My original friend, the Scot--who, I am told, has killed two or three men in duels--visited me this morning, and brought me his genealogy, printed, with the whole history of his race or 'clan.' He complained bitterly that another man of his name contested the rank of chieftain with him; and took great pains to prove to me, from the work he had brought, that he was the true one: he added, that "the judgment of Heaven between them would be the best way of deciding their respective claims." He then called my attention to his arms, of the origin of which he related a curious history, * * * * * * * * * * It was, like most of these traditions, poetical enough, and a striking picture of those rude but vigorous ages. I did not fail to relate to him a 'pendant' to his story, from the Nibelungenlied, concerning my own ancestors;--probably both were equally true. We parted over the ghosts of our forefathers, the best friends in the world. There are now private balls every evening: and in rooms to which a respectable German citizen would not venture to invite twelve people, some hundreds are here packed like negro slaves. It is even worse than in London; and the space allotted to the quadrilles allows only the mathematical possibility of making something like dancing demonstrations. A ball without this crowd would be despised; and a visitor of any fashion who found the staircase empty, would probably drive away from the door. This strange taste reminded me of one of Potier's characters, a 'ci-devant jeune homme' who orders a pair of pantaloons of his tailor which are to be 'extraordinairement collant:' as the 'artiste' is going away he calls after him, "Entendez vous?--extraordinairement collant; si j'y entre, je ne le prends pas." In like manner an English dandy would say of a rout, "Si j'y entre, je n'y vais pas."