aux choux, ragoût aux pommes, are its ne plus ultra delicacies; and potatoes play a grand part in the roll of Mère Cadet's culinary achievements. In the memory of man, such a thing as a partridge, a quail, a truffle, or an oyster, has not invaded its sacred precincts: and it is a tradition of the house that once, once only, a superb but unwitting wayfarer startled the establishment from roof to basement by ordering a slice of chicken and a bottle of Bourdeaux. To ask for a fowl here were to ask for a sphinx; and in fact the latter might be rather more easily supplied: and Bourdeaux might as well have been Lacryma-Christi, so far as the cellars of the Vrais Amis are concerned.

Mère Cadet's is the great resort of the younger theatrical world, before public favour and high remuneration have called its members out of their chrysalis Bohemian state, to social dignity and responsibility. Ah! to what ecstasies have not these abodes of bliss, the gardens of the Vrais Amis, been witnesses! The air is still languid with the accumulated weight of vows and sighs, of promises and tears, of the eternal constancies of a moment.

Shutting our eyes to the galJantries and the pleasantries of the Vrais Amis, we open them upon the picturesque sordidness of the Californie, an immense eating-house, set apart to the refection of MM. and Mesdames the tag-rag and bobtail of Paris, and situated between the Boulevard de Vanves and the Chaussée du Maine. The principal refectory is a long and spacious salle on the ground-floor, and is celebrated rather for the robustness than the delicacy of its fare. Consumption here is pretty rapid, being at the rate of over 5000 portions of beef, veal, and mutton daily, washed down with eight pièces of wineharicots and potatoes in proportion. The prime necessaries at La Californie are an empty stomach, a craving appetite, and a stout digestion. With these, and a little money -not much, some eight sous-you have all that is necessary to open up the hospitality of La Californie to the extent of a copious dinner.

Assemble here the choicest ragamuffins of Paris-malandrins, francs-mitoux, truands, mercelots, argotiers, sabouleux, and other pratiques of the nineteenth century. Honest poverty jostles with the scoundrel; the hard-working labourer fraternizes with the vagabond pilferer; the soldier hob-anobs with the chiffonier, the invalide with the drummer of the National Guard, the petty rentier with the cadger, and the vagrant with the lodge-keeper. It is a perfect chaos which cannot recognize itself-a hurly-burly and bluster which cannot hear itself-a vapour that cannot detect itself.

The countenances are as difficult to classify as the costumes; and the language that they speak is of the same level as the 'fricot' which they swallow. Here, amongst other picturesque eccentricities of speech, one may hear a dozen different ways in which the death of any one is announced.-'Il a cassé sa pipe;" 'il a claqué;' 'il a fui;' 'il a perdu le goût du pain;' 'il a avalé sa langue;' 'il s'est habille de sapin;' 'il a glissé; 'il a decollé le billard ;' 'il a craché son âme,' and so on, ad libitum. Montaigne would have delighted in sounds and idioms so racy; liking, as he did, speech that was not too choice and refined, but vehement and brusque, irregular, bold, and soldier-like, rather than pedantic. Montaigne, we say, would have liked the unadorned simplicity of La Californie-or he would not; for ourselves, we see a deal of wisdom in the remark of M. Delvau, that the picturesque has its charms -at a distance.

Nearly allied to La Californie is the Cabaret de Chiffonniers, in the Rue Neuve Saint Médard, in the odoriferous Quartier Mouffetard, a street of the sixteenth century, winding, sordid, wretched, of which all the houses reek with damp and squalor, where all the doors are borgnes, and all the windows are stuffed with rags.

Le Café de Foy is one of the most ancient and most illustrious of the Palais Royal. It is historic in its associations and peculiar in its history. It was opened in 1749, by

a retired officer named De Foy, on the first-floor of one of the houses that abut upon the garden, next to the Rue Richelieu. The house, under M. de Foy, had been refused a license for the sale of refreshments; but the beauty of the wife of his successor, Joussereau, was sufficient to obtain what the interest of the ancien officier could not accomplish. The fame of this beauty was so great, that she was known all over Paris as 'La Belle Limonadiere.' This was about the year 1775; and Louis-Philippe-Joseph, Duke of Orleans, having heard of Madame Joussereau, was naturally inspired with the wish to behold her for himself. He repaired, accordingly, to the Café de Foy, for the ostensible purpose of indulging in the luxury of an ice. Soon he contracted a habit of taking his ices there; not so much as an ultimate object, but as a means to give him the frequent sight of the Patronne and the opportunity of conversing with her. The license which allowed her husband the sale of refreshments in the Grande Allée de Marronniers was not long in coming; and therewith the café descended from its more elevated quarters to the groundfloor.

