mass. Listen! What do you hear? Nothing but "_Démandez la Presse!_" "_La Patrie!_" "_Démandez la Presse!_" "_La voix des Clubs!_" "_Démandez la Presse!_" "_La vrai Démocrate!_" "_Démandez la Presse!_" and so on to the "crack of doom." It is the journal of an intriguing man, of strong sense, and stronger ambition, who has not yet obtained that power at which he grasps; but as the whole paper is for one _sou_, it will be strange if, with this active system of living puffing, he arrive not at some great pinnacle, or fall not into some deep abyss. Ears, however, will get accustomed to the cannon of the battlefield; but the harassed spirit gets not easily accustomed to the bodily assaults of every moment. At every step newspaper-venders obstruct your path, rushing down upon you like cab-drivers in the streets of Naples: the thousand rival sheets of printed paper are flared in your face, thrust into your hand, forced into your bosom, ten at a time, with the accompanying howl of "only a _sou_!--only five _centimes_!" Suppose that, for a moment--a bold supposition!--you have escaped from the attacks of these invading hordes of republican journalism, you must not fancy that your future path is unobstructed. Of course, in republican Paris, a street-police would be considered as the most frightful of tyrannies; universal license is the order of the day. Besides the politicising and haranguing crowds already mentioned, your course is hemmed by countless others. Here is a juggler--there a quack-doctor--there a monkey--here a pamphlet-vender; and each has its thick encircling throng of idlers around it. And, alas! how many there are who have now no business but to idle. The thickest crowd, perhaps, is round a long-haired meagre fellow, who is crying "_Les crimes de Louis Philippe, et les assassinats qu'il a commis--all for two sous!_" to an admiring and applauding throng of the lowest classes. Some better feelings murmur at this useless ass's kick at the dead lion; but they are few. Move on! There is another obstructing crowd before a host of caricatures on the walls; of course, they are all directed against Louis File-vite," as he is termed, and his accolyte "Cuit-sot." There is a rare lack of wit in them, be they allegorical, typical, or fanciful; but they are sure to attract a gaping and a laughing throng. Move on again, if you can! You find two or three _hommes du peuple_, in _blouses_, planted before you, who cry, authoritatively, and without budging themselves to the right or to the left--"_Faites place, nom de Dieu!_" And you, of course, make room; and if you are disposed to reverence, you will take off your hat to them too; for these are your lords and masters,--what say I? your kings! and no autocrat was ever more despotically disposed. Move on again, if you can! You will stumble over the countless beggars stretched across the pavement, or squatting in gipsy-like groups, or thrusting wounds and sores into your face. Many there may be real