Generally speaking, these latter (male and female) are very respectable, well-mannered, and well-spoken people in their way. There is, however, one, the most perfect Caliban I ever met with in my life. Bonnemain says he is not an inhabitant of Stain, but comes from some part of Normandy--I forget where. Short, thick-set, and powerfully built; covered with hair--head shaggy as that of a savage; long beard and naked breast, like a bear’s; broad squat face and enormous features--indeed, when standing close to, and trying to converse with him, I feel a sensation as if looking at his face through a powerful magnifier. Of his language (he speaks very fast and very loud) I cannot succeed in catching a single French word, and I observe that the inhabitants themselves seem to have some difficulty in comprehending his meaning. I have christened him Caliban!--beautiful monster! But it is almost time to go to bed, and as yet I have not mentioned my ride to Paris to-day--I should say _usual_, for few days elapse without my going thither. In general I prefer the road by St Ouen, Clichy, and Monceaux, &c., because it has trees, the scenery is better, the line is not so tediously straight, and by the Barrière de Clichy one enters at once on a decent part of the town, the Rue de Clichy and du Mont Blanc, instead of having to pass through the long blackguard suburbs of La Chapelle and St Denis. To-day, however, I took this road. How unlike the neighbourhood of London, where, for twenty miles (certainly ten) from town, the country is covered with villas, and the roads with carriages, equestrians--indeed, travellers of every kind and in every way! Here we have a long straight road stretching away with an almost imperceptible ascent for about three miles--not a tree nor a bush lends its shade or breaks its painful monotony (if I may so apply the word)--nor house, nor fence. In the middle reigns a horrible pavement, and on each side of this an unpaved road for summer use; after rain these become sloughs, and then, sooner than travel on the pavement, I take to the fields. These, as I have before said, extend to a considerable distance right and left, naked and cheerless, forming the plain of St Denis. There is another by-road leading off near St Denis, which, keeping about midway between the chaussée just mentioned and that by St Ouen, ascends Montmartre by Clignancour, &c. This may be travelled _in dry weather_. In my progress from St Denis to La Chapelle, as usual, instead of the bustle of a London road, a solitary cabriolet now and then passed me; and from time to time I overtook a long-bodied cart, with what we should call half a load--the horses with their broad painted hames, and the waggoner in his white night-cap (or mayhap a cocked-hat), blue frock and white stockings, _sabots_, &c. These things have now lost their novelty--I am too much at home to be amused by them; so I was pacing along thoughtfully when the wildest