St. Jacques, and intersect entire Paris for a distance of nearly three miles. These streets are to be completed in five years, at a cost of 37,650,000 fr.; and thus a stop will be put to the complaints that have been prevalent as to the left bank being neglected.

One of the principal results produced by the wholesale demolition of houses in the centre of Paris has been that the faubourgs have greatly increased in population. The Faubourg St. Antoine has been thus enriched by upwards of thirteen hundred new houses, or more than sufficient for a population of forty thousand. A similar phenomenon is now visible in the Faubourgs St. Germain and St. Marcel, and the buildings will grow up with magical celerity so soon as the Boulevard de Sébastopol has become an established fact. In the first and second arrondissements a multitude of new houses have also sprung into existence, and the Tivoli garden has entirely disappeared. This garden lay at no great distance from the northern boulevards, in a quarter between the Faubourgs Montmartre and St. Honoré, opposite the Pavillon du Hanovre on the Boulevard des Italiens, and extended thence to the Barrière de Clichy. Even though it might appear a paltry spot when compared with Horace's Tibur Supernum, the Roman Tivoli, whence it derived its name, it contained within its ample space every requisite for pleasure-gardens; but the greedy eye of speculation surveyed it, and Tivoli was doomed. The ruthless axe was laid to the root of the chesnut-trees and silver poplars, the grass-plats were cut up, the visitors were expelled, and some dozen streets soon occupied the fairy spot. For a while the gardens might still be traced, however; the first purchasers of "eligible building spots" considered it a point of honour to leave a clump of trees or a bosquet near their houses; and in some places entire alleys and gardens might be traced. But the quartier soon began to be regarded as fashionable, and the demand for building sites rapidly destroyed all the trees. On the Place Vintimille, in the Rue de Douai, Rue de Calais, &c., the trees have all been cut down, and the quartier now resembles any other, except that the houses are eagerly caught up, and frequently entered upon before the building is finished.

The park of Monceaux, near the Barrière de Courcelles, which reverted to the state by the Orleans succession, will soon endure the fate of its pristine neighbour Tivoli, which it far surpasses in convenience and space. The speculating builders have already invaded it, for it is known that two main roads, the Boulevard de l'Impératrice and the Boulevard Malesherbes, are to run through it. Even the Champs Elysées, which so reluctantly allowed admission to bricks, appear fated. An Anglo-French company has been established, under the title of the "Company of the Champs Elysées," and holds out most flattering offers to shareholders, great and small. It has already purchased a piece of land of more than one hundred thousand metres, and, we believe, has commenced operations. Every available spot between the banlieue and the wall of circumvallation is by this time built upon, and even beyond them the Parisians are now setting up their lares. There seems, in truth, no end to the extension of the city, for the entire population, down to the poorest labourer, is affected by a desire for living out of town.

The botanist, who not long ago was enabled to herbalise near the Barrière de l'Etoile, on now seeing the Bois de Boulogne converted into

a Parisian promenade, may perhaps be justified in giving way to a gentle sigh; but while he is compelled to go farther afield to follow in the footsteps of Jussieu, the inhabitants of Passy, Boulogne, and Auteuil sing a pæan of praise at the conversion of their scrubby wood into a magnificent park. An ordonnance of the 8th July, 1852, gave the property of this wood to the city of Paris, on condition that it expended two millions of francs upon it in four years. This condition has been more than fulfilled: in three years the city laid out three millions and a half in converting the sandy plain into a garden. If we take into account the four million francs expended in forming the Avenue de l'Impératrice, with the two millions spent in building the new hippodrome of Longchamp, as well as all the improvements projected, we must allow that the city of Paris has spared no expense in producing a pleasure-garden such as the Parisians could desire. Under the management of Monsieur Varé, the old scene of duels and suicides has been converted into the Paradise of Imperial Paris: it already displays trees and bushes of every variety, hedges and labyrinthine flower-beds, shady walks and elysian alleys, rocks and grottoes, a hill with a gentle slope and pleasant view of the surrounding scenery, silvery ponds and foaming cascades, green islands with flowergardens, châlets, and harbours; boats and swans upon the water, stags and deer upon the meadows, singing and chirruping birds in the trees and bushes the whole produced, as it were, by a magician's wand. There are also numerous respectable hotels, where refreshments of every description may be obtained, a magnificent room for concerts and balls, and a hippodrome, where thousands of persons may drive and ride without impediment. The Bois has justly become the favourite resort of the Parisians, and we may say it assumes the character of a botanic garden, as almost every variety of tree has its habitat here, having been brought from all parts of the world to satisfy the luxurious desires of the Parisian populace.

