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lead his bruised and lacerated partner to a sofa, where she may congratulate herself on having at last obtained a haven of rest after the perils she has undergone.

But in addition to these three large divisions there is yet one more, though, we fear, in a smaller proportion-the really good dancer. In him the spirit of dancing is not confined to the mere movement of the feet, but seems to pervade his whole body-not only his toes but every limb seems brought into action. There is a spring and buoyancy in his style which may even excite admiration in the most placid of chaperons. Though an excellent steerer, passing easily through the most intricate passages, he never appears to be on the look out.' A kind of instinct seems to guide him

through the most complicated mazes; and whether it be the quietest of mazurkas or the fastest of galops, he bears his partner along with equal skill and grace.

In our description of the various classes of dancers we have purposely abstained from including the ladies, who, as a rule, have fewer peculiarities, or, at least, less opportunity of showing them. They may generally be divided into two classes-those who can, and those who cannot dance. With the former, dancing is one of the most fascinating of all amusements. With the latter-but no, let us recall the days of our childhood and copybooks, when we used diligently to write that most amiable of precepts, Comparisons are odious.'

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CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S DAY IN PARIS.

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T was once my lot to spend my Christmas Day in Paris, away from familiar faces, away from familiar places, and that much-loved magnet for our Englishman's eyes and coat-tails-a Christmas coal fire.

None of your wood fires for me-such as were burnt in my white, fluted, china-looking stove, that hiss, sputter, crackle, and sing, but throw out no heat. I have often thought that wood fires and coal fires were admirable examples of the national characteristics of the two peoples. How quickly your wood kindles! How soon he is a flame: in what a state of roar, crackle, fume, and fuss he passes his brief existence; what volumes of smoke he emits; what a buoyant, boisterous, brilliant fellow he is altogether, and how soon he subsides into white ashes! How long coal takes a lighting how he has to be petted, patted, and coaxed into a flame; but once a-blaze, what a steady, genial, glowing heat he casts around him; and what a long time that heat lasts! I remember little Jack Shattersense used to say the proper way to spell Englishman was Ingle-ishman, and that they were so called from their attachment to the chimney-corner.

But, as I said, there I was in Paris; away from my old, natural Christmas associations of holly, oyster-barrels, white-topped leads of churches, pantomimes, laurels, turkeys, country dances, foxes, mistletoe, snap-dragon, amateur theatricals, Devonshire cream, flirtation, mince-pies, pianos, stables, staircase-conversations, snowballing, and burnt brandy. I sighed as I thought how pleasantly my friends would pass their time-sighed as I thought of those two quaint old gables that I could never remember seeing for the first time; the roof tops familiar to my eyes as my father's face, and the two little ends of white cravat that always stuck out from beneath his chin, or those long-loved capstrings of my mother's-the strings that, years ago as I went to sleep in her lap, I used to curl round my fingers, and hold as a material guarantee that Hannah of the nursery should not be summoned to carry me away.

So instead of being among my old friends, there I was in a small room, standing on a fleecy, furry rug, near the cheerless stove. My floor had no carpet to cover its shiny, slippery, bright, bees-waxed surface. My sofa, arm-chair, and indeed the furniture generally, was elegant and luxurious, and more fitted for a lady's boudoir than a man's chamber; and there was the ever-present gold pendule on the mantel-piece, which occasionally struck the half-hours as a piece of distinction from the monotony of an existence, that to a French clock must have been distressing n the extreme.

I had only one room, one whole side of which constituted a door, which closed, shut off the bed, and left an entire and perfect sittingroom. I never got over the feeling of wonder at opening the whole side of my room at once with a small handle; it looked as if it were a preliminary effort to walking away secretly with a floor of the house.

CHRISTMAS ON THE BOULEVARDS.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I turned out of my little room and took a stroll upon the Boulevards, after going through the preparatory ceremony of locking my door, and giving the key to the concierge. I verily believe that Frenchmen invented concierges, and concierges invented houses in flats, for the sole purpose of necessitating the smiles and nods, and small talk, which form the countersigns to the delivery of the key.

'Bonjour, madame, voila là clef!' 'Merci, monsieur,' as I offered her the key.

'Merci, madame,' as she takes it. 'Il fait un temps superbe, monsieur.'

'Très-beau, madame!'

'Bonjour, monsieur!' as I descend the stairs.

'Bonjour, madame.' I lift my

hat-we exchange a smile, the old lady giving infinitely more in the way of propitiation than she takes. I have no doubt, that in speaking of me to the garçon, she says: 'Ce monsieur là est très-aimable!' and not only says it, but thinks it, because I always linger near her window for that delicious interchange of thought and sentiment quoted above. Singular people! If lifting the hat, and saying bonjour, give you a good opinion of me, then will I lift my hat and bonjour continually.

