You remember I told you of the arrival of Sir Arthur St. Ives, and his
daughter; I believe it was in the postscript; and that I was
immediately going to--Pshaw! I am beginning my story now at the wrong
end. It is throughout exceedingly whimsical. Listen, and let amazement
prop your open mouth.

You must have observed the ease with which Frenchmen, though perfect
strangers to each other, fall into familiar conversation; and become as
intimate in a quarter of an hour, as if they had been acquainted their
whole lives. This is a custom which I very much approve. But, like all
other good things, it is liable to abuse.

The other day I happened to be taking a walk on the Boulevards, it
being a church festival, purposely to see the good Parisians in all
their gaiety and glory; and a more cheerful, at least a more noisy
people, do not, I believe, exist. As I was standing to admire a waxwork
exhibition of all the famous highwaymen, and cut-throats, whose
histories are most renowned in France, and listening to the fellow at
the door, bawling--_Aux Voleurs! Aux grands Voleurs!_--Not a little
amused with the murderous looks, darkness, dungeons, chains and petty
horror which they had mimicked, a man uncommonly well-dressed, with an
elegant person and pleasing manners, came up and immediately fell into
discourse with me. I encouraged him, because he pleased me. We walked
together, and had not conversed five minutes before, without seeming to
seek an opportunity, he had informed me that he was the Marquis de
Passy, and that he had left his carriage and attendants, because he
like me took much pleasure in observing the hilarity of the holiday
citizens. He had accosted me, he said, because he had a peculiar esteem
for the English; of which nation he knew me to be, by my step and