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did; but our ill luck this year was owing to the quantity of rain that fell during our first trip.

If this "Elegant Extract" will fill up a spare corner in your valuable periodical, you are welcome to it, and the insertion of it will oblige, dear sir, your obedient servant,

Nagpore, July, 1845.

BULBUL.

LA CONCIERGERIE.

I was fully twenty-four hours in Paris before I heard the word concierge, which is more than any other free-born British subject can say, unless he was deaf; but, lest my veracity might be doubted, let me explain. It was on a dark and rainy night, about eleven o'clock, that I entered Wagram's Hotel, Rue Rivoli; and as I was almost inverted, or turned inside out, by a rough passage between Brighton and Dieppe, I took the full value of my five-franc piece, paid for as charming a bed in as charming a street as the gay city of Paris contains. Towards five o'clock on the evening of the following day I ventured out of bed, and tottered towards the window to see what kind of a city was Paris. Corpo di Baccho! what a coup d'œil for a first sight! It was the middle of May, the day beautifully fine. The garden of the Tuilleries was at my feet; marble statues, tastefully intermixed with rows of orangetrees, formed a pleasing contrast with the green foliage; while the lofty sycamore and chestnut bore a silent but indisputable testimony to their own antiquity and aristocracy. Its jets d'eau were spouting water higher even than those of Trafalgar Square, which descended into capacious basins filled with gold fish, that seemed to live in perfect harmony with the swans floating gracefully on the surface; its wood-doves were cooing and fearlessly amusing themselves among a populace gayly, tastefully, and variously dressed: here, the priest, in his long, black cassock, silent and meditative, perused his breviary or "The Wandering Jew;" there, the soldier, in scarlet pantaloons and blue jacket, chatted to the neatly-dressed grisette; while the swarthy Moor, in his oriental. costume and turban, walked side by side with the last fashionable bonnet from Lucy Hoguet. Most persons would describe the whole as resembling a fairy scene; but this I cannot do conscientiously, for I solemnly declare I have never met with any of the "good people ;" and the appearance will be better understood by likening it to a theatrical illusion. The extensive front of the palace of the Tuilleries bounded my view to the left; beyond the gardens, the Seine was tranquilly flowing, and the panorama was completed on the right by the beautiful and imposing are de triomphe.

I was sitting in the balcony, enjoying this union of city and country, when the garçon entered, and advised Monsieur de faire un promenade. The advice was gratis-its full value certainly, and the only article I

was ever offered in France at the same price; so I descended, promenaded, gazed, admired, discussed a vol au vent, swallowed some Château Lafitte, and about eleven o'clock knocked at my hotel. The gate instantly flew open, I entered the court-yard, and patiently waited until the gate would have been closed by the porter, whom I supposed to be behind. The time appearing long, I took the liberty of peeping to ascertain the why; but, not finding any one there, I was lost in astonishment, which was by no means lessened on seeing the heavy door closeto spontaneously. I advanced up the court-yard, and was horrified at the thought of spending the night in a modern Bastile; for, over a door, lighted by a lamp, was plainly legible, "La Conciergerie ;" and my knowledge of French history was extensive enough to recollect that this was the name of the largest prison in Paris. I was in deep reverie considering how I should extricate myself, when the door opened, and a night-cap, with a head, and a beard of fifty years' growth, was thrust out; and after having taken my dimensions from head to foot, as if I were a culprit endeavouring to escape, a bunch of keys was shaken in my face, and I was asked my number. Had I been asked my name, I could scarcely have recollected it, such was my confusion and my alarm; but, whether the Château Lafitte was partly to blame, in strict honour and justice I cannot now say. My mind was so impressed with the idea that I had got into a place of detention, that I commenced a full explanation; but was cut short in my oration by, "What are you, sir?" I groaned-Ah! this, then, is the jailer! "Sir," I replied, "Iam a stranger, scarcely twenty-four hours in Paris, and entered this place through a mistake. "Well, you could not have entered a safer place: have you presented your passport at the bureau?" No. " Well, give it me; I am responsible for its production to the prefect of police. Police! I am—I am fairly caught; and my evil star will have it that I must lodge one night at the expense of the French nation. My passport," I said, is in my portmanteau in my hotel." "Well, then, we must see it in the morning." "But, Monsieur, what shall I do to-night?" "Why, rest here quietly, no doubt; I shall not see the prefect until morning." The words fell on my ear like a judicial sentence; for a policeman is a mere machine, and never listens to reason; for, like the Dutch professor who had 800 florins a-year without understanding Greek, he cannot see the use of it. I thrust my hands in my pocket, marched up the yard, thought of my Uncle Toby, and whistled Lillibullero. The concierge, knowing me to be an Englishman, nationally and naturally imagined me to be either drunk or mad. Presuming the former, and seeing me going towards the gate, he placed himself before it, assured me I could not well go out, and hinted that he would take care of me for the night. No one argues with the master of forty legions or forty keys. He again asked me my number, and I shook my head. He believed I had forgotten it, disappeared for a few minutes, and then returned with the identical garçon who had given me advice gratis as to the promenade.

