The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks during the journey.She withdraws the "Madras" of dubious hue which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your departure from Boulogne.The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been sucking bonbons, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that immense basket of abominations which all old women carry in their laps.She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric handkerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon; she looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her handkerchief before her mouth:--her eyes roll strangely about for an instant, and you hear a faint clattering noise: the old lady has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper money, and false hair--stowed away there during the voyage.The Jewish gentleman, who has been so attentive to the milliner during the journey, and is a traveller and bagman by profession, gathers together his various goods.The sallow-faced English lad, who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of the infernal journey, and d--d glad that the d--d voyage is so nearly over."Enfin!" says your neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right and left hand companion, "nous voila."NOUS VOILA!--We are at Paris! This must account for the removal of the milliner's curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady's teeth.--Since the last relais, the Diligence has been travelling with extraordinary speed.The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrilly.The conductor blows incessantly on his horn, the bells of the harness, the bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great hoofs of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously increased within this, the last ten minutes; and the Diligence, which has been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of time.Thus it is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen's--he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end.He gallopeth at the commencement; in the middle he lingers;at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep;he cracketh the whip of his satire; he shouts the shout of his patriotism; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator! What a capital coach! We will ride henceforth in it, and in no other!
But, behold us at Paris! The Diligence has reached a rude-looking gate, or grille, flanked by two lodges; the French Kings of old made their entry by this gate; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it.At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in green, examining the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long needles.It is the Barrier of St.Denis, and the green men are the customs'-men of the city of Paris.If you are a countryman, who would introduce a cow into the metropolis, the city demands twenty-four francs for such a privilege: if you have a hundredweight of tallow-candles, you must, previously, disburse three francs: if a drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog: but upon these subjects Mr.Bulwer, Mrs.Trollope, and other writers, have already enlightened the public.In the present instance, after a momentary pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey.
The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St.Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where everything, in the dingy and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in India-ink--black houses, black passengers, and black sky.Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life and color.Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of GUTTER,--not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture invaluable.On each side are houses of all dimensions and hues; some but of one story; some as high as the tower of Babel.
