Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pictures in the Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing in the Elysian fields. What a panorama of superb points of view! The Rue de la Paix, the Place and Column Vendôme, the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, the imperial facade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens, the noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk and fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch of the Star. Where else can such a group of beauties be found? No wonder the poor Parisians find London dull and ugly! But the less we talk about the appearance of our dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square and its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our drainage, and our comfortable firesides. The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philosopher enters the Champs Elysées in a state of serene enjoyment, proposing to study the manners of the great nation. He observes an ancient man by the wayside in tattered garments, who plays soft tunes on a bass trombone. No one pays the least attention to this mild minstrelsy. It is a perfect image of Wisdom talking in the streets, and no man regarding her. Another poor creature seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling organ amid similar neglect. The French are evidently not a musical people. The observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhibition (in reverence to the august original in England) he is about to assist, when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a cruel disappointment. He might just as well be in Hyde Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine over again. Why, there's OVERALLS, of the Blues. There's SWELLINGS SWELLINGS; you never can go anywhere without seeing him. That was BOB HILTON, driving the high-stepping grey horse. There goes THREADPAPER of the Foreign Office, with his infant moustache (what the deuce does _he_ want with a moustache, I should like to know?) There's old GRATINGS, who is such a bore at the Club; there's CHARLEY MARTINGALE of the Plungers, with HOOKER (known by his friends as the Bravo) in his wonderful tight trousers. But who isn't here? Two men behind are talking about the Metropolitan Handicap and GRUMBLER'S chance of the Derby. Really, really, this is too bad. The ancient poet asks, "What exile from his fatherland can leave _himself_ behind?" The question now is what man, by departure from his country, can hope to be free from his countrymen? It is intolerable. How is it possible to take notes of Parisian manners when you are seized upon by SWELLINGS SWELLINGS and catechised about the prospects of the Haymarket Opera? You get rid of him by informing him, in confidence, that it has been taken by MR. JOHN BRIGHT for a series of Bal Masqués and Ballet entertainments, when up come the BRAVO and MARTINGALE, who want to know when PYTCHLEY'S stud is to be sold. You profess a sulky ignorance of the subject, and try to get away, when