It is extremely modest, quite quiet, without show or parade. Yet from this pacific retreat stalked forth, armed at all points, like Pallas from the brain of Jove, the Revolution of 1789. This was the manner of it. On the 12th of July in that year, a young man of some seven-and-twenty years of age, a native of Guise, near Vervins, a fellow-pupil with Robespierre at the College Louis-le-Grand, set out from the Café de Foy, in order to harangue the mob which had for some days been assembled tumultuously in the garden planted by the Cardinal Richelieu. The young man's name was Camille Desmoulins. 'It was half-past two o'clock,' says Camille, recording the event, and I had just been feeling the pulse of the people. My wrath had given way to despair; for I could not see that the crowds, deeply moved and alarmed as they were, were sufficiently ripe for action. But there were three young

men who appeared animated with the most vehement courage; they held each other by the hand, and I divined that they had sought the Palais Royal for the same purpose as myself. A number of citizens followed them, but without demonstration. "Gentlemen," said I, addressing them, "this is the beginning of an insurrection; one of us must run the risk of mounting on a table to harangue the people." “Do you mount it." Agreed." Immediately I was rather lifted on to the table than mounted it myself; and no sooner was I there than I was enclosed and surrounded by a dense crowd. I spoke to them, shortly, after this fashion: "Citizens! not a moment is to be lost! I am just arrived from Versailles: M. Neckar is dismissed. This dismissal is the tocsin of a St. Bartholomew of patriots. This very evening all the Swiss and German batallions will march out from the Champ de Mars to devour us! There remains but one resource-to fly to arms, and to adopt cockades by which we may recognize each other."

'I spoke with tears in my eyes, and with an energy and action that it would be impossible for me either to describe or to recal. My motion was received with infinite tokens of applause. I went on. "What colour do you adopt?" One cried, "Choose for us." "Will you have green, the colour of hope; or blue, the colour of American liberty and of democracy?" Voices arose : "Green, the colour of hope." Thereupon I shouted, "Friends, the signal is given. Here are spies and emissaries of the police even now looking me in the face. At least I will not fall into their hands alive." With these words I drew a couple of pistols from my pocket, and with the words, "Let every citizen follow my example," I got down from the table, to be stifled with embraces. Whilst some pressed me to their hearts, others bathed me with their tears. One citizen of Toulouse, fearful for my safety, would by no means have me out of his sight. They brought me a length of green ribbon; I took first a piece for my own hat, and then distributed

it to the people who surrounded me.'

Two days after the Bastille was taken.

La Brasserie des Martyrs is famous for its Biere de la Baviere, et de Strasbourg, and for the good taste of its appointments. It ruined its first occupant, Schoen, and made the fortune of M. Bourgeois, his successor : not an unknown circumstance in commercial history for one to sow and another to reap. It is the common meeting-ground of artists and authors, amongst whom there seems to exist a feud as bitter as between the Capulets and the Montagues. As there is nobody so thoroughly anthropophagous as your thoroughly civilised man, it is a blessing that, so far, these two classes have not devoured each other. The roll of the frequenters of the Brasserie, in both kinds, is long and illustrious. As M. Courbel was the great central figure at the Andler-Keller, so here the man who contrived, some seven or eight years ago, most to impress his individuality was M. Fernand Desnoyers, a critic who discovered that Lamartine was an idiot, Alfred de Musset a bungler, Auguste Barbier an epileptic, Victor Hugo a madman; and that in all France, in all Europe, in all the universe, the only poets were Pierre Dupont, G. Mathieu, and himself. A further

and severer eclecticism would leave himself alone as the proper and unique contemporary representative of the Muses. He is entitled to give himself this prominence, being the author of a farce entitled 'Bras-noir,' and of two or three pieces in verse, upon which he has the happiness of being able to put a singular value.

The literary glories of La Brasserie des Martyrs have somewhat faded, and its splendour is now too much dependent upon certain female martyrs to the evil habits of a not too proper society. The full title of the Brasserie is that of de la Rue des Martyrs, a name which suffices also to indicate its locality.

