The wine-trade of Paris amounts to two million two hundred thousand hectolitres; four hundred thousand are consumed in the banlieue, outside the barrière, and seven hundred thousand are sent away, to supply the northern departments. What then becomes of the one million one hundred thousand which are left at Paris? It is made into one million four hundred thousand hectolitres! It may be calculated from the price at the vineyard, the carriage, the taxes, and other etceteras, that unadulterated wine, of however inferior a quality, cannot be sold in Paris for less than half a franc, or fifty centimes, the litre. Now, for considerable quantities retailed in cabarets, the price is as low as forty centimes. The equilibrium is reestablished by clandestine and fraudulent manufacture. On ordinary common wines it is practised to the extent of increasing them on the average as much as three-tenths. Various sweet ingredients are fermented in water. A farmer travelling from Orleans in the same railway carriage with myself, showed me without the slightest hesitation, or concealment, a sample of dried pears which he was taking to Paris to sell to the Bercy wine-brewers. Very inferior raisins, dried fruits in general, and coarse brown sugar, enter into the magic broth. To complete the charm, an addition is made of some high-coloured wine from the south, a little alcohol, and a dash of vinegar and tartaric acid. Such preparations as these are harmless enough; they become grateful to the palate that is habituated to them; and certain adroit manipulators succeed in producing a beverage which attains considerable reputation amongst a wide circle of amateurs. Certainly the so-called petit Macon you get at Paris is a most agreeable drink, when good of its kind. At respectable restaurants, drinking it from a sealed bottle, you may reckon with tolerable safety on its genuineness. In wine shops, where wine is drunk from the cask, its purity is not so certain. The great test is, that manufactured and even light wines will not keep; they must be consumed, like a glass of soda water, as soon as they are ready for the lip. It is said that the lamented Fum the Fourth had a bin of choice wine which he would allow no one to taste, except on special occasions when he chose to call for it himself. But a king, however low he may descend, can hardly go down the cellar-steps with a bunch of keys in one hand and a tallow candle in the other, to decant his own favourite port and sherry. One morning, his Majesty decided that the evening’s feast should be graced by the appearance of some of the treasured nectar. Of course, the underlings had drunk it all themselves, except a single bottle, which they had the marvellous modesty to leave. What was to be done? A panting cupbearer was sent with the final remnant to procure from a confidential purveyor to the palace something as nearly like it as possible. “You shall have it by dinner-time,” said the friend