Since the gardens of Paris have been destroyed for building purposes, it was found advisable to take especial care of the few oases left. Hence a commission has been appointed for this purpose with a very efficient staff. The city of Paris now holds possession of eight enclosed grounds, forming promenades or squares; on one side the Bois du Boulogne with its annexes, the plain of Longchamp and the Avenue de l'Impératrice, on the other the Place Royale, the Place de l'Archevêché, and the squares round the tower of St. Jacques, in front of the church of St. Clotilde, at the Temple, and at the ruins of the old Roman palace of the Therma. In addition to these, the city possesses more than fifty-seven thousand trees, planted in the Champs Elysées, the quincunxes of the Trocadero, the inner and outer boulevards, the quays, and a few open spaces; the whole of the plantations occupy a space of more than two hundred acres; the oldest, on the Champs Elysées, dating from 1617. The outer boulevards are adorned in some parts with double rows of lofty trees, dating from 1760; but the inner boulevards lost nearly all their trees in the revolu tions of 1830 and 1848; those left are too stunted, and the newly-planted trees too young to offer any shade. As a general rule, the trees planted in the streets of Paris have proved a failure, in spite of the care devoted to them; they die off rapidly, and the gamins do their part in accelerating their death. The authorities have recently planted large nurseries in the

Bois de Boulogne, where they experimentalise on the best varieties of trees, and arrangements have been even made with the gas companies, which will in future prevent the trees being poisoned by the exhalations from the pipes. If these prophylastic measures are in any way successful, we may live in hope of seeing trees planted in our own streets-somewhere before the advent of the Millennium.

It would lead us too far, were we to stop and discuss the result of all these changes in the aspect of Paris. For a time rumours were prevalent of discontent at the great increase of rents, but these appear to have subsided, and the population of Paris to have "accepted the situation" with resignation. There appears to be more truth in the statement that, in these new buildings, internal comfort has been too often sacrificed to external effect. Among the numerous jeremiads we have heard, the principal refer to the instability of the houses and the thinness of the walls. Another inconvenience is the immoderate height of the windows, which open after the Italian fashion from top to bottom, and are fastened by a heavy iron bar, which a puff of wind is sure to blow open. Then, again, we are told that the chimneys are of extravagant dimensions, occupying more than half the side of the room, and costing a small fortune in firing. But the true Parisian cares little for these things; so long as the exterior of his house is handsomely decorated with stucco, gilding, and statues, he is perfectly satisfied, and these things are lavishly expended in Imperial Paris. At the same time, Paris has been newly furnished to correspond with the new style of building, and thus an immense sum of money has been brought into circulation; and if such amusements keep the people quiet and contented, who are we that we should gainsay the wisdom of the imperial policy?

In so slight a sketch as ours it would be impossible to give more than an outline of the improvements in Paris which the emperor has effected; but what we have said will suffice to prove how admirably he has provided for the physical comfort and well-being of the lower classes. By a stroke of his pen he has effected a marvellous change, such as we have so long desired at home, which has been debated and discussed under a hundred different aspects among us without producing the slightest satisfactory results. It is true that eminent philanthropists have subscribed to build model lodging-houses, but we doubt whether St. Giles has lost one denizen by their erection; and though schemes have been ventilated for lodging our artisans out of town and enabling them to come to their labour each morning by train, we do not find any prospect of its fruition. And yet it is a question which will have to be grappled with sternly before long the safety of our population demands that such lurking-places of disease must be eradicated, and the legislature is alone capable of strenuously interfering. The pleasing fiction that "every man's house is his castle" has, like so many other fictions, been overturned by the Board of Health, and it would require but a step to carry out in London all that the emperor has so successfully achieved in Paris. At any rate, we are forced to admit that they "manage such things better in France" on the sic volo sic jubeo principle than we can effect by the united efforts of our Board of Health and Sanitary Commissioners.

PART AND COUNTERPART.

BY WILLIAM PICKERSGILL.

