THE following lively sketches are by the ingenious M. de Kock, who has already distinguished himself, in the literature of France, by several romances of merit. It is by no means uncommon to find, among the best writers of France, even in happier times than the present, that they have shone most in their slighter efforts; and there seems to be something in the French genius of the present day which forbids any continuous or lengthened production.

The periodical papers, (which are much more numerous in the French metropolis than in ours,) contain frequently essays which are full of brilliancy and point; but, as they are always of a merely local nature and interest, no one, out of the meridian of Paris, cares for them, nor are they ever translated in the journals of our own country. They, nevertheless, possess considerable merit; and, under the favour of some of the great powers who lead the public opinion in matters of taste as well as in politics, we think that they might now and then find space for some of the effusions-frivolous if they will, but still pleasing-of the French litterateurs of the lower forms. We are, at least, sure that if the taste of our readers resembles, as we fondly imagine it does, our own, they would rather read a description of living manners than the most disastrous accidents the most sanguinary murder-or the most exciting case of conjugal infidelity, that ever the fertile imagination of a newsmonger has yet invented for their amusement. Impressed with this sentiment, we propose to exhibit to them some of M. de Kock's Sketches, which have the merit of being faithful resemblances of Parisian manners; and, perhaps, the more interesting, because they are rather those of ordinary life. With us (and in France it is the same) as soon as an author gets, by any means, into vogue, he becomes astonishingly genteel, and condescends to draw from none but the privileged classes, the very supreme bon genre. The Hermit in Paris chooses the Chaussee d'Antin for his retirement; and Theodore Hook, and Mr. Croker, deal only with aristocrats and fashionables, as

if they abhorred any thing that could remind them of the vulgarity of their origin. The effort is in vain; the contrivance is one which every body sees through: a poor scribbler may give himself as many airs as he will; a successful intriguer may parade, like 'Tom Errand in Beau Clincher's clothes ;' a farce-writer, whose ' occupation's gone,' may affect to repay the contempt of all the world, by throwing back his own scorn at all that is best in it; but still their natural lowness sticks to them; the homeliness of their nature will no more rub off than the complexion of an African. "Let them paint an inch thick," and still this colour predominates.

M. de Kock is not of this cast-he is content to be lowly; and he knows that there is as much amusement (we think much more) to be obtained from the habits and customs of ordinary life, as from those of a more exalted tone. For ourselves, we have an old-fashioned notion that Tom Jones,' and Roderick Random,' and such like low productions, are worth a countless quantity of Sayings and Doings,' and all the best things that ever Mr. Croker ventured to write in the John Bull. We are in the habit of looking to the humbler walks of society for amusement, leaving to the higher ones the task of improving and instructing (if they can) those whom they pretend to excel in all human virtue and dignity.

This feeling has made us look with pleasure at M. de Kock's Sketches; and, as the reading public of Great Britain cannot but feel interested in the manners of their neighbours, we have resolved to transfer some of the portraits from his pages to our own. We shall begin with his pen and ink drawing of

THE BOULEVARDS.

No city in the world possesses a promenade so beautiful, so extensive, and so varied, as the long succession of boulevards in Paris. It is a perpetual fair-a living panoramawhere the reflective observer may see, passing in review before him, all the different classes of society; and may

learn the manners, the dress, and the ordinary customs of each quarter of the city; for you must understand that there is a world of difference between the inhabitants of the Boulevard Italien and those of the Pont aux Choux; between the promenaders of Coblentz and those of the Turkish Garden.

At eight o'clock in the morning every thing is in motion on the Boulevards of the Temple. The shops are opened; the goods displayed; the masters are walking out; the cooks are going to market; and the artisans are going to fetch or to carry home their work. I walk on to the Porte Saint Denis, and already the scene is changed. There no one yet thinks of rising. I go on to the Boulevard de la Madeleine, where the most perfect calm prevails. Every body is asleep. Life is not the same thing here as in the quarter we have quitted; and the day commences at the Chaussee d'Antin at least three hours later than in the Marais.

I enter a coffee-house, which is just opened the waiters look at me with astonishment; breakfast will not be ready here for the next two or three hours. At noon the fashionable people begin to appear; the shops glitter, cabriolets roll, and every thing appears animated. The world of fashion is awake, and now hastens to this quarter, which may be considered as the capital of its empire. At three o'clock the promenade is delightful : people come to show their new dresses, the elegance which has presided over their toilettes, and an air of splendour prevails throughout, which strikes with awe and astonishment the simple citizen of the Faubourg St. Antoine. It is true that the ladies and gentlemen do seem rather tired of themselves. The ladies seem to have more of coquetry than enjoyment; but they walk so gracefully the unmeaning small talk which they utter is said in so agreeable a mannerthat I cannot quit. The hours go on : I enter a coffee-house where these fashionable folks dine; but, when I cast my eyes over the bill of fare which is presented to me, I perceive that every thing is treated upon much too grand a scale for me. The potent figures upon this talisman break the VOL. I. No. 10.

spell which has bound me: I make my exit somewhat sobered; and now the promenade is deserted.