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There must have been a strange report made of my conduct, for the garçon eyed me suspiciously, and kept at a respectful distance; but at his appearance the mist had vanished, the apparent mystery was explained, and Richard was himself again. I assumed an air of indifference, requested a candle, and asked the garçon my number. Ah! if

the garçon had been aware what an angel of light he appeared to me on that night!

Those who have never visited Paris must be informed that no house, hotel, or hospital can exist without "le concierge❞—a foundation-stone is not more necessary. The houses are very high, divided into separate stages or flats, some having a huitième, or eight stages, and very few less than six. The rez de chaussée or ground-floor, is the usual site for the "conciergerie;" but it varies according to the model of the hotel. When the ground-floor of the front part is shops, it will be found on the stair-case, looking towards the gateway; or at least so constructed that no person can advance further than the hall without coming under the inquisitorial eye of the concierge; but, if the porte cochère, or gateway, open into a court-yard, then it may be a hundred yards distant from the gate, yet always commands a full view of every visitor. It is amusing to observe the ingenuity displayed in their construction, so that every one wishing for access to his mansion may come within his visual ray-sometimes the whole front is window, at other times a semi-glass door suffices. It seldom consists of more than one room; there is always a bed, and so placed that the concierge can, without rising, ascertain who is mounting the escalier; for sable night is no guarantee of repose to this two-headed Cerberus; for the wife shares the labour-which means, performs the whole duty herself. It is always full of keys, having numbers attached with brass chains, and suspended on nails with corresponding numbers beneath. He opens and shuts the gate, without being obliged to leave his lodge, by simply pulling a string which is fixed to an ingenious piece of mechanism—a method of opening doors much wanted in many houses in England. As there is no back entrance or gardens behind the houses in Paris, persons sleep quite securely, free from any apprehension of robbery, for it is impossible that a burglary could be committed without the connivance of the concierge; and French justice is too sure and too severe to hold out much chance of escape, as you are compelled to answer every question addressed; and if the answer is not satisfactory, it is evidence against you. They are, however, as a body by no means honest, but prying, peeping, and curious; all your affairs are known to them, and they have not been improperly described by one of the judges as the Scourge of Paris.

The concierge is a middle-aged man, and almost always married; this seems to be indispensable, for there must be a substitute when he is out or up-stairs. Seldom you see more than one child, for the room is too small; but in some cases, where the concierge rents the hotel, his family reside with him, and make themselves generally useful. Of a morning he is to be seen with his square plush cap of crimson or blue, a short jacket of jane or fustian, and slippers of a most peculiar make; for, as most of the rooms in Paris are waxed, this operation is performed by fastening the brush to the slipper, and then rubbing the foot to the floor. His chief occupation, besides opening and shutting the door, is to keep the hall and staircase clean and lighted. He first rubs the ballusters, and then sweeps the stairs from top to bottom; he then harnesses his foot to a brush, rubbed over with a composition of wax, such as is used in England for cleaning furniture, and begins rubbing the stairs till they look bright and polished; but as he ascends, the rubbing

or frottement is less perfect, until near the top it entirely ceases, unless the hotel is very respectable. The hall is now washed, and verily the labours of the day are then finished. As, however, he and his wife have plenty of spare time on hand, it is generally employed and paid for by the locataires, by cleaning their boots and shoes, by brushing the clothes of the gentlemen; and, where no servant is kept, the care of the apartment is left to him, and he enters as soon as he sees the locataire descend.

