its privileges, its ceremonies, its Volunteers, and its battery. It was my good fortune to be at Mutchbeach when a prisoner was taken up by the superintendent of the Mutchbeach police. The force consists of four able men, including the superintendent. They are very quiet, unobtrusive sort of characters, including, as before-said, the superintendent. They evidently do not approve of late hours, as they never injure their health by appearing in public after ten o'clock, p.m. This also includes the superintendent. Well, a prisoner was caught. To the credit of the morality of Mutchbeach, or the discredit of the vigilance of the police, this was the first prisoner that had been caught for three years. No, by the way, he had not been caught, he had given himself up. There was a perfect rejoicing in the town—a jubilee. The gossips were all out chatting at their cottage doors, stable doors, garden gates, or shop doors. What was Ockdon's crime? He had stolen a cabbage from Tottell's garden. What will he get? Prison. But here comes the procession. Up the narrow High Street, and parading all about the town, marching the sinner Ockdon hither and thither in triumph; in this order : A Herald (or some sort of official with a wand of office). The Superintendent of Police (mounted).. The owner of the Stolen Property (also mounted). His son, aged ten, bearing the Stolen Property. Some boys not in the procession, and soon kicked or cuffed out of it. The Town Councillor, in a gown trimmed with fur. Somebody else appearing, because there was a spare gown trimmed with fur to be worn. People of Mutchbeach. The Jury. ཐད The Town Something or other, with a The Tradesmen's Band (drums and fife, People of Mutchbeach. the court-house, which was only large enough, unfortunately, to contain the judges, the police, the prisoner, the accuser, and some of the jury; the remainder of the jury, with the general public, got the best view they could of the proceedings through a window in the courthouse. At The town councillor was in the middle of a splendid speech, wherein he was enlarging on the heinousness of the dastardly act that had brought John Ockdon before their lordships, when John Ockdon was observed suddenly to hold up three fingers of his right hand. The police were on the alert, should this have been a signal for a rescue. The superintendent held his breath, and grasped his truncheon. this moment the prosecutor was seen to look at Ockdon's three fingers and shake his head. Amid an intense silence (for even the orator had stopped), Ockdon held up four fingers. Tottell, the accuser, nodded. In another minute the town councillor had the happiness to inform their lordships that this matter had been settled out of court, as Mr. Ockdon had agreed to pay four shillings for the cabbage, and the expenses of the summons. Their lordships informed Mr. Ockdon, the defendant, that he left that court without a stain on bis character, as did also Mr. Tottell, the plaintiff; and the procession re-forming, rode and walked triumphantly round the town in the same order as they came, with the exception of the accuser and the quondam prisoner, who now went together, arm-in-arm, a glorious spectacle for all men in general if they could have seen it, and a signal tribute to the justice and moderation of the Mutch beach code. Yes, Mutchbeach is a charming old place. Most interesting, most healthy. Over the downs, if you have a horse, you will get a bracing gallop. And, finally, what I say to the public is, Go to Mutchbeach. Its name, perhaps, is not Mutchbeach; but drop a line to the editor; he will communicate with his commissioner, who will have great pleasure in forwarding further particulars about this Cinque-port, and adThis imposing array arrived at vancing at once the interests of a playing, with no idea of any tune). The Prisoner handcuffed. Two Policemen. The Mutchbeach Volunteers. town and the welfare of an honourable community. Worthing everybody knows. I prefer mentioning less popular watering-places. There is a queer little place at the mouth of the Thames, Mudsea, where you can go down and play at being at the seaside. Scarborough is too far for Londoners, as a rule, but it is as far above Brighton as Mont Blanc is above Primrose Hill. Then there is Wey⚫ mouth. Better place Weymouth in winter than in summer, because of the hunting. If you do not hunt, of course this is not much of a recommendation. Take a turn up Malvern Hills, and go in for the water and Dr. Gully. There is scenery for you! Or visit the south, and the mouth of the Dart, Blackpool in Devonshire, Slapton, where the salt and fresh water almost join, or Dawlish, where the mackerel are. There is scenery for you! Such Prussian-blue green crowning the red-stone cliffs! Your commissioner has evidence concerning all these places, and has something else to tell you about how and where to spend your 'out' season. But go