant and rapid vociferations of these dealers enumerating the various articles upon their tables, eulogising them in the most ridiculous terms, and announcing their price: “Dix sols pour chacun!--dix sols, dix sols--dix sols seulement, messieurs!” Then there are jugglers, mountebanks, and importunate beggars. My great torment in the Boulevard is a little wretch of a girl, about ten or twelve years old, whose ostensible business is the sale of toothpicks, but in reality is begging. This little animal fixes herself on one with the tenacity of a leech--running by one’s side, occasionally holding up the articles of her pretended trade, and unceasingly plying her song: “Ah, monsieur! cure-dents, monsieur? En voulez-vous, monsieur? deux sols, monsieur! Ah, monsieur! le pauvre père, monsieur; il est malade, monsieur!” and then, when she becomes convinced of the inutility of perseverance, suddenly stopping and entering into an indifferent, perhaps merry, confab with some chum, and again starting after some other likely-looking customer. She frequently follows me from her stand, which is at the end of the Rue de Richelieu, to the Rue de la Paix. Other characters there are of different descriptions, and many of them forming a feature in this motley and daily crowd. Amongst these I have particularly noticed an old man, with long grey locks flowing in a most picturesque style over his back and shoulders, strumming a cracked guitar; and a female, somewhat advanced in years, dressed in shabby old finery, her faded charms partially concealed under a rusty-black veil, who attempts to excite interest in and extract metal from the passengers by warbling a pathetic love-song in a most ominously husky voice. A little farther, a proud and stately Mohammedan, in full Turkish costume, offers for sale I know not what, and evinces much indignation at the itinerant sausage-vendor, who pushes steadily through the crowd, the fiery brasier suspended before him by a strap passing round his neck, everywhere opening for him a free passage. Over the brasier a square pan contains the savoury-smelling, hissing sausages, which as they fry he is able, from having his hands at liberty, to keep turning, or to serve out to customers and receive their sols in return. The steaming pan has frequently made my mouth water, and I give no credit to the fierce and angry look of our stately Turk when startled by his near and unexpected approach. I’d wager a sol did they but encounter in some obscure passage he would himself become a customer to the Giaour’s polluted pan.

At the angle formed by the Boulevards du Temple and St Martin, and opposite to the beautiful Fontaine de Boudi or des Lions, in a snug recess formed by a break in the line of building, may daily be seen a table, covered with a cloth scrupulously white, on which are arranged sundry piles of a peculiarly inviting _gâteau_. This table is constantly surrounded by a certain description of young men, whose bronzed features, mustachioed lips, and confident, insolent stare, denote the _militaire en retraite_, or half-pay officer. Here the presiding goddess is a comely dame of some forty years standing, a little inclined to _embonpoint_, with a bold masculine countenance embrowned by constant exposure, but yet having strong claim to a certain description of beauty, which she understood how to enhance by the tasteful and coquettish arrangement of her blue _cornette_ and a studied neatness in every other part of her dress. With her customers this fair dame carries on a conversation animated and somewhat free, if she likes them; but Englishmen are by no means favourites. This portrait will be readily recognised by those to whom the Boulevard St Martin is familiar. The immense number of tables spread with books, as well as little sheds for the sale of the same--and their cheapness, are quite astonishing. I may say the same of engravings, many of them really good. Equally astonishing is the open and barefaced display, in these stalls, &c., of the most licentious works, and pictures of the most indecent kind. Although the best shops are certainly in the Rue Vivienne, &c., yet are there many very splendid ones along the Boulevards, particularly the Boulevard des Italiens. Here are also some good restaurants and cafés; and, amongst other ornamental buildings, the Bains Chinois. Amid all these, however, there is a characteristic eye-sore which strikes one as quite incongruous: I allude to the intervention of shabby wooden sheds amongst goodly shops and houses. Besides the book-stalls just spoken of, one sees every here and there a long, low, mean-looking shed, its front almost all window. This is a news-room, where, for a few sols, you may read all the daily journals published in Paris, if you have patience to wait until they be disengaged, for these places are generally full; and I often amuse myself by stopping before the broad windows, always open just now, and contemplating the line of odd figures--some spectacled, others (from the manner of holding the little--after our own--minikin _feuille_ at arm’s-length) who evidently ought to be; and all absorbed in the meagre nonsense which every one of these papers I have looked into contains: a number of people may commonly be seen in attendance awaiting their turn. The fellows who keep these sheds must make a mint of money. Another feature not confined to the Boulevards, but common to all the public gardens and places of general resort, is the numbers of well-dressed and often dandified loungers on chairs, and the piles of these against the trees. To us at first it was a novelty seeing groups of people seated on chairs in the open street; but I have now got accustomed to it, and even to appreciate the luxury myself. These chairs, which are of the plainest kind, form the stock-in-trade, and furnish the livelihood, of many a poor old man or woman, who otherwise could do nothing to support themselves; and, _en passant_, I should note the admirable address with which I have seen these people turn the wants of human nature to account. On a rainy day some sally out with a common oil-skin umbrella, which is offered to the first unfortunate wight caught out in a hat or coat likely to suffer. Others, providing themselves with a thick plank, repair to some great thoroughfare where they know there is an insufficient gutter that will overflow--and this may be everywhere. The plank, laid over the rushing stream of black water, is paid for by those who are generous by a sol or two, thus verifying the saying, It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.

