TEN YEARS OF IMPERIALISM IN FRANCE.

CHAPTER I.

NEW PARIS.

AMONG the many clever rhapsodies of Edgar Poe, there is perhaps none which exercises more attraction than his 1002d Arabian Night, where he takes up the old favourite Sinbad the Sailor and sends him on a new journey. He He goes westward instead of continuing his explorations and adventures south and eastward, and relates what he has seen in this age of railways, steamers, and telegraphs. The story is so incredible that the Eastern monarch, who has taken so piously all the former stories of Scheherazade, begins to suspect her game, and ends the Arabian Nights in truly old Oriental fashion, by cutting off the head of the fair story-teller.

This rhapsody always recurs to my mind whenever I visit Paris, after even a short absence. Sinbad the Sailor, like a true Oriental, takes his kief between his journeys, and allows an interval of several years to elapse between each of them. What would be the effect on this simple-minded traveller if, after some

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ten years of absence, brought on from Marseilles by the express train and packed into one of the monster omnibuses, he were set down on the Place du Palais Royal?

A traveller of modest means, in search of gain and curiosities, he would probably look out for the Rue des Quinzevingts or Beaujolais, to take up his old quarters in one of the many hôtels garnis with which these streets abounded ten years ago. Stunned by the rapid pace of the railway train which brought him from the south, and made drowsy by the omnibus journey over the smooth Macadam, so different from the old orthodox Parisian Barricade pavement, he would think himself under a hallucination, owing to the mischievous designs of the lord of the fiery steeds, or else of the ugly wizard perched up on that uncouth construction which he has just left. He would rub his eyes and try to awake, but would only become more and more confused. There is, indeed, something which seems like an acquaintance, the Palais Royal, or rather the Palais National as Sinbad remembers it; but what are all those huge palaces with their colonnades, that still more magnificent palace tower in front, that endless street of palace-like bazaars which extend eastward, that new tower to the left looking down on a new square of equally palace-like buildings, that other graceful tower further down which stretches its stone lacework high up in the air? Poor Sinbad is bewildered, and expects every moment to be taken up by some bright Peri, or frightened by the appearance of some winged colossal Gin.

He is, indeed, seized hold of by the arm, and starts; but it is neither Peri nor Gin who takes that liberty; it is the good-natured Arab who keeps the shop of mauresque finery at the corner of the Place du Palais.

Royal, and who, seeing the colour and garb of the traveller, forgets for a moment that he is a French citizen, and takes pity on the troubles of his kindred.

Let us suppose the traveller fairly housed by his care: and, having made his toilet in the Bains Chinois, sallying forth, accompanied by his cicerone, to see the marvels of new Paris. The cicerone, who has considerably improved and refined his own Oriental imaginative power by contact with his new compatriots, is proud to show off the glories of the country which has adopted, or rather annexed, him. Seeing the dispositions of his companion, he conceives the idea of astonishing him by showing him new Paris. Having taken him all about the new Louvre and the Place Napoleon III., Sinbad, like a good Mohammedan, rejects the offer to see the galleries which are filled with representations in stone and on canvass of animated beings, and the couple, passing over the new Bridge of Solferino, pass along the Quay d'Orsay to the Boulevard de Latour Maubourg, which runs along the western outskirts of the Invalides. The cicerone does not neglect to draw the attention of the traveller to the magnificent new facing of stone with which the banks of the Seine have been protected, as well as to the broad paved towingpaths and wharves. Having taken him to cast a glance at the Church of St Clotilde, he leads him into the Boulevard de l'Alma and across the Pont de l'Alma to see the Palais de l'Industrie. Then, going through the Arc de l'Etoile into the Avenue de l'Impératrice, he passes by the new quarter which has arisen there to the Bois de Boulogne. In coming back they turn to the left into the Boulevard de Monceau, and having looked at the glittering cupolas of the Russian Church,

go through the newly-laid-out Parc de Monceau into the Boulevard Malesherbes. Passing down the Rue Royale they get into the Rue de Rivoli, and proceed along it to the Place du Louvre to look at the Tower of St Germain l'Auxerrois, then on again through the same street to the Place du Châtelet and the Avenue Victoria to see the new theatres, the Fontaine Birague, and the Tour de St Jaques de la Boucherie; then crossing the new Pont au Change to see the Palais de Justice and the Sainte Chapelle, they go up the Boulevard de Sebastopol to the Hotel de Cluny. Turning into the Boulevard St Germain, they go back by Notre Dame and the Pont d'Arcole to the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. Following the Rue de Rivoli eastward, they saunter to the Place de la Bastille, and thence to the Boulevard du Prince Eugène. At the end of it, passing the great infantry barracks on the corner of the Boulevard du Temple, they get into the Boulevard de Magenta; from thence into the Boulevard de Strasbourg, and back by the Boulevard de Sebastopol into the Rue de Rivoli.

"And where is Paris ?" asks Sinbad. "This is new Paris," is the reply. I don't happen to know what the politics of the Arab shopkeeper at the corner of the Place du Palais Royal are-whether he is a supporter or an adversary of the Imperial government, so there are two versions of the account which Sinbad the Sailor might give of what he saw in Paris.

The first is as follows:

"While drinking one evening sweet Shiraz wine with some of my boon-companions, and relating to them my past adventures, I was seized with a violent desire to see the wonderful things which had passed in the land of the West called Frengistan since I had been there,

and of which I had heard, through divers natives of those regions, who are to be recognised by the strange black felt tubes on their heads, and by coats cut away in front and hanging down behind like swallow-tails. Having heard, likewise, that the mighty King of Frengistan had given orders that the Sea of Yonistan should be allowed to flow into the Sea of Arabia, I took my ship in that direction; but finding that the orders had not been yet executed, owing to the cunning devices of a neighbouring mighty island queen, I continued my journey into the great ocean of the West. After many days' and months' journey, and many perils, I arrived at the chief port of Frengistan, called Marsilia. Having disposed of my vessel, which was bought up to be shown for money to the natives, I proceeded to the capital of the country, which lies many miles inland, on the banks of a muddy unwholesome stream. By the aid of the genius of fire, which a great wizard called Fulton has subjected to his power, I was carried by fiery steeds in a few hours to the capital, or rather to the site where it formerly stood.

"When I was last in that place the whole country was under the rule of a bloodthirsty foreign tyrant called Liberty, who kept the people in dingy, high, and narrow houses, from which he drove them forth from time to time to wage war against each other, in order that he might feed on their corpses and drink their blood. At last the scion of their good old Padishah, who had ruled over many seas and lands, came back from across the water, where he had been driven by the tyrant. He assembled his followers and struggled with the oppressor until he drove him away. There was great joy among the people. Having thus come to the throne,