FOUR o'clock had just struck by the great bell of St. Mary's as "The Flying Dutchman" rattled along the stony pavement of St. Auburns. "The Flying Dutchman was a coach, and St. Auburns--but everybody knows St. Auburns. Four o'clock had struck, I say, as the coach aforesaid came rattling along the street-the horses panting, puffing, smoking, and foaming as though they had had pretty hard work of it for the last three-quarters of an hour, and if one only looked at the roads it would dispel any doubt that might previously have been entertained upon the subject. As the coach came tearing through the town, what with the horn of the guard and the shouting and whooping of the boys as they ran alongside of her, a person would have found it exceedingly difficult to make the least oral communication with any friend whom chance might throw in his way. Of course there was a general rush to doors and windows as she whisked along, for a stage-coach in those days, although no novelty, was still an object that attracted universal attention. As for the guard and the coachman, when they arrived at head-quarters, or at an important stage in the journey, it is not easy to enter into their feelings-the importance and dignity of a parish beadle were nothing to them-pooh! neither of them would have resigned his place to become First Lord of the Treasury. "The Flying Dutchman" came rattling along, then, in fine style, full within and full at the top, and the countenances of the guard and coachman admirably beseeming the importance of the occasion. The coach stopped not till she came to "The Golden Fleece," and then there was a universal rush of waiters and servants from the hotel, some carrying ladders to enable the passengers from above to alight, and others hastening to assist those who had already alighted, to carry their luggage into the hotel. It was nearly dark, and only four o'clock in the afternoon, but then it was in the very depth of winter-just a few weeks before Christmas. The snow was falling in heavy flakes, and the ground, in many places, was already covered with it. It was not exactly the weather to travel in for comfort, but people sometimes are compelled to undertake journeys altogether irrespective of the weather, and very much against their inclination. This was precisely the case with one of the passengers of "The Flying Dutchman." He was little accustomed to travel at any time, but least of all under such unfavourable circumstances as the present. As he alighted from the coach, two or three of the servants of the hotel were in readiness to afford him all the aid he might require. He was a heavy, burly man, and not so nimble of limb as he had been some twenty years previously, and a friendly arm was by no means unwelcome to him. Supported by one of the waiters, he was conducted into a spacious apartment comfortably furnished, with a cheerful fire burning in the grate.

"Ah! this is something like," said he.

"Very cold travelling, sir," said the waiter.

"Cold, sir," said the gentleman; "too mild a term by half; freezing

is better-freezing, sir."

The waiter smiled and adjusted his neckcloth.

"Take tea, sir, or

He was going to add, coffee.

"Brandy-and-water," said the old gentleman, "boiling hot."

"All right, sir." And the waiter vanished with a pleasant shuffle, and a simpering smile upon his countenance.

A very pleasant-looking old gentleman was the traveller. As he unrolled himself out of his shawls and coats he won upon you amazingly. There was a rich rubicund complexion in the countenance, a moderatesized pimple or two upon the nose, strongly indicative of a love of port, a merry twinkle in the eye, and a lurking smile about the corners of the mouth, that went far to prove that the old gentleman was one of the right sort. He was a man past the prime of life-sixty, we should say, at the least; he wore a wig, and his dress generally was of a period fully fifty years antecedent to the time of which we speak.

"Stay all night, sir?" inquired the waiter, as he deposited the brandy, hot water, &c., upon the table.

"No, I leave again by the coach for Bramford. Will you tell me when she is ready to start?"

"All right, sir,” replied the waiter, as he whisked out of the room. The traveller sipped his hot spirit and water approvingly, looked for a moment at the fire, and then bethought him of his watch. He drew a gold repeater from his pocket, held it to his ear to ascertain that it was going, then closely inspected the dial-it was half-past four.

"Nine o'clock before we reach Bramford," said he to himself.

Wondering what he should do next, his eyes involuntarily wandered to the side of the room opposite to where he sat, and in a moment were riveted upon a mirror that was suspended from the wall, and there they were held by the same power that the basilisk is said to possess over the human organs of vision. His mouth gradually distended, and his eyes opened to their fullest extent, whilst a momentary thrill of terror shot through his entire system. To what cause was to be attributed so peculiar a fascination-so extraordinary a power of exciting fear and consternation? It was an ordinary mirror, hung in an ordinary situation. Did it reflect some appalling appearance in his own countenance of which he was previously unconscious, and which now awakened in his breast so much alarm and emotion? So far, indeed, from this, it was not his own face that was reflected, for the position in which he sat effectually prevented that from being the case. Strange, however, as it may seem, it was the precise counterpart of his own physiognomy-there was the same glowing complexion, the same prominent proboscis, the same arch humour about the corners of the mouth—in short, no two human countenances could be more alike than his own and the one upon which he was so intently gazing. There it was, looking, as it were, upon him with as much curiosity as he gazed upon it. He sat rooted to his chair, unable for a moment to lift his eyes from the object upon which they were so closely riveted. The mouth of the face, at length, gave a prodigious yawn, exhibiting two rows of teeth that bespoke astounding powers of mastication, and the vision vanished from sight. A few seconds elapsed before the old gentleman could summon courage

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