where you will, be where you will, do what you like, you will not, for health, economy, and outof-door simple amusements, beat Mutchbeach. But where is Mutchbeach? say you. Touch the lip of silence and the tip of the nose of 'knowingness' and note these landmarks following:-Lewes and Brighton are within easy reach, and Newhaven is quite close, if you want to go to Dieppe. Adieu for the present. PALL MALL IN PARIS. OUS n'avez rien à déclarer ?' Such is the first welcome that a paternal government, mindful of the Octroi, addresses to the stranger on his arrival within the barriers of Paris. Such, too, is the question that rises in the mind of every intelligent reader who takes up an article on that ever-delightful but over-described city. Am I condemned to wade through several columns of the ordinary luggage, or shall I find here something novel or perhaps even something contraband? And if, on the first page, the traveller assures that he has nothing but the commonplace old clothes with which so many lay-figures have been dressed up, and perhaps a Murray's guide-book and a map, the reader dismisses the following pages with the douanier's remark: 'C'est bien; on n'ouvrira que celui-ci,' and so passes on to the next article. Well, I have something to declare. I declare that I have no description of Paris to give. For that, including its population, policemen, climate, and latitude I must refer to any encyclopædia. Practically, the Tuileries are exactly (in green) what the Green Park is in brown; the Rue de Rivoli is like Piccadilly, and the Place de la Concorde is nothing more than Charing Cross. Still less have I any monuments. I no more go to the Louvre in Paris than I do to the British Museum in London; and I should as soon think of going up the Colonne Vendôme as of ascending the lying Monument on Fish-street-hill. Not but what I have done all of these things, but it was in the days when I used to eat jam-tarts and cram useful knowledge. I have seen both the Elgin Marbles and Napoleon's çocked-hat; and so, no doubt, has the reader. Therefore peace to them! Send the children there, but don't take us with them. Nor have I any studies of human nature, which is alike all the world over. Freddy in Pall Mall, and Lady Mena Maltyre in the Ladies' Mile' are much the same as Alphonse in the Faubourg St. Honoré, and La Marquise de Pomponne at Longchamps; the same springs of action, the same hopes and fears move them; and very likely the same modiste or tailor dresses them both. 'Still,' says the douanier reader as he turns over the leaves of my lug gage-'still there are points of difference between things in Paris and things in London.' Exactly so. The sergent-de-ville wears a cocked-hat and sword instead of a helmet and truncheon; the climate of Paris includes a sun among its arrangements, instead of coal-fires; Alphonse and Lady Mena have a less perfect notion of dressing themselves than Freddy and Madame de Pomponne. And it is precisely these small differences with which I am concerned. Besides these, too, I have one or two notions which by the tariff are usually prohibited. A wholesome horror of my fellowcountrymen anywhere else than in our common country; a timid doubt whether, after all, the British nation is the greatest and grandest in the world; and a firm conviction that the Marquise de Pomponne is prettier than Lady Mena are among them. Do not seize them, dear douanier-they are only for my own use. Take the duty of disbelief on them if you will, skip them, overlook them, and so chalk my trunks and let me go on. How pleased Madame Coqueluche is to see me! She has prepared the best room in the Hôtel Coqueluche for me, she says, the room au quatrième, overlooking the Tuileries; and the trees are so green, and the nightingales have begun to sing in the evenings and the races begin next Monday; and I must eat a bonne soupe after my journey. And I have really grown Madame Coqueluche always winds up so, to insinuate that she finds it impossible to believe I am more than eighteen. 'Monsieur est si blond,' she says, by way of a good reason; and she makes my youth and inferred innocence a justification for the affectionate interest she always takes in me. Still, somehow or other, I always get put on the fourth floor, in a very small room; and in the bottom of my heart I know that Madame Coqueluche makes the same sort of speech, varied according to the circumstances of each case, to every one of her guests. But what then? She does it with such a grace, and such a charming air of sincerity, that I am persuaded she looks upon me as her son; and for worlds I would not disillusionize myself. She is very fat, and very forty; but when she smiles there are two such dimples in her cheeks, and her little black eyes and bright teeth light up her face so pleasantly, that she is quite fascinating. How different from my landlady in St. James's Street, who is simply