order of society suffers by this chance selling. Dr. Johnson did great service to this country by his memorable sentence: "I always deal at a stately shop; it is not there worth while to take petty advantages." When the Parisians make the same determination, and purchase nothing at by-places, their shops too will improve; and they will find that a bation of shopkeepers is more respectable than a nation of shoplifters.

Among the singularities of the Palais toyal, Mr. Holcroft notices the blind man's coffee-house.

"One of these musical cellars is called Café des Aveugles. The master of this coffee-house is blind, the musicians are blind, and doubtless if they could but have come niently served their customers, the waiters would also have been chosen from the blind. Nothing amuses a Parisian so much as that which he can talk of with astonishment. He generally possesses real sensibility; and, when he can mingle sentiment and compassion with his wonder, it is the summit of pleasure.

"Among the rest, I visited this cellar. I listened to the musicians: he that led the band, played solus, and sometimes played finely; the rest performed passably well; it was far from a contemptible orchestra. I looked at them, remembered they were se lected from the scholars of M. Hauy, a man who has dedicated himself to the service of the blind compassion for their fate, the recollection how unhappy they might have been, had no humane brother stood forth as their protector, and the feeling of their comparative happiness, were all affecting sensa tions. I left the Café des Aveugles, not with astonishment at what the blind can perform, of that I was well aware; not at the intricacies of a superb cavern, to which by scooping out something more like holes than spacious vaults it seems to pretend; but, with a glowing sense of the divine effects of benevolence, and a firm conviction that they will, hereafter, overspread and humanize the

world."

The account of the Palais-royal is flat: it is better described in the Varieties of Literature. A long arcaded court, of exquisitely beautiful architecture, is planted with parallel alleys of lime-trees, and thus supplies for dry or wet weather an equally convenient walk. Sheltered shops, chiefly for books, fashions, jewelry, and refreshments, surround the piazza, and preserve the appearance of a fair perpetually thronged. La large towns it is convenient to have such places, (Exeter Change is a coarse

parody,) where one can go a shopping in wet weather, and where one can walk dry as in cloisters; and it is highly probable that in this climate, where the want of covered walks is more frequent than in Paris, an edifice similar to the Palais-royal would pay itself in London by the great rental of the shops, and would speedily become an agreeable and fashionable lounge. The architect of the Palais-royal should have chosen. a colonnade for his lower story, the arcades intercept so much light as to render the warehouses behind them inconveniently dark. The gambling rooms on the second floor are very splendid; it is perhaps wise for young men to be accustomed to approach and to trifle with. the tables of fortune; the habit of risking small amounts, such as it is decorous to venture, and not inconvenient to lose, is the best training for self-com

mand.

Among the public gardens of Paris,. surely the Tuileries were entitled to very distinct and peculiar notice. No artificial walk in Europe is equally delightful. Bounded at one extremity by the majestic and ancient palace of the French sovereigns; on the other by the beautiful place of Concord, whose mo

dern colonnaded structures embellish. the offskip; with one terras commanding a view of the clear green waters of the Seine, its bridges, and kays; and the other shadowed by tall trees; every object within ken is a study for the artist. Innumerable modern statues of marble and bronze border or terminate the wide vistas; they are chiefly works of the age of Louis XIV. and are good copies of celebrated antiques, representing the Muses, Apollo, Mercury, Diana, Meleager, and the wood-gods. A few, such as those of Cesar and Alexander, ought rather to have stood in the palace than in its garden. The avenues are agreeably interrupted by marble basins, or pools, peopled with glittering gold fish, and crowned with jets d'eaux, whose waters, tossed to the sky in useful columns, scatter, at the caprice of the zephyrs, coolness and verdure through the twilight alleys of the lofty grove, or amuse the eye with rainbow-girded showers. The reader, or declaimer, can take refuge in lonely shades; the lounger can jostle through cronds of well-drest beauty. Coffee, chocolate, ices," and sorbets are offered beneath the pavilio. s of the terras; and at a liter hour music

beckons to the complex feasts of the

restaurateur.

The gardens of the Luxembourg also form a fine walk: the trees are older, the alleys darker and lonelier: many fresh statues of Chaudet and Julien are to be placed there. The English plan of gardening makes a better prospect for a painter than these formal arrangements of trees and statues. But in order to accommodate many walkers in a warm climate, there must be no turf and much shade: the pleasure derived from the view of sculpture is different from that afforded by picturesque groups of trees and shrubbery; but it is not less real, or less founded in nature: so that the French garden, justly as it may be censured at Versailles where there was room to be natural, is in fact the wisest plan for constructing a public walk at Paris. Our pleasures of the eye depend on the associated ideas called up by the objects present. An American was observing to me that he abhorred the look of an English park, it put him in mind of uncleared country, where serpents and beasts of prey and dangerous damps lay hid; but he liked strait hedges, avenues, and roads which implied the dominion of man. This stamp of civilization cannot be effaced from the boundaries of a metropolitan garden, why should it from the centre ?

