when first I saw this city! This would
entail a confession, however, and I shall make it some other day. My
salon is No. 21, the first drawing-room to the right as you turn from
the grand staircase, and opening by the three spacious windows on a
balcony overlooking the Rue de Richlieu. It is, indeed, a very splendid
apartment, as much so as immense mirrors, gilding, bronze, and or moulu
can make it. There are soft couches and chairs, and ottomans too, that
would inspire rest, save when the soul itself was restless.

Well. I lounged out after breakfast for a short stroll along the
Boulevards, where the shade of the trees and the well-watered path were
most inviting. Soon wearied--I cannot walk in a crowd--I returned to the
hotel; slowly toiled up-stairs, waking the echoes with my teasing cough;
and, instead of turning to the right, I went left, taking the wrong
road, as I have so often done in life; and then, mistaking the numerals,
I entered No. 12 instead of No. 21. Who would credit it, that the
misplacement of a unit could prove so singular.

There was one change alone which struck me. I could not find the book
I was reading--a little volume of Auerbach's village stories of the
Schwartz-Walders. There was, however, another in its place, one
that told of humble life in the provinces--not less truthful and
heart-appealing--but how very unlike! It was Balzac's story of "Eugenie
Grandet," the most touching tale I have ever read in any language. I
have read it a hundred times, and ever with renewed delight. Little
troubling myself to think how it came there--for, like an old and valued
friend, its familiar features were always welcome--I began again to read
it.

Whether the result of some peculiar organisation, or the mere
consequence of ill health, I know not, but I have long remarked, that
when a book has taken a strong hold upon me--fascinating my attention
and engaging all my sympathies, I cannot long continue its perusal.
I grow dreary and speculative; losing the thread of the narrative, I
create one for myself, imagining a variety of incidents and scenes quite
foreign to the intention of the writer, and identifying myself usually
with some one personage or other of the story--till the upshot of all
is, I drop off asleep, to awake an hour or so afterwards with a very
tired brain, and a very confused sense of the reality or unreality of my
last waking sensations.

It is, therefore, rather a relief to me, when, as