a gaunt and sour embodiment of rent, and who has never smiled upon me since the night I had four bachelor friends to supper, who smoked and sang till three o'clock in the morning! The neat-handed, long-aproned waiters of the Café Mazarin are also very pleased to see me. Their form of flattery is to believe that I am a Frenchman. They never offer me a 'bifteck' or the 'Times,' but remind me that I am known to them, by suggesting that I have been en voyage,' and without further question bring me my accustomed halfbottle of Burgundy and the 'Sport' newspaper. This breakfast-hour I count one of my pleasantest times; and as I sit in the doorway, eating my Chateaubriand, and watch the passers-by, I idly wonder why in London we have but the one meal of dinner (for of course the cup of tea and musty egg swallowed at nine o'clock are not worthy the name of meal); and I conclude it must arise from the desire of Englishmen to eat and drink a great deal more than is good for them, which can only well be done once a day-whence mornings of starvation and evenings of repletion. But how delighted I am to escape from the system, and to add to the enjoyments of life my breakfast on the boulevart at eleven o'clock, and to sit out afterwards in the sun, over the morning weed and the Constitutionnel!' We all know, for the Times' has told us, that the French press is not free. The 'Saturday Review' even says that it is 'gagged,' and both (for once) agree, with truly British modesty, in offering up a thanksgiving that they are so much more noble and independent than their neighbours. Well, I confess there is less thunder and more fireworks in the Paris press, a less persistent abuse of all other opinions than their own; certainly, too, less news and more invention. But all this concerns me not. The French government is very hospitable to me; it keeps up the Bois de Boulogne, plants trees, waters the Champs Elysées all day long, and plays fountains through the heat of the afternoon for me; and I do not much care if it is not abused every morning by a free press. In all things that do concern me, I prefer the French to the English prints. I find in them, intelligent criticism on plays and acting, quite as much law and crime as I care to read, and accounts of the races in intelligible language; and if the leaders seem to be under the suspicion of having too implicit a belief in the infalli bility of the imperial government, and the desirability of investing in the Emprunt Mexicain,' I know exactly in what way to make the allowance, which is much more than I do with the Times.' Then I have the feuilleton,' to amuse me and remind me that fiction as well as fact should have a part in daily life, and I have, too, those fascinating 'faits divers,' little relevés pleasantly spiced, relating how 'Le sieur X. was engaged in roofing a house, when his foot slipped and he fell with all his tools into the lap of a lady who happened to be passing,' and who, of course, turned out to be his mother, recently returned from a successful speculation in Australia. Walking along, thinking of all these things, I am stopped by a crowd, and recognize a common phase of Parisian life which I should like to recommend to Mr. William Cowper. I have seen somewhere that the man who plants an acorn is a benefactor to his species; but here in Paris they plant the oak itself thirty feet high, roots and all, and a proportionate quantity of earth, all of which is brought over the hole prepared to receive it, on a huge framework, and lowered down into its place with ropes and pulleys. Just think, after that, of the wretched shrubs that do duty as trees at the Horticultural Gardens! Nothing is perfect. Among several things I could name, one is the Parisian theory of driving. It is aggravating enough to see everything on the wrong side of the road; but that is not all. To hold the reins at the extreme end, with any amount of slack flapping about the horse's flanks; to let them go altogether upon the first appearance of danger; to shout a great deal; to serpentine along straight roads and turn imaginary corners where no corners are; and to ignore the existence of foot-passengers altogether, appear to be the leading articles of the coachman's belief; and I declare that I would as soon think of crossing the line at Clapham Junction, with all the up and down expresses ten minutes overdue, as the Champs Elysées on a fine afternoon. The riding is even worse, but its peculiarities are perhaps attributable to the use of ferocious, long spurs, which, as the cavalier turns his toes well out, would probably meet somewhere inside the horse but for the fact that the leg is pointed as much as possible to the horizon: the effect of all which is that the rider has no grip whatever; and should he venture upon anything faster than a walk performs evolutions exactly similar to those of the clay figures sometimes seen