Mr. Holcroft has occasion to describe a Parisian illumination; it produces more effect than the London method of lighting. Little attempt is made by private individuals to arrest attention. The public walks and buildings are wonderfully splendid. The lights in use consist of wooden boxes, like bottle-sliders, filled to the brim with grease, and containing a large wick. They are arranged on the outside of the houses. You see every architrave and window. sill of the long and regular palace of the Tuileries thickly dotted with these torches up to the summit of its pyramidal pavilions, every frontoon and arch regularly framed with them, and in every nich and arcade a depending globular screw of lights-so as to form a building of tongues of fire-and these wavering in the wind, as if the earthly solidity of that huge edifice was no more, and in its place stood a luminous spectre of flame, imitating its form, and shining with the sunny glories of resurrection.

The 63d chapter describes a fair held in the court of the Louvre consecrated

to the display of French industry. There are three important manufactories at or near Paris which produce articles that we cannot yet equal. (1) The lookingglass-manufactory, which for vastness and cheapness of plates is said to excel a similar institution near Blackfriarsbridge. (2) The porcelain manufac tory at Seve, where the symmetry of the building, the combination of accomplished artists, and the exquisite material, execution and form of the ware are equally worthy of praise. (3) The tapestry manufactory at the Gobelins, where the drawing of the painter is ri valled and his colouring surpassed, in a tissue of dyed wool. Some jewellers engrave the inside of glass ewers with the perfection of a Cameo ; it is a pity to squander such art on a material so frail.

A just observation occurs in p. 320: "No man can promise himself that any portable object shall be stationary in Paris." They new-furnish their squares with fresh works of art, as we new-furnishi a saloon. The horses from Venice were once at the Invalides, now in the place Carousel. The four allegorical figures representing quarters of the world, were once in the place Victoire, and are now in the Invalides. Countless statues and pictures have been brought from Versailles to decorate the Tuileries and the Louvre. Now Versailles is to be fitted up again, and other pictures and statues are to be carried thither. The national library, though spaciously lodged and conveniently arranged, is to occupy rooms in the Louvre of a more stately exterior appearance. These changes however have commonly an adequate motive. The progress of embellishment since the year 1790 is obvious, since 1783 still greater. New kays have been cleared, new bridges built, and new market-places opened on the site of demolished convents. vate palaces which were confiscated by the nation have received a useful destination. No building of eminent beauty but is become the home of some public institution; no eminent national establishment, but is harboured in some admirable edifice. The hospital called the Hotel-dieu, the exchange, and the postoffice are among the meanest of the Parisian public buildings. In London too the post-office disappoints: it should be transferred to Moorfields, where the nightly parade of mail-coaches would

Pri.

in active circulation among them, the Germans have from theory and from experience given the preference to the gothic drama. Its changes of scene delight the spectator's eye; the prolongation of time renders it possible to dramatize with probability events of greater moment, interest, and complexity, than can be squeezed into a French tragedy; and the whole plan of dialogue is more dramatic. A French tragedy begins and ends with epic poetry, but a gothic play preserves throughout the same consistent method of delineation.

If the poet does his business worse, the manager does it better in France than in England. He does not hire a theatre too large for an audience to hear in. He causes the subordinate parts to be acted with propriety. His scenery is adapted, and his dresses are far more learnedly and attentively in costume than in an English theatre. He can despise finery, and dress a Greek plain: Every stool or chair in Cinna has the Roman moulding the parts even of the dumb waiters are studied.

Mr. Holcroft notices the extraordinary love of the French for dogs: this taste is probably connected with the lewdness of the French disposition: there is no animal whose demonstrations of affec tion so frequently assume an indecent character as those of the dog from observing the dog the Dutch philosopher Hemsterhuis drew the inference that all the berevolent affections are modifica tions of lust. Among the rich, men and women, have all their lap-dogs; among the poor very large dogs are kept in such numbers, that they must sensibly affect the consumption of provisions. Dogcarts are common, greens are brought to market by dogs, children are drawn by dogs. One would not be surprised to hear of a riot of the dogs in Paris making themselves masters of the butchery, and plundering the shambles in flocks. It is not good for men to live among dogs: the dog has a deal of base servility, which still fawns on the master who is lugging his ears, or lashing his hide the dog behaves well to whom he fears, but tyrannizes over inferior animals whom he can worry.

"It is a frequent remark of the English who have visited Paris," says Mr. Holcroft, "that the lower classs of the English are by no means equal in readness of reply and quickness of conception to the common people of France."

This quickness, this plasticity, this adaptability of character is also a feature of the common people in Scotland: it seems to depend on the imperfect division of labour which prevails in poor countries. The young must be fitted to turn their hands to any thing, as the phrase is, where the chance of specific success, the demand for appropriate labour, is small. All savages have this versatility of talent. In manufacturing towns it prevails least. Take a Frenchman of any class in society, and fling him into any other however opposite, and he will be more at home in his new place, be it a great rise or a great fall, than a native of any other country. Our women acquit themselves well in sudden changes from prosperity to adversity, or from adversity to prosperity; but our men have not the suppleness of Frenchmen. This is an advantage especially in revolu tionary times: it is perhaps accompanied with an inability to advance themselves decisively by persevering uniform efforts in a single undeviating direction: at least the French produce a vast crop of sudden merit in any line that becomes of national demand, and a comparatively small crop of those enduring, separate and singular exertions, which accumulate into stationary utility. Their efforts seem those of competition and emulation, not those of disinterested ambition.