The hire of a chair per hour is a mere trifle--a sol or two; and thence it is, I suppose, that a Parisian exquisite seems to think it degrading to occupy only one. Two or three is the common run; but I saw one gentleman this morning who actually occupied five whole chairs. He had chosen an excellent position to be seen, on the Boulevard des Italiens, just by Hardi’s, whither I was bound to get some dinner. One chair sustained the main body, another the right leg, a third the left, a fourth afforded a rest for the left arm, whilst the fifth, bearing gloves, _mouchoir_, and _canne à pomme d’or_, stood conveniently by his right. The self-satisfied air with which this exquisite scrutinised with his _lorgnette_ the passers-by, was not the least amusing part of this entertaining microcosm. Cogitating on the various means used by mankind to court or win admiration from their fellow-men, I mounted the steps in front of Hardi’s, and entered the airy, nicely-furnished _salle à manger_. “Garçon! la carte!” I cried, throwing myself into a seat near the window, the table by which appeared unoccupied. There is about as much difference between one of our dark close coffee-rooms in London and the _salle à manger_ of a Parisian restaurateur (at least Hardi’s or Very’s), as there is between a tallow-chandler’s back parlour in St Martin’s Lane and Lady B.’s beautiful drawing-room in Park Lane. Here are no closely-shut-up boxes, with their green curtains, &c.; all is open, airy, and cheerful. Small tables (just sufficiently large to dine four people) stand about the room covered with snow-white table-cloths, napkins, and silver forks; and instead of the dingy smoked walls of a London coffee-house, and windows so covered with dust that the panes of glass, although translucent, are not transparent, here the walls, covered with a gay painted paper, have an air of cheerfulness quite indescribable, especially when connected with the moving, lively scene without, of which the constantly open door and windows afford an uninterrupted view. In looking on the scene below, the continuous lines of trees give such a rustic appearance to the whole, that it is difficult to imagine one’s self in the very heart of a great capital. To me the Boulevard had more the style of Lewisham or Clapham, or some of those “_rus in urbe_” sort of places so numerous in the vicinity of London. It seems bells are not in use at these places, and calling out or making a noise is vulgar. Therefore, instead of the constantly reiterated “Waiter! waiter!” a sort of masonic signal has been invented to call the attention of the attendants. I began at my first visit to Hardi’s as I would have done in England, and summoned the garçon _viva voce_; but I soon discovered by the glances shot from the tables, and the quick turning of heads, that there was something wrong, at least something unusual. I observed there was no calling, and yet tables were served; and by the occasionally sudden turning and going up to some particular one, I became aware that some other mode of communication must be established. I watched. The garçon was standing near the door looking at an English regiment at that moment passing along the Boulevard. An elderly gentleman, in a sad-coloured suit, who had hitherto been busily employed at the next table discussing his _potage_, stopping suddenly, looked sharply about the room as if in search of some one. His inquisitive glance settled at once on the garçon, and taking up the sharp-pointed knife that lay beside his plate (the knives here are all of one pattern, very common, and apparently made to be used as stilettos instead of for cutting beef or mutton), gently touched with it the side of his wine-glass, producing a slight jingling sound that scarcely reached my ear, close as we were to each other. It proved sufficient though, for the garçon started and was at his side in an instant. “Ma foi!” thought I, “this is a ‘wrinkle to my horn,’” I shall be quite an _habitué_. I tried the experiment again and again:--it never