Le Café de Bruxelles is situated at the corner of the Rue Molière and of the Place de l'Odéon, a situation which gives it favour in the eyes of

the habitués of that theatre, and the bachelors of the neighbouring hotels garnis. Here used to come Jean Journet, an apostle of the Phalanstery, who died a few years ago, and had the happiness of receiving a generous eulogium in 'Figaro,' from the pen of M. Nadar, novelist, photographer, and balloonist. When in the full swing of his philanthropic labours, Journet might be seen in the billiard-room of the Café de Bruxelles with a bundle of brochures under his arm, which were destined to effect the salvation of the world. Even now he enters, places his bundle on a chair, stretches his hands towards us-very white hands, indeed, they are, and he knows itand commences to preach. Had he lived at the time of St. John of Constantinople, this man would certainly have contested with the Patriarch the surname of Chrysostom. We are powerfully affected, and the orator, stopping his discourse, advances towards us. Will we'-and he offers us a list of names- -' Will we kindly inscribe ourselves as beinfaiteurs de l'humanité?' We are overcome by his condescension and our own insignificance. What good can we do, atoms lost in a world of atoms, without interest, without money?' No matter. Only sign;' and his voice is unctuous and irresistible. Our signature is added to his roll; and thus it happens that without wishing it, almost without knowing it, we become one of the fifty or sixty beinfaiteurs de l'humanité whose names appear at the head of a brochure which advocates the doctrines of the venerable M. Fourier. We ask, with M. Delvau, pardon of an outraged world; and ask, besides, pardon for such an apology, of the illustrious M. Maurice Vigueur, whom we take to be the greatest living luminary and advocate of the Phalanstery. We shall not repeat either offence.

Amongst a dozen cabarets des Halles of inferior pretensions there used to be known, five or six years ago, till they attracted the envy of the police, the establishments of MM. Bordier, Baratte, and Paul Niquet. Ostensibly these were for the convenience of the frequenters

of the Halles, and of people who came in from the country with supplies; and for their benefit they were allowed to be open all night. It was discovered, however, that they were not used exclusively by the persons for whom they were designed; and on one particular night of a ball at the opera, it was stated by 'Le Droit' that out of six hundred persons who visited these cabarets, there were only about halfa-dozen who had anything to do professionally with the Halles. Hereupon they were closed; and it is charitably hoped that the police were right in doing a cruel thing— cruel, because the general and international public found their facilities of intoxication bitterly curtailed thereby. Paul Niquet had inscribed on his sign the following appetising bit of 'brandevinier Anglais:- On promet à tous les messieurs et autres (gentlemen and others) qui entreront ici, de les rendre morts-ivres (dead drunk) pour deux pence (4 sous). Ils sont prévenus qu'il y a de la paille toute fraîche dans les caves.' Drunkenness and street disorderliness are together reckoned scandalous in our police courts to the extent of five shillings, and perhaps justly so; but drunkenness and the sleep of the just upon straw warranted perfectly clean and fresh-there is a vast difference! When the authorities of Paris, restored to a better frame of mind, rescind the edict that closed the cabaret of M. Paul Niquet, our own countrymen, amongst others, whether dwellers or visitors in Paris, may again become victorious o'er all the ills of life for the moderate charge of twopence sterling. Baron Haussman, redde diem!

Wherever there is a theatre, in Paris as elsewhere, there is pretty sure to be a café or an hotel named after it. The Boulevard du Temple abounds-as indeed what Parisian neighbourhood does not? - with cafés, and amongst and above others is that known as the Café du Cirque, frequented by the actors of all the neighbouring theatres-Folies-Dramatiques, Gaieté, Théâtre-Lyrique, Délassements - Comiques,

Folies

Nouvelles, Funambules, Petit-Lazari et Cirque. Of the actors we single out one for mention-him whose career was sketched in the June number of London Society,' now an old man and a comparatively feeble performer. We mean Frédérick Lemaître, once the star of the Paris stage, 'le seul comédien de nôtre siècle,' who imparted, equally and indifferently, terror to 'Richard d'Arlington,' poetry to Ruy Blas,' and pleasantry to 'Robert Macaire.'

There is a tradition of domestic unhappiness of a very pathetic kind connected with one of the cafés of the Boulevard du Temple. The keeper of one of them was cursed with a fair wife and a handsome garçon. One miserable day he had unmistakable proof that the faithfulness of his wife was anything rather than 'above suspicion,' and his estimate of the loyal character of his servant was at the same moment destroyed. His rage and fury knew no bounds; and, too much overcome to murder the rascally garçon on the spot, he gasped out, with all the symptoms of a last, great, concentrated agony,' Victor, this day week you leave my service!' Quot mariti, • tot sententiæ. In how many ways may not the Nemesis of blighted household bliss be appeased!

