by being asked for the keys of his trunks, for the Custom House officers, to make believe to look into them to ascertain that you have not smuggled any liquors or other material within the walls of Paris.  Those who are fortunate enough to travel in their own carriages, are exempted from such tiresome ceremony.  Some of the other entries to Paris are somewhat better, but none of them sufficiently so, to be worthy notice; perhaps the best amongst the bad is by the Faubourg St. Antoine, the Barrieres du Trone, at the commencement and summit of the street, presenting a most noble appearance; indeed, as far as the barriers are concerned, there are many which are well worthy of notice, being mostly handsome stone buildings with columns that give them an imposing effect, particularly when we recollect the little turnpike gates at the principal entrances of London, with the exception of the recent erections at Knightsbridge, which sink into nothingness when compared to the Triumphal Arch at the entrance already described; and, except foreigners, particularly the English, enter by that quarter, the first aspect of Paris mostly excites disappointment; the generality of the streets wanting that straight line of regularity so prevalent throughout London, the French capital has an incongruous patchy sort of effect, and its beauties and objects of interest have to be sought, but to the eye of an artist it is much more gratifying than that dull sameness which reigns throughout London, which Canova very justly designated as consisting of walls with square holes in them; for what otherwise can be said of our houses in general, but that they are literally upright walls, with square holes for doors and windows.  Regent Street and a few others, which have been recently erected, form an exception to the rule.  But in almost every street in Paris a draftsman finds subject for his pencil; their richly carved gateways, their elaborately wrought iron balconies, their ornamented windows, and even their protruding signs, all help to break the formal straight line and afford ample food for sketching; and in many of their old and least fashionable streets, an ancient church with its gothic doorway, adorned by rich and crumbling sculpture, invites the artist to pause and exercise his imitative art.  Paris at first strikes a stranger as still more bustling and noisy than London, as the streets being narrower and hack vehicles more used in proportion, the circulation gets sooner choked up, and the rattling over the stones of the carriages is still more deafening, being within so confined a space; hence also the confusion is greater; then there is always a sort of bewilderment when one first arrives in a large city, that makes it appear much more astounding than is found to be the case as soon as the visiter becomes accustomed to its apparent labyrinth.