failed; and being now up to the thing, I soon observed that everybody used the same signal. It reminds me of the Spanish call, “Hist!” uttered from the tongue alone, without any sound from the chest. Things are uncommonly well cooked at Hardi’s, and served in most comfortable and respectable style. The napkins at a public table are quite new to us Englishmen. I had a _potage_, and one or two _petit-plats_, that I selected at random from the _carte_; for amongst the numbers figuring there, I knew not one by name, and most probably as little by nature. One thing I dislike in French cookery is the abominable fashion of disguising vegetables; one cannot even get a potato plain and unsophisticated. _Gâteau de pommes de terre_, or some such mixture of potatoes, butter, &c. &c., is the only way they are eaten here. Having finished my plate of strawberries and a bottle of very excellent _Lafitte_, I set off for the Rue de Malte; but instead of going directly thither down the Rue de Richelieu, I made another little promenade on the Boulevard, and finally down the Passage des Panoramas and Feydeau, Rue Vivienne, Palais Royal, &c. The lamps were already lighted, doors open, sentinels posted, and crowds rushing into the Théâtre des Variétés as I passed. The passages looked brilliant by the light of multitudes of lamps, and the arcades of the Palais Royal, where the illumination was only beginning, already swarmed with depravity, and proposals rung in my ears from my entrance to my sortie from this sink of iniquity. The decreasing light warned me not to loiter; so, mounting Cossack, I made the best of my way over the abominable pavement of the Faubourg St Denis, until, gaining the end of La Chapelle, the road became better adapted for rapid movement. Daylight closed, however, just as I got through St Denis, having just enough to save me from the wheels of the numerous chariots and other vehicles with which its long narrow street is always crowded. Having only open fields to traverse afterwards, I cared less; and trusting myself to Cossack’s sagacity, he soon brought me safe home--and thus ends one of the many pleasant days I have passed in this most interesting place. I find Mr Fauigny has been here to-day. He gets hot after his money. I doubt, however, if he will ever finger any of it.

_August 4th._--Beautiful day again. Every pleasure in this life has some drawback--as if this were necessary to prevent our thinking we have already arrived in paradise. That, then, which in a measure neutralises our enjoyment of this fine warm weather, is the incessant torment of swarms of flies (common house-flies) which infest us within and without doors. From these wretches there is no respite, except it be at night, or maybe in a darkened room. The mosquitoes cannot be worse, though they may be as bad. It is not as in England--merely the buzzing about and tickling caused by their alighting on and walking about one. No; here the brutes bite, and so sharply as to bring blood. My greatest suffering from these plagues is in the morning, when I may wish to lie in bed later than usual, which is not often. I am generally up too early for them;[23] for it is only after the sun acquires strength that they begin to be troublesome: then, unless the room be well darkened, there is no possibility of sleeping; and in my naked house there are not the means of doing this--window-shutters, to be sure, but they fit so badly that there is little difference as to light whether they be closed or open. In the village the road is quite black every day in front of our butchers with the dead flies thrown out. He poisons them with an infusion of quassia sweetened with sugar. In my garden there is abundance of the finest fruit--peaches, nectarines, figs, plums, and splendid grapes, now all quite ripe; but such swarms of these detestable brutes infest the trees that they spoil everything. It is impossible to eat any of the fruit without first washing it: this spoils it. Half the battle is picking it off the tree and eating it.

