The German in Paris.

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poste at Frankfort, and describes THE NEW CONSTRUCTION of those vehicles in the most emphatic manner, says that AT THE VERY MOST they take five minutes to change horses on the road, and that the horses go at A GALLOP. One can see his honest pale round face, peering out of the chaise window, and the wondering eyes glaring through the spectacles, at the dangers of the prodigious journey.

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On arriving, he begins straightway to describe his bedroom on the third floor, and the prices of other bedrooms. My room,' The has an elegant alcove with an extraordinarily clean bed, it is true, it is floored with tiles instead of planks, but these are covered with carpets. A marble mantelpiece, a chest of drawers, a sécrétaire, a marble table by the bed, three cushioned arm-chairs and three others form the furniture; and the room altogether has a homish and comfortable look.'

As for the aspect of the streets, he finds that out at once. The entrance into Paris through the Faubourg St. Martin is like the Köpnicker street in Berlin, although the way from the barrier to the post is not so long as in Paris;' and then Mr. Rellstab details with vast exactness, his adventures in the yard of the messagérie, and the dexterity of an individual, who with little assistance hoisted his luggage and that of his frienh on to his brawny shoulders, and conveyed them from the carriage to the ground without making the slightest claim upon their respective purses. The hotel, and the extraordinary furniture of his apartment, described as above, he is ready to sally with us into the

streets.

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"We proceeded first," he says, "through the Passage du Panorama. Passage,' being the name given to such thoroughfares, is made for the convenience of circulation in the different quarters of the towns, are roofed over with glass, paved with granite or asphalte, and are lined on either side by splendidly furnished shops, (we translate literally, being unwilling to add to or take from the fact, that all passages are thus appointed). Here I had the first opportunity of observing narrowly the taste displayed in the arrangement of these latter. Nothing, not even the plainest article for sale, is arrayed otherwise than with the most particular neatness. Many shops surprised me by their system of combination. In one, for instance, devoted to the sale of such articles as tea, coffee, and the like, we do not only see tea, coffee, and chocolate, all neatly laid out, each with its price attached to it, but also the various apparatus for the consumption of such articles; teacups and saucers, teapots and tea strainers, as also utensils of a similar nature for the preparation of coffee and chocolate.** I consider it a most excellent arrangement, that to

every article its price is attached. The stranger who cannot judge of the price of an article, will often decline making inquiry, lest the demand exceed his opinion of the value-but if he sees what is the price, he is much more likely to buy, as he will know whether his purse will enable him to indulge his desire." Mr. Rellstab then goes into a short disquisition on the price of hats, which he finds are cheaper than in his own country.

Our author has not yet got into the streets of Paris, and we begin to question whether our love of his company will allow us to attend him there. However we can make a short cut, and come upon him again as he is passing very slowly along the Boulevard des Italiens, for he has not got farther. He has just remarked, we find, that a very vast proportion of the people are in mourning, and accounted for it by informing us that ceremony obliges mourning to be worn a long time.

"The boulevards draw a half circle round the heart of Paris, just as the walks round Frankfort and Leipzig surround the whole of the more ancient parts of these towns. But the half circle here is nearly five miles in length; their appearance is more town like than garden-like ; they rather resemble our Lime Tree walk (in Berlin), only that the passage for carriages is in the centre, whilst two rows of wide-spreading trees line a promenade on either side."

Here comes a minute description of the paving, in which we cannot suppose all our readers interested.

"The general impression given by the buildings on the boulevards resembles that given by the Ditch (Graben) of Vienna, though to be sure, the construction of the houses differs considerably from that in Vienna, and still more from that in Berlin. None of the lower floors appear to be occupied by private individuals. They seem all to be made of avail as shops or coffee-houses; even the first and second stories are often similarly employed, and at enormous rents.”

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M. Rellstab soon after beholds the Vendôme pillar with its colossal statue of Napoleon, in the perspective of a broad noble street, the Rue de la Paix, a shadowy form' he says, which, as by magic, darkened the present and brought forward, in its murky light, the mighty past.'

This and the next sentence, in which he makes history speak to him and his friend, are of the finest order of fine writing. He does not retail what history says to him, but assures us that the few moments which he passed beneath the pillar produced' emotions which are indescribable.' On a carnival day he comes upon the spot whence Fiéschi fired his hell-machine on the 28th July, 1835. The poor fellow's terror breaks out in the most frantic poetry. 'Paris,' shrieks he, 'is like Etna. In the too-strong air of its withplants-and-flowers-luxuriously-decked ground (his epithets are

always tremendous), the keenest nosed dogs lose the scent, and in its wondrous environs, the eye finds itself wandering and lost in such an immeasurable labyrinth of beauty, that one forgets how the glowing lava heaves below, and how every moment the thundering hell, in the very midst of the Paradise, may tear open its mouth.'

'On, on!'

And 'on' he rushes, but this perhaps is the richest passage of eloquence in the book.

What can one say more about him?

Good introductions and the name of a writer suffice to introduce M. Rellstab to one or two characters of note. He calls upon them, and finds them, in some instances, not at home, and going or returning in a hired cabriolet, he makes use of the opportunity to print the tariff and propensities of these conveyances. He goes to the opera and is squeezed; he attends the carnival balls and is shocked; he lives in Paris and wishes himself back at Berlin. There is a particularizing throughout the book which is amazing, and to an English reader most comic. But we live amongst commonplace, and we like to read of what we daily see. M. Rellstab's book will tell the reader what he already knows, and if he learns nothing new from it, he will be able to flatter himself on its perusal with the idea—' I too could have been an author.'