perched on the top of a fountain. What would become of him over a stiff fence Heaven only knows! And yet there is among the gandins a rampant Anglomania which, beginning with pale ale, has gone through bulldogs and grooms, and now shows itself in nothing more than in the violent 'hossiness' with which they have all been seized. Racing, betting, and the driving of drags reign pre-eminent in all conversation; and the report of a successful trial of Fille de l'Air' is received with as much interest as a rehearsal of the Africaine' with the ballet. But 'Le Sport' is as yet but a forced plant. The trainers and the jockeys are English to a man, so, too, are many of the 'horses; and the language of Racine and La Rochefoucauld has been enriched, for want of native terms, with all the stable slang of Newmarket and Yorkshire. What has the Académie Française to say to such substantives as 'un stepper,' or'un handicappeur,' I should like to know? The race-meetings, too, wear an air more of pleasure than of business; and 'Le Sport' always contains a detailed description of the ladies' dresses at the Spring meetings in the Bois. Fancy Bell's Life' on tulle and striped petticoats! Then the Ring has a dilletante air about it; and it is remarkable that instead of the repeated offers of 'I'll bet against the field to I'll lay,' the noise here is made up of questions, Combien contre Grabuge?' 'Combien contre Thickure? The Cure' so called). Indeed most of those who wish to risk their money do so in 'poules' or sweepstakes; and there is even a company which drives down a smart drag on to the course, unships both ends, and makes of it the office of an Agence des Poules,' where any one can buy a ticket for 5f., and take his chance of winning perhaps 30f., a small way of gambling much to the taste of the Frenchman. Another feature of the racing is the admiration for steeple-chases, to which the course at La Marche is entirely devoted, with a 'river,' hedges, walls, and other delights wherever gentlemen riders love to disport themselves. But who is this, so chocolate and trim in her attire, and so covered over with embroidery and tassels? She has a somewhat dark and swarthy, but yet a most pleasant face, with largish, hardy features, such as are, according to the quality of expression the owner can manage to throw into them, either positively repulsive or supremely fascinating. She carries a bouquet of roses; she has a smile for every one (nearly), and blesses the more fortunate by pinning a flower in their buttonhole. This is Isabelle, the bouquetière of the Jockey Club, the universal toast and the excuse for many an extra bottle of clicquot consumed in her honour. She is irresistible, she is divine, she is the rage; but I discover first, by observation, that her smiles are only for the more solvable part of the company; and secondly, by experience, that her roses cost five francs each. She is reported to be well off, and to have her name inscribed in the 'grand livre' opposite to a goodly amount of rentes. A rival bouquetière once appeared, smaller and prettier, and altogether more engaging, but Isabelle had a pitched battle with her; weight carried the day, and she has reigned undisputed over the coats of the gandins ever since. The railways are a sad trial to anybody who believes in the value of time. The booking-office is closed five minutes before the train starts, exactly the interval at which it is generally opened in England. One result of that on the Chemin de fer de l'Ouest, was to keep me waiting an hour for the next train at the Ville d'Avray station, when returning from La Marche. I should have been bored probably, but for the presence of two gendarmes attached to the station, one tall, thin, and desponding, the other short, fat, and sanguine, who quarrelled over the best advice to give to myself, and some other belated travellers. 'Messieurs pourraient prendre des voitures,' said the fat one. Ils n'en arriveraient que plus tard,' said the other. 'Cependant ils vont bon train.' 'Fiche-moi donc la paix.' And so the thin one got the best of it, and we all waited, and of course I was late for dinner; my host was in a bad temper, and being so, never offered to produce the 1836 ChateauYquem for which alone I had dined with him. Another remarkable feature of the races, astounding enough to the more experienced of Londoners, who pick out their old dust coats and superannuated bonnets to go down to the Derby, is that they are recognized as the great theatres for the display of the fashions. How perfectly the French word expresses the charm of dress! Une fraîche toilette.' Does it not conjure up ideas of a dear little pink and white face peeping out from a wealth of virgin cambric and gossamer tissues unprofaned? True that you and I know it to owe its charms mainly to blanc-de-perle and starch, but what then? We still prefer it to the dusty velvet and unidealized |