The Café Momus, in the Rue des Prêtres-Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, is a café which, some four or five years ago, passed into the hands of a dealer in colours. It was gay and jovial in its café days, and famous as having been the place where the meetings of the geniuses who invented the terms Bohemia and Bohemian came off. Henry Murger, the Murger of Banville's verses on the 'Divan le Peletier,' was at the head of these choice spirits, to whose fellowship he has consecrated a picturesque and feeling poem. Then came Champfleury, who has dedicated several pages of his 'Confessions de Sylvius' to their sayings and doings; Jean Wallon, a philosopher, who so thoroughly betrayed himself as to be familiarly known by that name, and who is the Colline of Henry Murger's romance; Schann, a painter and musician, better known by the name of Schaunard; Privat

d'Auglemont; Adrien Lelioux; Antoine Fanchery; Hippolyte Boillot, the painter; Joannis Guigard, and two or three others.

These illustrious young people are named because to them belong the honour of 'stamping out' the Café Momus. It happened on this wise. They were all poor, and during the severity of winter it became a matter of anxious debate how they were to keep themselves warm. Heavy expenses were out of the question; but by a systematic manœuvre they contrived to get shelter and the semblance of refreshment at the Café Momus, without expending more amongst them all-five or six at a time-than a sum varying from twenty-five centimes to a franc. The disbursements did not satisfy the cafétier; but, being an easy-going man, he had not the pluck to remonstrate with customers so ingenious and so formidable. He feared their wit and mischief.

The Bohemians were naturally rather disputatious, given to wrangling and argument, so that the old stagers, quiet frequenters of the house, complained of the annoyance they experienced. Thereupon the Bohemians mounted a story higher, hoping, on their part, to be alone and free to carry on their discussions. Here, however, a sort of society of lawyers' clerks had established themselves, and these soon found all chance of pursuing their stock amusements destroyed by the invaders. Now, the lawyers' clerks spent freely, and the host was obliged, in self-defence, to give orders that the Bohemians should never be served with anything in his house again. The latter took a slight revenge at the moment, and left the house accordingly. They forbore to show themselves for so long a time that Momus was already rejoicing in the happy solution of his difficulty, and in his pacified clientèle of lawyers' clerks. He rejoiced prematurely for one day M. Champfleury, who tells the story, and was himself a chief character in it, narrates how Momus was paralysed by the sight of half-a-score of his old customers entering his estaminet as if nothing had happened.

The philosopher also appeared at the same juncture, bringing with him six monthly nurses. 'Allow me to present to you six friends of mine,' said he to the cafétier, who was growing more and more uneasy. 'Six nurses!' exclaimed the poor man, stupefied. 'Mesdames, have the goodness to be seated,' said the philosopher.

Some minutes after, Sylvius arrived, followed by six croque-morts (men employed as corpse-bearers at funerals). Allow me, Momus, to present to you half-a-dozen of my friends.' 'Six croque-morts! Surely you wish to compromise my establishment,' said Momus. Then Sylvius: Messieurs les Employés des Pompes Funèbres, have the goodness to sit down. Mesdames the nurses, allow us to arrange ourselves so that a nurse and a croque-mort may be seated alternately. Momus will preside. It is for his benefit that I have organized this fête. What will you take, my friends?' 'Wine,' was the unanimous response. 'And you, Mesdames the nurses?' 'Wine,' as before. Very good. Momus, I have believed you would be rejoiced to entertain these amiable guests. You have had some reason to complain of myself and my friends, and I wish to make it up to you. Will you partake with us?' The cafétier, ready to sink into the earth, was speechless. 'Momus,' resumed Sylvius, I have brought you a living antithesis. Mesdames les nourrices, that is life; Messieurs les employés des pomps, that is death. The first assist at the debût of man, the second at his exit.' He went on further, till both croque-morts and nurses lifted up their voices and cried for wine. Messieurs les croquemorts,' continued Sylvius-'We do not approve of being called croquemorts.' 'I recognise your reasonable objection. Messieurs les employés des pomps, do the nurses displease you? Mesdames les nourrices, have you not an affection for these gentlemen?' 'He, he, oh, oh, ho!' from nurses and croque-morts, respectively. Sylvius moralised for a couple of minutes, when he was again interrupted by demands for wine. Wine,' said the croque-morts; 'we want to drink.