the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost, in
the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame
the man some years afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough,
the inscriptions make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate,
and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal
arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees
and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings; then, dashing down the
Rue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable,
and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his
horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court- yard, where the
journey is destined to conclude.

If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked
horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us
now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the
father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the
same minute--no light affairs, like your English vehicles, but
ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in
the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof: others are
loading: the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing;--
bustling porters and screaming commissionaires. These latter seize
you as you descend from your place,--twenty cards are thrust into
your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable
swiftness, shriek into your ear, "Dis way, sare; are you for ze'
'Otel of Rhin?' 'Hotel de l'Amiraute!'--'Hotel Bristol,' sare!--
Monsieur, 'l'Hotel de Lille?' Sacr-rrre 'nom de Dieu, laissez
passer ce petit, monsieur! Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare?"

And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of
Titmarsh.--If you cannot speak a syllable of French, and love