The person who tenants the apartment is called a locataire, and the owner a proprietaire; but the concierge sometimes rents the whole house, and then he is the proprietaire; and such houses are always well regulated and respectable. If the apartments are held by a single locataire, he hangs up his key on descending; and any inquiry as to his being at home is answered by a reference to the key, and if you are an habitual visitor you need only look for the key; and if it be there, you may be certain he is not within; but its absence does not prove the contrary, for the concierge may have mounted to arrange the rooms.

He goes of all messages, which is extra pay, and takes care of letters and cards. The care bestowed on these is proportioned to the attention shown to the concierge in the shape of francs; it is astonishing how much his memory is assisted by these trifling pieces of metal.

He has, of course, his room free of rent; and, unless a special agreement is made with the proprietor, he is paid something every month, even by the humblest tenant; but New Year's Day, or Jour de l'an, is his harvest. All the locataires pay him on that morning from five to twenty francs; and in the large hotels this sum may amount to 600 franes, or even more: he has also perquisites in the shape of wood. At the commencement of winter a stock of wood is laid in by each locataire; and as in some hotels there are a hundred locataires, and the very poorest will have at least one voie or load, while the locataires of the first, second, and third floors will burn ten or twenty, the consumption must be great. On each of these loads he has three or four logs of the largest, according to the number of pieces into which the wood has been cut; thus, he is not only supplied with the most expensive article of consumption in Paris, but there is always enough over and above to resell in small quantities to the humbler locataires. For nine months of the year the necessity for fire is not pressing; the dressing of his food requires but little, for his bread, his cold meat, sausages, &c., are all cooked out of doors, and require very little time in their preparation.

We have no such characters in England, for the English habits are irreconcilable with such irresponsible espionage, for he is at once your servant and independent of you; and in general you quit him, instead of his quitting you. He must be bribed to perform his duty; for, although a conviction of neglect would call for his dismissal, yet there are numerous ways of annoying the tenant without the possibility of bringing the charge to a proof. It may be said with great truth, that in a Parisian hotel he is a necessary evil.

THE SEASONS OF 'FORTY-FIVE AND 'FORTY-SIX

COMPARED :

AND A WORD OR TWO ABOUT THE GAME-LAWS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE SPORTSMAN IN FRANCE," AND "SPORTSMAN

IN CANADA."

Of all countries under the sun (and fog) old England can boast of the greatest variety of seasons. We hear plain matter-of-fact sort of people talk about seasonable weather: seasonable weather, forsooth! How can weather be termed seasonable unless there be a wellregulated climate? Climate did we say? We Britishers, as the Yankees term us, have no fixed climate, for ask any rheumatic friend, and he will tell you that we have a dozen different climates in the four-and-twenty hours. An English climate, unlike the lovesick youth, who "oh no's and never mentions" the lady of his affections, and whom he passionately assures will "never find any change in him," is for ever varying, from January to December. We cannot cite a more striking example in support of our argument than by drawing a comparison between the two past years, 1845 and 1846. It must be in the recollection of our readers that from January to June, '45, we had about half a dozen winters, an unmistakeable north-pole climate which froze the very marrow in our bones; and the low temperature retarded, to say the least of it, the progress and process of incubation. All nature was chilled, and the animal as well as vegetable world suffered. The year 1845, therefore, may be chronicled as having been the worst upon record for the field shooter. We had no lack of hot weather in August and September; but this change came too late, the mischief was completed, and the broods of birds all but annihilated by floods and piercingly cold winds. Monsieur Arago the French philosopher, in addition to his other acquirements, is a prognosticator of the first water. Unlike the prophesiers, the Murphys and muffs of the day, he predicted like a veracious savan, as he is, that in the year 1845 we should have fine weather from the 20th of August to the middle of September. In proof of Monsieur Arago's prescience we had fine weather-somewhat of the hottest it is true; and although we were scorched to a mummy on the moors and in stubble, and were dyed of the brownest hue that distinguishes the wandering Arab, we rejoiced at the change. Where a probability exists of the sportsman being afflicted by such an unwelcome visitation as a Siberian spring, the powers that be would do well to imitate our neighbours the French, who regulate the

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