he Quartier des Halles and into the
Rue St Denis. How often have we hurried down them on a cold winter's
day--say the 31st of December--to buy bons-bons in the Rue des Lombards,
once the abode of bankers, now the paradise of _confiseurs_, against the
coming morrow--the grand day of visits and cadeaux--braving the snow
some three feet deep in the midst of the street--or, if there happened
to be no snow, the mud a foot and a half, splashing through it with our
last new pair of boots from Legrand's, and the last _pantalon_ from
Blondel's--for cabriolet or omnibus, none might pass that way; and
there, amid onion-smelling crowds, in a long, low shop, with lamps
lighted at two o'clock, have consummated our purchase, and floundered
back triumphant! Away, ye gay, seducing vanities of the Palais Royal or
the Boulevards; your light is too garish for our sober eyes--the sugar
of your comfitures is too chalky for our discriminating tooth! Our
appropriate latitude is that of the Quartier St Denis! One thing,
however, we must confess, we never did in the Rue St Denis--we never
dined there! _Oh non! il ne faut pas faire ca!_ 'Tis the headquarters of
all the sausage-dealers, the _charcutiers_, and the _rotisseurs_ of
Paris. Genuine meat and drink there is none; cats hold the murderous
neighbourhood in traditional abhorrence, and the ruddiest wine of
Burgundy would turn pale were the aqueous reputation of the street
whispered near its cellar-door. Thank Heaven, we have a gastronomic
instinct that saved us from acts of suicidal rashness! When in Paris,
gentle reader, we always dine at the Trois Freres Provencaux; the little
room in blue, remember--time, six P.M.; potage a la Julienne--bifteck au
vin de Champagne--poulet a la Marengo--Chambertin, and St Peray rose.
The next time you visit the Palais-Royal, turn in there, and dine with
us--we shall be delighted to see you!

There are few gaping Englishmen who have been on the other side of the
Channel but have found their way along the Boulevards to the Porte St
Denis, and have stared first of all at that dingy monument of
Ludovican pride, and then have stared down the Rue St Denis, and then
have stared up the Rue du Faubourg St Denis; but very few are ever
tempted to turn either to the right hand or to the left, and so they
generally poke on to the Porte St Martin, or stroll back to the
Madeleine, and rarely make acquaintance with the Dionysian mysteries
of Paris. For the benefit, therefo