and perhaps
spends a cheerful evening over a diary, in which desperate efforts are
made to distinguish the styles of RUBENS and TITIAN, and the eras of
Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle. In the latter case he frequents the
Opera Comique, the theatres, and the public balls: he breakfasts in the
Palais Royal, and dines at PHILIPPE'S, and makes a regular promenade in
the Champs Elysees every afternoon. The well-balanced mind of your
correspondent seizes the advantages of both these systems. He devotes
his morning to the cultivation of his intellect, and the rest of the day
to the gratification of his tastes.

Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pictures in the
Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing in the Elysian fields.
What a panorama of superb points of view! The Rue de la Paix, the Place
and Column Vendome, the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue
de Rivoli, the imperial facade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens,
the noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk and
fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch of the Star.
Where else can such a group of beauties be found? No wonder the poor
Parisians find London dull and ugly! But the less we talk about the
appearance of our dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square
and its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our
drainage, and our comfortable firesides.

The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philosopher enters
the Champs Elysees in a state of serene enjoyment, proposing to study
the manners of the great nation. He observes an ancient man by the
wayside in tattered garments, who plays soft tunes on a bass trombone.
No one pays the least attention to this mild minstrelsy. It is a perfect
image of Wisdom talking in the streets, and no man regarding her.
Another poor creature seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling
organ amid similar neglect. The French are evidently not a musical
people. The observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhibition
(in reverence to the august original in England) he is about to assist,
when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a cruel disappointment. He
might just as well be in Hyde Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine
over again. Why, there's OVERALLS, of the Blues. There's SWELLINGS
SWELLINGS; you never can go anywhere without seeing him. That was BOB
HILTON, driving the high-stepping grey horse. There goes THREADP