I turn my steps backward to the less fashionable Boulevards, and immediately the difference which I perceive in the air, manners, and dress of the people I meet, inforins me that I am again entering that part of the city in which the day begins and finishes earlier. The artisan walks about singing, the soldier whistling, and the young girls looking round on each side of them, as if they were seeking something. All the young people have a kind of business air; and by this time the hour of departure has arrived. But, unlucky event! the weather is overcast; the rain begins to fall. The promenaders quicken their pace, but the big cloud bursts over them before they can reach a shelter. The scene becomes busier; the husband pulls his wife on hastily, while she busies herself in scolding him for having made her put on her best shawl. That fat matronly lady is running herself out of breath; and that younger one is filled with anxiety for the fate of her beautiful bonnet and new shoes. The young man, who has brought his mistress out for a walk curses the rain, and calls in vain to every hackney coach that passes; while that grave person opens his umbrella of many holes, which conveniently lets the rain through upon him.

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tricks of a dancing dog, or a juggler, with as much pleasure at least as they would have derived from the last new comedy. Night approaches, the promenaders retire, the crowd becomes thinner; some few of them remain about the magic lanterns-some, however, go home,-all is quiet, and yet it is only ten o'clock.

Since I am in the way of promenading, I will go on to Tortoni's. I quit the good people who end the day with a song, and soon lose the sound of the voices of the pretty light-hearted grisettes, who are humming the burden of the last vaudeville they heard at the Gaité. I proceed to the Chaussee d'Antin, which I reach about half-past ten o'clock. The evening is just beginning; the coffee-houses are glowing with light, and perfectly crowded; the promenade is more so than ever. I enter and call for an ice, and look on at the billiard-table. The time passes imperceptibly, and one o'clock strikes. I go out the noise has ceased, the Boulevards are deserted; some young men, the last in the room, at length quit it; and, as they pass me, I perceive they are harassed and tired out with their day's labour. At length all are gone-but I hear no one singing.

There is an extremely pleasant and good-tempered tone of feeling in the following

HISTORY OF A BOTTLE, RELATED
BY ITSELF.

I am nearly fifty years old; and, although I am, as Harlequin says, rather small for my age,' I have seen a good deal of the world, have passed through very different hands, and belonged to very strange masters. I have glittered in the foremost ranks, and I am reduced now to the very lowest. Often proud of containing generous wine, and sometimes mortified at holding only the humblest Suresne. I have proved every vicissitude of fortune, and I cannot now resist the inclination I feel to relate the history of my life, in the hope that my fellow-bottles may profit by my example.

When I left my paternal mansion, I was sold to a dealer, who packed me up, with many others, very carefully in straw, and sent me off to the great city, where I was consigned to a wine

merchant. He drove a great trade in supplying supper and dinner parties; and he filled me immediately with what he called wine, of his own composition.

There were a great many of us filled with the same stuff, but having different seals. Mine happened to be green; for which reason I was selected for a wedding dinner, which my master supplied. I saw the folks dance and laugh wildly, but I happened to be very soon emptied; when the rogue who had drained me, threw me very disdainfully at his feet, and I received a hard knock on this my first entrance into the world. Filled with the same wine, but bearing a different seal, I was soon after sold to a young girl, whose father was sick.

He was a poor workman, and he only permitted himself to visit me occasionally. I languished for a long time in his cupboard, regretting the spacious cellar of my first master. At length I was emptied; but the poor sick man had no money to have me filled again—and he died.

I was sold with the rest of his goods by a hungry creditor. Bought by a drunken porter, 1 was filled every morning with a small kind of wine; and my new master emptied me every evening with a jovial song. This life, gay as it was, did not last long. Í passed into the hands of a rich man, who had me filled with an exquisite kind of Constantia. I was perfectly intoxicated with this honour. Alas! my dear brother bottles, all is vanity.' My master often looked at me, but he could never persuade himself to have the wine which I held drunk. I was too precious for any ordinary occasion. I passed twenty years of my life in this gloomy cellar, cursing the Constantia of which I had before been so proud, and which was the cause of my being condemned to exist without seeing the light of the day.

Death at length carried off my master; and, on the following day, his heir emptied me, with some of his friends, in drinking to the old gentleman's safe passage into the other world. These gentlemen paid me very high compliments; but I was too old to be sensible of their flattery, and was glad to get rid of the noble dust with which