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every thought was a poison to a mind unprepared for the reading of such books, and thus he fell a victim to his philosophical delusion. He was discontented with his lowly station; and indeed he was far above it, with regard to his mind and his heart. He pored all night over his books, for which purpose he bought candle with his own money, as his strict honesty would not allow him to spend his master's candle for his own use. In his testament he says, that he is a child of love, and describes, in an affecting strain, his affection for his second mother, his good nurse. He bequeaths to her one hundred and fifty livres; a hundred to his country, as a patriotic gift; and forty-eight to the poor. To debtors in prison forty-eight livres; one louis d'or to him who buries his body; and three louis d'ors to his friend, the German servant in the Hotel Britannique. They have found upwards of four hundred livres in his desk. “To me,” said Bieder, with emotion," he has left three louis d'ors. Ah! we were friends from our childhood. He was an uncommon young man; in stead of spending his time, like most of his companions, in tippling houses, he passed his hours of leisure in the Cabinets de Lectures, (reading rooms,) and on Sunday he went to the play. Often said he to me, with tears, Henry, let us be virtuous, let us deserve our own esteem. Oh! I cannot repeat to you all the fine things my good Jacques said to me. He spoke like a book, while poor I cannot put two words together with propriety. For some time back he was melancholy; he went about har.ging down his head, and liked to talk about death. For the space of six days I have not seen him, and yesterday I learned that Jacques is no

more, and that there is one good man less in the world." · Bieder cried as a child, and I myself was deeply affected. Poor Jacques! sad effects of half learning! “ Drink deep, or taste not,” says Pope. ..

Epictetus was also a servant, but he did not lay vio. lent hands upon himself.


From the Pen of an English and a Russian Tourist. " Shun the close city with assiduous care, Whose nauseous fumes, the breath of heav'n impair.”

T. BATCHELOR. PARIS has long been termed the epitome of the world; but, perhaps, never could this denomination be applied to it with so much propriety as at the present moment. The chances of war have not only rendered it the centre of the fine arts, the museum of the most celebrated master-pieces in existence, the emporium where the luxury of Europe comes to procure its superfluities; but the taste for pleasure has also found means to as. semble here all the enjoyments which nature seemed to have exclusively appropriated to other climates.

Every country has its charms and advantages; Paris alone appears to combine them all. Every region, every corner of the globe seems to vie in hastening for. ward hither the tribute of its productions. Are you an epicure? No delicacy of the table but may be eaten in Paris.—Are you a toper? No delicious wine but may be drunk in Paris.- Are you fond of frequenting

places of public entertainment? No sort of spectacle but may be seen in Paris.- Are you desirous of improving your mind? No kind of instruction but may be acquired in Paris.- Are you an admirer of the fair sex? No description of female beauty but may be obtained in Paris.- Are you partial to the society of men of extraordinary talents? No great genius but comes to display his knowledge in Paris.--Are you inclined to discuss military topics? No hero but brings his laurels to Paris. In a word, every person, favoured by nature, or fortune, flies to enjoy the gifts of either in Paris, Even every place celebrated in the annals of voluptuousness is, as it were, reproduced in Paris, which, in some shape or another, presents its name or image.

Without going out of this capital you may, in the season when Nature puts on her verdant livery, visit Idalium, present your incense to the Graces, and adore, in her temple, the queen of love; while at Tivoli you may, perhaps, find as niany beauties and charms as were formerly admired at the enchanting spot on the banks of the Anio, which, under its ancient name of Tibus, was so extolled by the Latin poets; and close to the Boulevards, at Frascati, you may, in that gay season, eat ices as good as those with which Cardinal de Bernis used to regale his visiters, at his charming villa in the Campagna di Roma. Who, therefore, need travel farther than Paris to enjoy every gratification?

If then, towards the close of a war the most frightful and destructive that ever was waged, the useful and agreeable seem to have proceeded here, hand in hand, in improvement, what may not be expected in the


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tranquillity of a few years peace? Who knows but the Emperor Julian's dear Lutetia may one day vie in splendor with Thebes and its hundred gates, or ancient Rome covering its seven mountains*.

.... Can any one deny that Paris is the first city in the world, the centre of all magnificence and grandeur, when he ascends the great terrace, and beholds every where, behind and before, to the right and to the left, the largest and handsomest buildings, palaces, and temples—the fine banks of the Seine-the bridges of granite, across which throng thousands of people and of carriages ? But here you must remain, if you will not alter your opinion. On proceeding further, you meet with narrow streets, and the most disagreeable mixture of wealth and beggary. Close to the brilliant shop of a jeweller lies a heap of rotten apples and herrings; dirt abounds every where, and now and then éven blood streams in rivulets from the butcher's shops. One must stop nose and eyes here. The picture of the most elegant city is lost, and it seems as if all the dirt and filth of the world had been brought to Paris by subterraneous canals; but go one step farther, and you breathe the fragrant odours of Arabia, for you are in the vicinity of one of those shops, so numerous in Paris, where they sell perfumes and pomatum. In short, at every step is a new atmosphere, and new ob

* What precedes is the delineation of the unknown English traveller; what follows is the picture of Paris from the pencil of the Russian traveller.

jects of luxury, or the most disagreeable uncleanliness; so that Paris may justly be called the finest and foulest, the most fragrant and most stinking city on the globe. The streets are all, without exception, narrow and dark; which, perhaps, originates in the height and size of the houses. The celebrated street, Saint Honoré, is the longest, most noisy, and dirty. Woe to the poor pedestrian, particularly when it rains; he must either wade through the dirt in the middle of the street, (for as the pavement slopes on both sides towards the middle, that part of the street is usually full of dirt,) or the water pours down on his head from the gutters on the tops of the houses, and leave him not a dry thread. A coach is absolutely necessary, at least for a stranger, for the French understand perfectly how to walk through the dirt without bespattering themse) }; they leap most admirably from one stone to ano her, and take shelter in a shop from a carriage. The celebrated Tournefort, who had travelled almost all over the world, on his return, was crushed to death by a hackney coach; because, on his travels, he had forgotten the art of skipping in the streets like a goat, an art absolutely necessary to an inhabitant of Paris....

.... What a contrast is London to Paris! There, magnificence by the side of squalid misery; here, simplicity and admirable cleanliness :--there, profusion and poverty; here, a general appearance of ease among all ranks:mthere palaces, out of which crawl forth skeletons covered with rags; here neat brick houses, out of which step health and content, with a mien expressive of happiness and tranquillity. There a powdered, fine-dressed beau drives about in a wretched fiacre; here, even the

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