Three minutes' walk brought me to the Boulevards-those wonderful Boulevards that would half convince a stranger that the population of Paris is composed of soldiers, waiters, nurse-girls, and babies. As I walk on the broad asphalte pavement, and look at the shops, and the leafless trees, I sigh as I think of our noble Fleet Street, and our gorgeous Strand, and confess that while Paris is a city, London is a mere agglomeration of houses.

Although the Parisians think but little of Christmas, and reserve the celebration of the season for New Year's Day, still there is a bustle on the Boulevards. The visitor who only knows Paris in the heat of summer, will be surprised to see

that on each side at the edge of the pavement nearest the gutter, small wooden huts are being erected. Mere shells, built of the roughest boards- they spoil the beauty of the Boulevards. Their construction is conducted with great noise and bustle, hammering of nails, shouldering of planks, consultations with the sergent-de-ville, for it is impossible to do anything in Paris without demanding permission of an individual in a cocked-hat.

The erection of these cockle-shells on the Boulevards forms the distinctive difference of Paris at Christmas to any other season of the year. What,' asks the inquiring English visitor, as he hears the strife of hammers, and the din of tongues, 'can it be that, the town is in a state of siege, and that the Emperor is ordering the erection of these huts for the military; or are they merely temporary accommodation until fresh barracks are built?' and he thinks with fond pride of his own Shorncliffe, Aldershott, and Colchester, and the superior strength of the timber-architecture there.

The builders of the huts-those wood masons, who are very industrious-go at their work with a savage energy for sometimes full five minutes together; then rest for a quarter of an hour or so, and contemplate the product of their toil with pride, and talk, and talk, and talk, and talk. Stimulated to fresh exertion by the flow of conversation, they renew their efforts; more nails are driven, another plank is added. Hourra! and they go to the café and order a choppe of beer, and talk to the garçon, and confer with him as to the general effect of the wood-work on the eye of the casual spectator, and say: 'Eh! Ah! Ouf! Hein!'

These little temporary shops are for the sale and exhibition of the Etrennes; and great is the excitement of the perambulating Parisian population, as indeed it would be at anything a victory, a defeat, the erection of a new wall, the pulling down of an old house, a bonne carrying twins, or a drum-major twirling his staff. Nothing comes

amiss to inveterate sight-seers or flaneurs, from a revolution to a chiffonier.

On Christmas Eve, a yule log is burnt, as with us; and among the humbler class there is a charming and touching observance. When the children are undressed, and have presented their soft, round cheeks to papa and mamma, they place their shoes upon the hearth close to the fire: their prayers said, they once more kiss papa and mamma, and go to bed. During the night, an angel, or a Good Fairy, is presumed to come down the chimney and fill the little shoes with presents, toys, bonbons and macaroons; and sure enough, as they rise in the morning, and run to the fire-side, the tiny shoes are filled with sweetmeats. Great is the children's joy as each bonbon is brought to light; loud is their laughter, and, to foreign ears, extraordinary their proficiency in French, as the smaller ones inquire if the good things were placed there by a fairy or by an angel.

C'était un ange,' smiles papa. 'C'était maman!' shout the little nasal treble voices.

Mais, maman, elle est un ange,' says the biggest boy; 'n'est-ce pas, papa?'

And n'est-ce pas, everybody else? for if a mother is not the providence or good fairy of her children, who should be?

While the buche de noël is burning with proper state and ceremony, a réveillon is held, a thé is prepared, and a family party is given. Monsieur, the husband, is very amiable to his wife's relations; as is madame to her husband's-it is a Christmas party without the preliminary dinner.

Réveillons are held all over Paris, for though the aspect of the streets may contradict us, there are still students in the Quartier Latin—as, despite alterations and improvements, there is still a Quartier Latin. Eugène, Jules, Alphonse, and Hyppolite meet over a 'ponche.' They are somewhat lugubrious and dismal in their jollity, for they have recently taken to stick-up collars, and to what they suppose

to be English manners, and like to preserve an unruffled surface; but at a later, or rather at an earlier hour, natural vivacity breaks through affected phlegm, and they are noisy, jolly, unreasoning, and agreeable.

