sufferers from the present misery, but the most are of the got-up species. It is now the beggars' saturnalia; they keep high holiday in the streets. The people have cried "_A bas les municipaux--à bas les sergents de ville!_" Those execrable monsters, the agents of a tyrannical power, have been driven away, if not massacred, in the last "three glorious days:" and the people want no police,--"the great, the magnanimous, the generous, the virtuous," as the Government calls it in its proclamations. Try to move on once more! Before the walls, all plastered with handbills of every kind, are again throngs to read and comment. On every vacant space of wall, at every corner, are posted countless addresses and advertisements. The numerous white bills are decrees, proclamations, addresses, and republican bulletins of the Provisional Government, all headed with those awful words, "_Republique Française_," which make many a soul sink, and sicken many a heart, with the remembrance of a fearful time gone by. And decrees there are which hurry on the subversion of all the previously existing social edifice, without reorganising in the place, destroying and yet not building anew;--and proclamations more autocratic and despotic, in the announcement of the reign of republican liberty, than ever was monarchic ordinance;--and addresses to the people, couched in vague declamation, telling these rulers of the day, "_Oui, peuple! tu es grand--oui, tu es brave--oui, tu es magnanime--oui, tu es généreux--oui, tu es beau!_" with an odious flattering such as the most slavering courtier never ventured to bestow upon the most incensed despot;--and bulletins declaring France at the pinnacle of glory, and happiness, and pride--the object of envy and imitation to all people. Private addresses from individuals or republican bodies there are also innumerable, in the same sense; until one expects to see angels' wings growing behind the backs of every _blouse_, forming harmonious contrast with the black unshaven faces. But we are far from being at the end of the long lines of handbills, that give Paris the look of a city built up of printed paper. Here we have announcements of clubs--the _mille e tre_ noisy mistresses that court the fascinating, seductive, splendid Don Juan of a Republic; there are four or five in every quarter of the town, almost in every street. And then come their _professions de foi_; and then _their_ addresses to the people, and their appeals, and their counsels to the Government, and their last resolutions, and their future intentions--say, their future exactions. Most greet the fall of the social edifice with triumph; but few, if any, let you know how they would reconstruct anew: some boldly state their object to be "the enlightenment of a well-intentioned but ignorant Government, which it is their duty to instruct:" others call down "the celestial vengeance, and the thunders of heaven, on their head, if ever they should deceive or lead astray