Untravelled New-Yorkers as they walk through Broadway, and see the names of Madame Grand-this and Mons. Grand-that '_from Paris_,' over every other shop-door, and see the French shoes, the French gloves, the French chocolate, the French clocks, the _liqueurs_, the _bon-bons,_ the _bijouterie_, the _meringues_, the _pates-de-foi-gras,_ in the windows, may think that the Gauls have marked us for their 'own peculiar;' but it is so in St. Petersburgh, 'tis so in Constantinople, 'tis so in Lima, in the Banda Orientale, in Rio, in Mexico, in Montreal, in London, in Vienna, in Boston, in Philadelphia, in Grand Cairo--'tis so all over the earth. The Sorbonne and the Louvre rule the world. Can any body be tired, or weary, or dumpish? No. We must be _ennuyeed_, or _blaze_, or _fatigue_, or something else ending in _e_. Does any lady ever give an evening party? No. Nothing but a _soiree_. Are there any more gatherings of friends? No; only _reuenions_. Is it possible to dance a cotillion in English? Is there any body in New-York with sufficient moral courage to sleep upon any thing short of a French bed-stead? Is there a chamber-maid who will lie upon any thing less than a _paliastre_? Are there any more fat, or plump, or round, or full people? No. Even Falstaff would be inclined to _embonpoint_ if he were alive, in these days of Gallic supremacy. Well might VICTOR COUSIN and the rest of them declare that the French were not defeated at Waterloo. The allied armies entered Paris it is true, but they made their Exodus in slavery. The English, Germans and Russians went home from France manacled with French fashions, and not a soul of them has dared to assert his independence since. We are by no means sure that French cookery has not done more to preserve the peace of Europe, during the last twenty years, than all other causes put together. It is impossible to think of a war with France. The mind staggers under the supposititious case of the nations of the earth deprived of French _bon-bons_. Imagine the commerce with France suspended! Who would perfume us? who feast us? who dress us? Where would our gloves come from? what should we do for slippers? how should we be off for soap? Would there be any more ribbons? any more brandy fruits? any more meringues? any more chocolate? Where should we look for another BLANCARD, another FAUVEL-GOURAUD? Would there be any more dancing? any more fashions? any more any thing? The true _Mysteres de Paris_ nobody knows any thing about but the Parisians themselves, and they are too cunning to pronounce their open sesame loud enough to be heard by the rest of the world. How like gudgeons we all snapped at the bait of EUGENE SUE! But the Mysteries of Paris are written in a kind of Parisian Coptic, which none but the Parisian can read.