hem?--nay, was not a young fellow rather
flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went,
fondly pretending that he should see "French society," in the persons of
certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place?

My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although perhaps a
little weaker and simpler than his neighbors; and coming to Paris with
exactly the same notions that bring many others of the British youth to
that capital, events befell him there, last winter, which are strictly
true, and shall here be narrated, by way of warning to all.

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a
couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album, drives
his own gig, and is considered, both on the road and in the metropolis,
a remarkably nice, intelligent, thriving young man. Pogson's only fault
is too great an attachment to the fair:--"the sex," as he says often
"will be his ruin:" the fact is, that Pog never travels without a "Don
Juan" under his driving-cushion, and is a pretty-looking young fellow
enough.

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October; and it was in that
city that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear. He worked
his way down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the towns on his
route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares as his masters
dealt in ("the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt like a nosegay--went
off like wildfire--hogshead and a half at Rochester, eight-and twenty
gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and crossed to Calais, and thence
voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the Diligence. He paid for two places,
too, although a single man, and the reason shall now be made known.

Dining at the table-d'hote at "Quillacq's"--it is the best inn on the
Continent of Europe--our little traveller had the happiness to be placed
next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the extreme pink of
the nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with eyes and hair as
black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked
pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings on each of her plump white
fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make
them. Pog knew the article: he travelled in it. Her lips were as red as
the ruby lip salve: she used the very best, that was clear.

She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her eyes, and
talking perpetually of "mes trente-de