And, finally, with respect to the work of the celebrated Mr. Grant. The Morning Herald' says, 'it will find its way into every library, and be read by every family;' the Metropolitan' remarks that they are able and comprehensive in plan, and nothing could be better executed;' the Jersey Times' declares (and this we admit)' that no living author could have presented us with such a picture of Paris and its people;' and' Ainsworth's Magazine' is of opinion that Mr. Grant's volume will supersede the trashy Guidebook of Galignani.' Let us trust that these commendations have had their effect, and that Mr. Grant has sold a reasonable number of his volumes.

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But for the honour of England, and as this review is read in France, we are bound to put in a short protest against the above dicta of the press, and humbly to entreat French readers not to consider Mr. Grant as the representative of English literature, nor to order the book which the Morning Herald' declares no English family will be without. If we are all to have it, let us, at any rate, keep the precious benefit to ourselves, nor permit a single copy of Paris and its People' to get out of the kingdom. Il faut laver (the words are those of his majesty the Emperor Napoleon) son linge sale en famille. Let us keep Mr. Grant's works in the same privacy, or the English man-of-letters will get

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such a reputation on the Continent as he will hardly be anxious to keep.

English families may, if they please, purchase Mr. Grant's book in place of Galignani's trashy guide book,' which is the very best guide book that we know of in any language, which is the work of scholars and gentlemen, the compilation of which must have necessitated a foundation of multifarious historical, architectural, and antiquarian reading, (such as Mr. Grant never could have mastered, for he knows no language, living or dead, not even the English language, which he pretends to write,) and which, finally, contains for half the price, four or five times the amount of matter to be found in these volumes, which every English family is to read. Let us be allowed in a Foreign Review to make a protest against the above sentiments, for the sake of the literary profession.

Mr. Grant spent some time in the months of July and August in Paris; he may have been there six, or possibly three weeks. With this experience his qualifications for writing a book on Paris were as follows: he did not know a syllable of the language; he is not acquainted with the civilized habits of any other country; his stupidity passes all bounds of belief; his ignorance is without a parallel that we know of, in professional literature; he has a knack of blundering so extraordinary that he cannot be trusted to describe a house-wall; and with these qualities he is said to write a book which is to be read by all English families, and to ruin Galignani's trashy publication. It is too bad: for the critic, however good-natured, has, after all, a public to serve as well as an author; and has no right, while screening the dulness and the blunders of a favourite wit or blockhead, to undervalue the honest labours and cultivated abilities of meritorious scholars and gentlemen.

Mr. Grant begins to blunder at the first line of his book, and so continues to the end. He disserts upon the gutters in the streets, the windows to the houses, the cabs and their fares, the construction of the omnibuses; and by a curious felicity of dullness, is even in these matters entirely untrustworthy. He says that Chautebriand is a republican and a member of the Chamber of Deputies, he visits the Madeline and the Citié, he calls Julius Cæsar that distinguished writer,' and a nose an organ which it is needless to name.' He discovers that the Palais Royale is the place to which all the aristocracy of France resorts; he sees the most elegant ladies of the land sitting alongside of dirty drivers in hack-cabriolets;' and dining at an eating-house for thirty sous, pronounces his meal to be the height of luxury, and declares that the gentry of Paris are in the habit of so dining. Does the Morning Herald' seriously recommend every English family' to do likewise? We put this as a home question.

ART. XI. 1. Le Journal des Débats, 4 et 5 Avril.

2. Narrative of various Journeys in Belochistan, Affghanistan, and the Panjab. By CHARLES MASSON, Esq. In 3 vols. London: Bentley. 1842.

3. Personal Observations on Sinde. By T. POSTANS, M.R.A.S. London: Longman and Co. 1843.

4. Correspondence relative to Sinde. Presented to both Houses of Parliament, by command of her Majesty. 1843.

5. Reports and Papers, Political, Geographical, and Commercial, submitted to Government (unpublished).

6. Cabool. By the late Lieut.-Col. Sir ALEX. BURNES. Second Edition: London: Murray. 1843.

7. Rough Notes of the Campaign in Sinde and Affghanistan, 1838-39. By Major JAMES OUTRAM. J. M. Richardson.

1840.

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THE annexation of Sinde to the British empire appears to be pretty generally regarded as an act the flagrant injustice of which ought to weigh heavily on the public conscience. Even in liament, up to the close of the last session, the leaders of all parties concurred in regarding it as a doubtful matter. No one would express any definite opinion respecting it. The opposition, not having studied the despatches and public documents connected with the war, and for other reasons by no means difficult to be conjectured, would neither arraign formally, nor formally approve of the policy of the governor-general. They adroitly, however, intimated, and caused it to be generally felt, that they condemned the Sindian war. On the other hand, the ministers refused to be a jot more explicit. The series of transactions connected with the occupation of Sinde had not yet, they contended, been brought to a close; so that it would be highly impolitic in them, and might prove detrimental to the public service, to disclose the instructions which they had sent out, or to express any opinion upon the turn which events had taken.

The country, therefore, till ministers shall think proper to take up the question, must be content to draw its own conclusions, with the aid of such political writers as, not deterred by the extent or intricacy of the subject, may venture to forestal the decisions of parliament. All such inquirers must labour, of course, under many disadvantages from which the members of the administration are delivered, the latter possessing complete those letters and despatches, extracts only from which are laid before the public, and having access besides to the diaries and secret papers of the agents and residents, to none of which can any other person refer. Still it seems to us quite practicable to