The worst fault which divines and the doctors of the Sorbonne can allege against it is, that if there is but a cap-full of wind in or about Paris, 'tis more blasphemously sacre Dieu'd there than in any other aperture of the whole city and with reason good and cogent, Messieurs; for it comes against you without crying garde d'eau, and with such unpremeditable puffs, that of the few who cross it with their hats on, not one in fifty but hazards two livres and a half, which is its full worth.

The poor notary, just as he was passing by the sentry, instinctively clapped his cane to the side of it, but in raising it up, the point of his cane catching hold of the loop of the centinel's hat, hoisted it over the spikes of the ballustrade clear into the Seine--'Tis an ill wind, said a boatman, who catched it, which blows nobody any good.

The sentry being a Gascon, incontinently twirled up his whiskers, and levelled his harquebuss.

Harquebusses in those days went off with matches; and an old woman's paper lanthorn at the end of the bridge happening to be blown out, she had borrowed the sentry's match to light it-it gave a moment's time for the Gascon's blood to run cool, and turn the accident better to his advantage-'Tis an ill wind, said he, catching off the notary's castor, and legitimating the capture with the boatman's ad

age.

The poor notary crossed the bridge, and passing along the Rue de Dauphine into the Fauxbourg of

St. Germain, lamented himself as he walked along in this manner:

Luckless man that I am! said the notary, to be the sport of hurricanes all my days-to be born to have the storm of ill language levelled against me and my profession wherever I go-to be forced into marriage by the thunder of the church to a tempest of a woman-to be driven forth out of my house by domestic winds, and despoiled of my castor by pontific ones-to be here, bare-headed, in a windy night, at the mercy of the ebbs and flows of accidents-where am I to lay my head? miserable man! what wind in the two-and-thirty points of the whole compass can blow unto thee, as it does to the rest of thy fellow-creatures, good?

As the notary was passing on by a dark passage, complaining in this sort, a voice called out to a girl, to bid her run for the next notary-now the notary being the next, and availing himself of his situation, walked up the passage to the door, and passing through an old sort of a saloon, was ushered into a large chamber, dismantled of every thing but a long military pike-a breast-plate-a rusty old sword, and bandolier, hung up equi-distant in four different places against the wall.

An old personage, who had heretofore been a gentleman, and, unless decay of fortune taints the blood along with it, was a gentleman at that time, lay supporting his head upon his hand in his bed; a little table with a taper burning was set close beside it, and close by the table was placed a chair-the notary sat him down in it; and pulling out his inkhorn and a sheet or two of paper which he had in his pocket, he placed them before him, and dipping his pen in his ink, and leaning his breast over the table, he disposed every thing to make the gentleman's last will and testament.

Alas! Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, raising himself up a little, I have nothing to bequeath which will pay the expence of bequeathing, except the history of myself, which I could not die in peace unless I left it as a legacy to the world; the profits arising out of it, I bequeath to you for the pains of taking it from me-it is a story so uncommon, it must be read by all mankind-it will make the fortunes of your house-the notary dipped his pen into his ink-horn-Almighty Director of every event in my life! said the old gentleman, looking up earnestly, and raising his hands towards heaven-thou whose hand has led me on through such a labyrinth of strange passages down into this scene of desolation! assist the decaying memory of an old, infirm, and broken-hearted man-direct my tongue, by the spirit of thy eternal truth, that this stranger may set down nought but what is written in that book, from whose records, said he, clasping his hands together, I am to be condemned or acquitted! the notary held up the point of his pen betwixt the taper and his eye

-It is a story, Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, which will rouse up every affection in nature-it will kill the humane, and touch the heart of Cruelty herself with pity

-The notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put his pen a third time into his ink-horn-and the old gentleman turning a little more towards the notary, began to dictate his story in these words-And where is the rest of it, La Fleur? said I,

as he just then entered the room.

THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET.*

PARIS.

WHEN La Fleur came up close to the table, and was made to comprehend what I wanted, he told me there were only two other sheets of it, which he had wrapt round the stalks of a bouquet to keep it together, which he had presented to the demoiselle upon the boulevards-Then, prithee, La Fleur, said I, step back to her to the Count de B****'s hotel, and see if you canst get it-There is no doubt of it, said La Fleur-and away he flew.

In a very little time the poor fellow came back quite out of breath, with deeper marks of disappointment in his looks than could arise from the simple irreparability of the fragment-Juste ciel!

• Nosegay.

in less than two minutes that the poor fellow had taken his last tender farewel of her his faithless mistress had given his gage d'amour to one of the count's footmen-the footman to a young sempstress-and the sempstress to a fiddler, with my fragment at the end of it-Our misfortunes were involved together-I gave a sigh-and La Fleur echoed it back again to my ear-

-How perfidious! cried La Fleur-How uilucky! said I.

-I should not have been mortified, Monsieur, quoth La Fleur, if she had lost it-Nor I, La Fleur, said I, had I found it.

Whether I did or no, will be seen hereafter.

THE man who either disdains or fears to walk up a dark entry may be an excellent good man, and fit for a hundred things; but he will not do to make a good sentimental traveller. I count little of the many things I see pass at broad noon day, in large and open streets. ----Nature is shy, and hates to act before spectators; but in such an unobserved corner, you may sometimes see a single short scene of her's worth all the sentiments of a dozen French plays