s of Paris Parisian. It is more imposing
than that of Chevet in the Palais Royal. In the first place Potel is on
"the Italiens." It is a daily store of all the rarest and richest
articles of food money can command for the discontented palate of man.
The truffled turkeys are the commonest of the articles. Everybody eats
truffled turkeys, must be the belief of Potel. If salmon could peer into
the future, and if they had any ambition, they would desire, after
death, to be artistically arrayed in fennel in the shop-window of Potel.
Would not the accommodating bird who builds an edible nest work with
redoubled ardour, if he could be assured that his house would be some
day removed to the great window on "the Italiens?"

Happy the ortolans whom destiny puts into Potel's plate of honour! Most
fortunate of geese, whose liver is fattened by a slow fire to figure
presently here with the daintiest and noblest of viands! The pig who
hunts the truffle would have his reward could he know that presently the
fragrant vegetable would give flavour to his trotter! And is it not a
good quarter of an hour's amusement every afternoon to watch the
gourmets feasting their eyes on the day's fare? And the _gamins_ from
the poor quarters stare in also, and wonder what those black lumps are.

Opposite Potel's is a shop, the like of which we have not, nor, we
verily believe, has any other city. It is the show-store of the
far-famed Algerian Onyx Company. The onyx is here in great superb
blocks, wedded with bronze of exquisite finish, or serving as background
to enamels of the most elaborate design. Within, the shop is crammed
with lamps, jardinieres, and monumental marbles, all relieved by
bronzes, gold, and exotics. The smallest object would frighten a man of
moderate means, if he inquired its price. There is a flower shop not far
off, but it isn't a shop, it's a bower. It is close by a dram-shop,
where the cab-men of the stand opposite refresh the inner man. It
represents the British public-house. But what a quiet orderly place it
is! The kettle of punch--a silver one--is suspended over the counter.
The bottles are trim in rows; there are no vats of liquid; there is no
brawling; there are no beggars by the door--no drunkards within. It is
so quiet, albeit on the Boulevard, not one in a hundred of the
passers-by notice it. The lordly Cafe du Cardinal opposite is not more
orderly.

Past chocolate shops, where splendidly-attired ladies preside;
w