PARIS. the old with broken lances, and in helmets which had lost their vizards-the young in armour bright, which shone like gold, beplumed with each gay feather of the East-all-all tilting at it like fascinated knights in tournaments of yore for fame and love Alas, poor Yorick! cried I, what art thou doing here? On the very first onset of all this glitter. ing clatter, thou art reduced to an atom-seekseek some winding alley, with a tourniquet at the end of it, where chariot never rolled, or flambeau shot its rays-there thou mayest solace thy soul in converse sweet with some kind grisset of a barber's wife, and get into such coteries! May I perish, if I do! said I, pulling out the letter which I had to present to Madame de R***. I'll wait upon this lady the very first thing I do. So I called La Fleur to go seek me a barber directly—and come back and brush my coat. THE WIG. PARIS. WHEN the barber came he absolutely refused to have any thing to do with my wig: 'twas either above or below his art; I had nothing to do, but to take one ready made of his own recommen dation. THE WIG. -But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won't stand. You may immerge it, replied he, in the ocean, and it will stand What a great scale is every thing upon in this city! thought I-the utmost stretch of an English periwig-maker's ideas could have gone no further than to have "dipped it into a pail of water"— What difference! 'tis like time to eternity. I confess I do hate all cold conceptions, as I do the puny ideas which engender them; and am generally so struck with the great works of nature, that for my own part, if I could help it, I never would make a comparison less than a mountain at least. All that can be said against the French sublime in this instance of it, is thisthat the grandeur is more in the word, and less in the thing. No doubt the ocean fills the mind with vast ideas; but Paris being so far inland, it was not likely I should run post a hundred miles out of it, to try the experiment.-The Parisian barber meant nothing. The pail of water standing beside the great deep, makes certainly but a sorrry figure in speech-but 'twill be said it has one advantage -'tis in the next room, and the truth of the buckle may be tired in it without more ado, in a single moment. In honest truth, and upon a more candid revi PARIS. sion of the matter, the French expression professes more than it performs. I think I can see the precise and distinguish. ing marks of national character more in these nonsensical minutiæ, than in the most important matters of state; where great men of all nations talk and stalk so much alike, that I would not give ninepence to choose amongst them. I was so long in getting from under my barber's hands, that it was too late to think of going with my letter to Madame R*** that night; but when a man is once dressed at all points, for going out, his reflections turn to little account; so taking down the name of the Hotel de Modene, where I lodged, I walked forth without any determination where to go-I shall consider of that, said I, as I walk along. THE PULSE. PARIS. HAIL ye small sweet courtesies of life, for smooth do ye make the road of it! like grace and beauty which beget inclinations to love at first sight: 'tis ye who open this door and let the stranger in. Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness to GOOD-NATURE. tell me which way I must turn to go to the Opera Comique.-Most willingly, Monsieur, said she, laying aside her work.— I had given a cast with my eye into half a dozen shops as I came along in search of a face not likely to be disordered by such an interruption; till at last, this hitting my fancy, I had walked in. She was working a pair of ruffles as she sat in a low chair, on the far side of the shop, facing the door. Tres volontiers: most willingly, said she, laying her work down upon a chair next her, and rising up from the low chair she was sitting in, with so cheerful a movement, and so cheerful a look, that had I been laying out fifty louis d'ors with her, I should have said, This wo man is grateful." You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going with me to the door of the shop, and pointing the way down the street I was to take-you must turn first to your left hand- mais prenez gardethere are two turnings; and be so good as to take the second-then go down a little way and you'll see a church, and when you are past it, give yourself the trouble to turn directly to the right, and that will lead you to the foot of the Pont Neuf, which you must cross-and there any one will do himself the pleasure to shew you. She repeated her instructions three times over PARIS. to me, with the same good-natured patience the third time as the first-and if tones and manners have a meaning, which certainly they have, unless to hearts which shut them out-she seemed really interested, that I should not lose myself. I will not suppose it was the woman's beauty, notwithstanding she was the handsomest Grisset, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with the sense I had of her courtesty; only I remember, when I told her how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes-and that I repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions. I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot every title of what she had said so looking back, and seeing her still standing in the door of the shop, as if to look whether I went right or not-I returned back, to ask her whether the first turn was to my right or left for that I had absolutely forgot-Is it possible? said she, half laughing.-'Tis very possible, replied I, when a man is thinking more of a woman than of her good advice. As this was the real truth, she took it, as every woman takes a matter of right, with a slight courtesy. Attendez! said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilst she called a lad out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of gloves. I am. |