They have réveillons, too, among the people, for in this variable, political climate, the humbler classes alone are styled the people. JeanMarie clinks a cup of hot blue wine with Claude, and Jeanne-Maria compares confidences with Claudine; a considerable quantity of tobacco is consumed; hard times deplored; the continual shrug of the shoulders, and the equally continual 'Que voulez-vous?' oft spoken, more blue wine heated, and a provincial song about the smiling land that they have left la bas,' with a Ta-ra-lara-lon-ton-taine chorus, sung so noisily, and so effectively, that the black eyes of the women are gemmed with tears; and the men knit their brows, and begin to think upon their wrongs, and how hard it is to work all day for a few sous.

Those who spend the eve of Christmas out of doors, spend it on the Boulevards and in the Passages; but in Paris, though there may be a number of people, there never is a mob. In England, hardly a hundred folks can gather together without the chance of a fight. Here there is always good-humour, forbearance, and the external forms of politeness these social virtues being all beneath the grim guard of a cocked-hatted sergent-de-ville.

The theatres are crowded on Christmas Eve, and the cafés in the neighbourhood are thronged during the Entr'actes. About half-past eleven, the salles disgorge their audiences, the cafés do a brisker business, and those wonderful beings, the garçons, move about with a more ubiquitous rapidity, Du café! du soda! Un grog du vin! un grog du cognac! du vin chaud! groseille! and pallal,' are sounds that meet the ear on every side. As I have spelt pallal phonetically, I may as well inform my reader that it means pale ale, or bitter beer.

It is curious to follow the crowds on Christmas Eve. They go to the

theatres, the concert-rooms, the music-halls, the guinguettes, and the dancing-rooms, and then to hear High Mass.

High Mass at midnight, on the eve of Christmas Day! The Madeleine was so crowded that numbers of people were turned back by the Suisses, and it was difficult to obtain admission at St. Roch. The interior of the church was crowded, and among the female portion of the congregation there was a refreshing absence of costume. The ladies who were seated had evidently come to hear the service, and not to exhibit their toilettes; but their attention must have been sadly disturbed by the continual stream of people, entering, as it would appear, for the sole purpose of looking round, and going out at an opposite door. These ill-mannered folks had no scruple, but pushed and elbowed their way through ranks of earnest and devout spectators. Another thing offensive to my English eyes, was that the sergents-de-ville wore their hats. Surely, in a church the policeman might descend to the level of the mere civilian.

But these annoyances faded from my feelings as my eye grew accustomed to the proportions of the edifice, and my ear drank in the service. And as the rich and noble music swelled to the roof, wreathed round the pillars and filled up the vast area, that man would have been indeed cold and unimpressionable who had not remembered how grand and solemn was the anniversary there celebrating.

CHRISTMAS DAY

was clear, sparkling, and not cold. I delivered my key to the concierge with my accustomed amiability, took off my hat with my usual grace, and prepared for a long walk. I struck from the Rue Neuve de Luxembourg, on to the Boulevards, and traversed the whole of that wonderful pavement. The Boulevard des Capucines, stony, white, and new, with its promise of a magnificent Jockey Club, and a new Grand Opera House, and its realization of a monster palatial hotel, with

corridors divided into streets, and its postes de service stationed at intervals, where the servants send orders to the kitchens, stables, and bureaux by electric telegraph. The Boulevard des Italiens, with its old Opera House, attainable by the old Passage de l'Opéra, with its many memories of Meyerbeer, Scribe, and the infernal attempt of Orsini, the Boulevards Montmartre, Poissonière, Bonne Nouvelle, to the famous Porte St. Denis. Past the Porte St. Martin to the Boulevard St. Martin, or the new Boulevard du Prince Eugène, as far as the Barrière du Trone. Back again to the Boulevart du Temple, with its recollections of Marie Antoinette, and Sir Sidney Smith, on by the Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire, and the Boulevard Beaumarchais, where the winged figure that crests the magnificent column of the Bastille shone molten in the clear sun- down the new Boulevard Bourdon, over the Pont d'Austerlitz, by the side of the river into the Quartier Latin; then into the Faubourg St. Germain, back again over the Pont des Arts, and so into the gardens of the Tuileries-a tolerably good walk, in the course of which I met several military schools taking their promenade; the lads talking with a volubility and gesticulation perfectly national, and their masters bringing up the rear. The majority of the shops were closed; and the only sign of external festivity was a troop of boys in the gardens of the Tuileries, playing at La Barbe' -a sort of calm compromise between the English games of 'prisoner'sbase,' and 'horney.'

Paris observes Christmas Day as it does Sunday. Many of the shops are closed; and the bonnes and the soldiers walk about with an air of rest rather than holiday. It is a Dimanche that falls in the middle of the week, et voilà tout! That it is Carnival time, you are reminded by the bills of all the places of public amusement, and by the notices, stuck against the doors of the cafés and restaurants that they will keep open all the night on the occasions of the masked ball at the Opera.

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