well-dressed and often dandified loungers on chairs, and the piles of these against the trees. To us at first it was a novelty seeing groups of people seated on chairs in the open street; but I have now got accustomed to it, and even to appreciate the luxury myself. These chairs, which are of the plainest kind, form the stock-in-trade, and furnish the livelihood, of many a poor old man or woman, who otherwise could do nothing to support themselves; and, _en passant_, I should note the admirable address with which I have seen these people turn the wants of human nature to account. On a rainy day some sally out with a common oil-skin umbrella, which is offered to the first unfortunate wight caught out in a hat or coat likely to suffer. Others, providing themselves with a thick plank, repair to some great thoroughfare where they know there is an insufficient gutter that will overflow--and this may be everywhere. The plank, laid over the rushing stream of black water, is paid for by those who are generous by a sol or two, thus verifying the saying, It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The hire of a chair per hour is a mere trifle--a sol or two; and thence it is, I suppose, that a Parisian exquisite seems to think it degrading to occupy only one. Two or three is the common run; but I saw one gentleman this morning who actually occupied five whole chairs. He had chosen an excellent position to be seen, on the Boulevard des Italiens, just by Hardi’s, whither I was bound to get some dinner. One chair sustained the main body, another the right leg, a third the left, a fourth afforded a rest for the left arm, whilst the fifth, bearing gloves, _mouchoir_, and _canne à pomme d’or_, stood conveniently by his right. The self-satisfied air with which this exquisite scrutinised with his _lorgnette_ the passers-by, was not the least amusing part of this entertaining microcosm. Cogitating on the various means used by mankind to court or win admiration from their fellow-men, I mounted the steps in front of Hardi’s, and entered the airy, nicely-furnished _salle à manger_. “Garçon! la carte!” I cried, throwing myself into a seat near the window, the table by which appeared unoccupied. There is about as much difference between one of our dark close coffee-rooms in London and the _salle à manger_ of a Parisian restaurateur (at least Hardi’s or Very’s), as there is between a tallow-chandler’s back parlour in St Martin’s Lane and Lady B.’s beautiful drawing-room in Park Lane. Here are no closely-shut-up boxes, with their green curtains, &c.; all is open, airy, and cheerful. Small tables (just sufficiently large to dine four people) stand about the room covered with snow-white table-cloths, napkins, and silver forks; and instead of the dingy smoked walls of a London coffee-house, and windows so covered with dust that the panes of glass, although translucent, are not transparent, here the walls, covered with a gay painted