The neighbourhood of grandeur and beggary is every where apparent," (says our author). Far less than formerly. The neighbourhood of gran deur is become very scarce. The fairest hotels of the nobility have been consecrated to the use of the state by the magical inscription" Liberty and Equality." The second-rate palaces are subdivided into private dwellings, and com monly contain four or more independent families. The rents of villas at Passy, Auteuil, &c. have greatly diminished: those of Parisian houses little. The French, like the Edinburgers, occupy flats: each family has its whole conve niences on the same floor: at bottom and at top dwell the poor, in the second story the middle class. This method of arrangement implies dirty stair-cases, and thorough-fare bed-rooms, and a conse quent indifference, from habit, to what we consider as the uncleanliness and indelicacy of such passages. The apartments are larger, and furnished in a grander. purer, and less finical taste than those of the corresponding classes in English so

ciety. The French spend less in hospitality, more in lodgement than the English. The aim is at rank, not at comfort. Misery, as well as superfluity has diminished. The guingettes, or alehouses of the multitude, thrive and are improved. Bare feet and wooden shoes have disappeared. In consequence of the great demand for men in the armies of the republic the wages of labour throughout France have risen, in the provinces one fourth, in Paris one third. I have seen in the pit at the opera, a plasterer who had been at work in my apartment. Many sorts of labour formerly done by men are now undertaken by women, such as sweeping apartments, cooking even, and fetching water. Shop-keeping, letting chairs in the public churches, weaving, footing, and grafting silk stockings, letting draw ers to bathers, seaming for the tailors, painting decorations on furniture, are mostly performed by women, many of whom live unmarried and rear a family with considerable decorum and facility. In some printing-offices women are employed. There is little domestic educa. tion; children are put out to nurse, put out to school, and taken home with beggarly elements of éducation, as soon as they can be made to earn any thing, The loss of infant life is prodigious; the nurses about Paris outherod Herod. Adultery is on the decrease; it has ceased to be reputable in France: men begin to feel that there is a want of dignity in begging for what they can buy. This is the first step to every reformation. There can be no very strong parental affection in the husband of a suspected woman; of course little attention to educate and to provide for the offspring. Economy, industry, the principles of justice in the distribution of property, can never take root in a family, whose cradle is supposed to contain a changeling substituted by the mother. Filial affection scarcely originates where its object is uncertain or infamous: and does not last to repay the debt of infancy to age. Adultery prevails most where the men are numerous and poor: it is recurred to as a cheap plan of indulgence, which the labour, no otherwise to be turned to account, of a given quantity of seductive attentions will purchase: it abounds therefore in Italy, and in Spain: but in rich countries, and in times of war, it naturally abates. Coarser sins have not decreased: in the creed of French epi

ANN. REV. VOL. III.

curism, continence is the only unnatural vice. Books, prints, and exhibitions of. the most exceptionable kind are frequent in the Palais royal.

The best school in Patis is the Eccle Polytechnique. It embraces, besides the classical languages, the encyclopedic sciences. Drawing is taught to every individual, as we teach writing. Collec tions of instruments to facilitate instruc tion are deposited at the institution. The first professors in Paris lecture there→ Monge, Fourcroy, Berthollet: it is conducted after the manner of a Scotish university, and is especially attentive to the mathematical and military sciences. It was intended to consist of picked boys, who headed the classes of inferior schools; but interest at court can introduce the desirable proportion of dulness. This school, like every thing French, is made a show: the lecture-rooms are superb, the apparatus dazzling, the building noble, the teachers celebrated, and strangers struggle for permission to be present at a lecture.

The Ecole Veterinaire is also in good hands. It is situated at Charenton; and supplied not only with an admirable collection of exquisite anatomical preparations and injections of animals and mon sters: but with land, on which Spanish sheep, Java hogs, Arabian horses, and other improved breed, of cattle are reared for presents to the prefacts of departments. Thus the new races are speedily diffused over the surface of France. Great praise is due to Mr. Godine junior for the courtesy with which strangers are received, and the intelligence with which they are instructed. The profession of veterinary surgeon is be come general in France: every regiment of cavalry has one, who often holds a commission besides.

La Morgue, a grated chamber in which the dead bodies of suicides and of other victims to suspicious accidents are exposed to be owned, is described by Mr. Holcroft as empty on the average about twice in a month. Now as there are often two or more dead bodies, it may be inferred, that about a death per day of this kind is detected in Paris. What the coroner's register would state to be the average number of suicides and unaccountable deaths in London is unknown; but probably it bears as large a proportion to the population. If Paris be supposed to contain 550,000 inhabitants, one vo. luntary or sudden death per day is

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