What strange things we live to see and hear! I do think that during the period I have been in the world, more strange, wonderful, improbable (and what once would have been deemed impossible) events have occurred than the whole history of the world, since Noah landed on Mount Ararat down to 1789, could furnish altogether. Not the least strange amongst these is the general order just published to the British army by Wellington, calling upon commanding officers to give every assistance required by the French farmers or cultivateurs in getting in the harvest! In consequence, English soldiers and French peasants are seen everywhere side by side, sickle in hand, or binding sheaves, &c.--the invader and the invaded alike peaceably occupied, and reciprocating kind offices one with the other. ’Tis a goodly sight, truly. Further good consequences are very perceptible in our village. All mistrust and dislike of each other are at an end; and our people are now quite on an intimate and friendly footing with the peasantry. Many an amicable little knot may be seen of an evening sitting at their doors enjoying at once the cool air, their pipes, and the pleasures of conversation, or rather of trying to understand each other. Some of the villagers have already picked up a little English, and our men a little French. The gayest of the latter occasionally mix in the rustic dance; and although rather rough and bearish in their manner of swinging the girls about, yet are they sought after as partners, the pretty _paysanne_ who has for her partner _un canonier_ evincing in her look and manner a degree of satisfaction not to be mistaken. Already symptoms of jealousy have made their appearance among the young _paysans_, and I have consulted M. Bonnemain on the subject, expressing my fears lest it might disturb the harmony already subsisting. “A bah! n’y a pas de danger!--n’importe, n’importe,” is always his answer; and accordingly neither I nor my officers have observed anything like a diminution of friendship among the males. These French girls are clever creatures. They have hearts and flattering tongues for all. It is a pleasing sight of an evening to see our people returning frolicking home from the fields, with the loaded carts, the cargoes of which all are busily assisting in stowing away in the _grenier_--soldiers, _paysans_, and _paysannes_.

Generally speaking, these latter (male and female) are very respectable, well-mannered, and well-spoken people in their way. There is, however, one, the most perfect Caliban I ever met with in my life. Bonnemain says he is not an inhabitant of Stain, but comes from some part of Normandy--I forget where. Short, thick-set, and powerfully built; covered with hair--head shaggy as that of a savage; long beard and naked breast, like a bear’s; broad squat face and enormous features--indeed, when standing close to, and trying to converse with him, I feel a sensation as if looking at his face through a powerful magnifier. Of his language (he speaks very fast and very loud) I cannot succeed in catching a single French word, and I observe that the inhabitants themselves seem to have some difficulty in comprehending his meaning. I have christened him Caliban!--beautiful monster!

But it is almost time to go to bed, and as yet I have not mentioned my ride to Paris to-day--I should say _usual_, for few days elapse without my going thither. In general I prefer the road by St Ouen, Clichy, and Monceaux, &c., because it has trees, the scenery is better, the line is not so tediously straight, and by the Barrière de Clichy one enters at once on a decent part of the town, the Rue de Clichy and du Mont Blanc, instead of having to pass through the long blackguard suburbs of La Chapelle and St Denis. To-day, however, I took this road. How unlike the neighbourhood of London, where, for twenty miles (certainly ten) from town, the country is covered with villas, and the roads with carriages, equestrians--indeed, travellers of every kind and in every way! Here we have a long straight road stretching away with an almost imperceptible ascent for about three miles--not a tree nor a bush lends its shade or breaks its painful monotony (if I may so apply the word)--nor house, nor fence. In the middle reigns a horrible pavement, and on each side of this an unpaved road for summer use; after rain these become sloughs, and then, sooner than travel on the pavement, I take to the fields. These, as I have before said, extend to a considerable distance right and left, naked and cheerless, forming the plain of St Denis. There is another by-road leading off near St Denis, which, keeping about midway between the chaussée just mentioned and that by St Ouen, ascends Montmartre by Clignancour, &c. This may be travelled _in dry weather_. In my progress from St Denis to La Chapelle, as usual, instead of the bustle of a London road, a solitary cabriolet now and then passed me; and from time to time I overtook a long-bodied cart, with what we should call half a load--the horses with their broad painted hames, and the waggoner in his white night-cap (or mayhap a cocked-hat), blue frock and white stockings, _sabots_, &c. These things have now lost their novelty--I am too much at home to be amused by them; so I was pacing along