her ideal were a high, instead of a low, one, she might invent a type of Parisian very different from the well-known _boulevardier_ and hero of French romance. But alas! this is her failing. She has no other ideal than that of ruling by the senses, and mastering the worst in man by the worst in herself. The ideal in her is wrecked on the alluring rock of her own making,—dress, for which she lives, and without which Paris would not be the Paris we know; and, being frail and human and sadly silly, as the best of us are,—Heaven be praised!—we admire even when we would fain deplore. The finest impression the life of London leaves on memory is that of the wealthy quarters. The pageant of Rotten Row is unforgetable. The splendid roll of life and movement along Piccadilly, the bright impressiveness of Park Lane, of those squares of lofty town palaces, give such a notion of privilege and purse as may be had on no other spot of the globe. But the happiest and most lasting impression of Paris lies in the poor and populous quarters. Who in memory dwells most on the magnificence of the Champs Elysées? Who in after years, remembering Paris, cares about all the luxury of the Park Monceau, with its fashionable and expensive avenues? But what we do remember, with pleasure and surprise, are the agreeable aspects of labour, of every-day life, of outdoor breathing, the variety, labour, vivacity, and insistent beauty, at every turn, of public existence. It is the delights of street study which hold our imagination enthralled. In Paris we realise that the Revolution has indeed brought about something very near to human equality, since here the poorest know and love the feeling of independence, and we understand the world to be made for them and not exclusively, as in London, for the privileged few. Here aristocracy is an incident in social existence, and any attempts at insolence or haughty airs, which thrill to admiration the soul of the British burgess and small shopkeeper, would in this democratic Paris speedily bring insult on the head of the offender. The Parisian workman will “Monsieur-le-Comte” the aristocrat to his liking, but Monsieur le Comte must mind his manners and be careful not to trespass. He took his head off once, and he hopes that will prove enough, not being more bloodthirsty than his own interests and privileges demand. Who can consistently pity a populace, however hard it may work, and however ill it may feed, that has the right of way along such well-kept thoroughfares; that has such fine statuary and elegant architecture to keep it in good humour! Who is really poor that may refresh his eye upon the terrace of the Tuileries, across the Concorde Place, and take his airing along the boulevards, or in the lovely, old-fashioned Luxembourg Gardens? What point of Paris is dull to look at? Where are the shop-fronts that do not fascinate? Take even one of those old aristocratic streets of the noble Faubourg Varenne, or of Saint Dominique.