thoughtfully when the wildest thing in the shape of an equipage whisked past in a twinkling. It was Russian--a sort of low clumsily-built barouche, with the head thrown back. In this were seated two officers in full uniform, cocked-hats, and long drooping black or bottle-green plumes; four or five (for I did not exactly ascertain which) little, long-tailed, long-maned, wild-looking horses were driven at a gallop by two boys as wild in their appearance, seated on the off-horses, and using the end of the reins as a whip, in the manner of our hussar bridles. I was delighted; but the thing came up so suddenly, and passed me so rapidly, that I had but half a look at it. _En revanche_, standing at the northern entrance of the Palais Royal, I saw to-day again a regular Russian equipage. This was a low carriage also, but of a peculiar construction, drawn by four little rough horses harnessed with rope. On the driving-box sat one of the most picturesque figures I ever saw in my life. Conceive a head of Jupiter as to features, and the splendid beard that fell in thick masses over his ample chest, eyes shooting thunderbolts, overhung by the brow of majesty itself; the support of this head a neck--such a neck!--such a muscular column!--such a bust altogether! His costume, too, was piquant from its novelty. Nothing European was there except the hat, if one might admit this as such, which differed from anything else of the sort I had ever seen; crown exceedingly low, and about twice the diameter at top as at bottom, encircled by an amazingly broad band; brim very broad, and turned up in a peculiar way at the sides--body wrapped in a kind of caftan with loose sleeves, and girt round the waist by a broad sash. On the off-leader sat one of the most beautiful and wildest urchins it is possible to conceive, wrapped in a caftan of similar colour and make to that of the coachman’s, grey forage-cap, and neck quite bare. He was about fourteen this boy, and a more animated, lovely face could scarcely be imagined. In repose it would be lovely; but when lighted up by the quick play of two brilliant eyes, partially overshadowed by long elf-locks, the beauty and wildness of expression almost exceeds belief. Whilst I stood wrapt in admiration of these two figures, a Russian officer in a plain undress came out of the Palais Royal, and stepped into the conveniently low vehicle. The coachman shook his reins, the boy, who had been looking back, turned sharply to the front, uttering a loud, shrill, but musical cry, the little wild horses tossed up their noses with a snort, burst at once into a gallop, and away they went like a whirlwind down the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. For the rest of this day I have never been able to get them out of my head, and everything Russian has borne with me a double interest. Strange that, going as I do every day to Paris, it should never have fallen to my lot before to see a Russian equipage; and yet every day, at least every time I pass through La Chapelle, I see hundreds of their soldiers (infantry) without bestowing on them the slightest attention. These, smart as they are on the parade, are the dirtiest slovens in the world off it: the usual costume in which one sees them running about La Chapelle is a dirty forage-cap, as dirty a grey greatcoat, generally gathered back by the waist-strap, so as to be out of the way, dirty linen trousers, shoved up at bottom by the projection of the unlaced half-boot. Such is the figure I generally see slipping from house to house, or going across the fields at a sort of Highland trot. Curiosity they have none, or it is restrained by their discipline, for I do not recollect once having met a Russian soldier dressed and walking the streets, as if to see the place. Sometimes, in passing their quarters, I have heard them sing in their squalling, drawling style, in a voice as if mocking some one; there is, however, something wild and plaintive in their ditties. Karl’s ‘Imitations,’ which I always fancied a caricature, is, I find, most excellent. The Prussians, by the by, show themselves as little about the streets as the Russians; but Austrians or Hungarians I meet constantly, generally walking two together--staring into the shop-windows, &c. &c. Tall, heavily-built, boorish-looking fellows, but apparently good-natured and orderly in their behaviour. Happening to go into a shop on the Boulevard a few days ago, one of these came in, and making some observation on my purchase, was surprised at my answering him in German, and immediately became quite friendly. Whether he knew I was an officer or not, it is impossible to say, but he followed me out of the shop, and walked some way along the Boulevard with me, and it was not without difficulty I at last succeeded in shaking him off. They are a heavy people altogether, these Austrians. I frequently pass the hotel where the Emperor lodges, and in this hot weather all the windows being open, see from the Boulevard the whole interior of the waiting-room, where the stiff formality of the Garde du Corps on duty, in their ugly old-fashioned uniforms of grey and silver lace, with ill-shaped cocked-hats stuck square on, is not a little ridiculous. However, they are, as I said before, a good, quiet people.