It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty.  During the day the plaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness; heavily laden carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; the eager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business, cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether has something harsh, restless, and flurried about it.  But, as soon as the stars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses is quenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rolling but that of the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only the lounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure.  Now each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business of the day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure!  See the ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along the walks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspaper criers.  Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and the apron; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening for enjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious matter till tomorrow.

I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety, but to contemplate it.  If the enjoyments of others embitter jealous minds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine, which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.

Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feel myself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me:  it is my own kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother’s share in their happiness.  We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthly battle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?  If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others, let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, “Those, too, are Alexanders.”

While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me.  I crossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stopped before the shops or to read the handbills.  How many things there are to learn in the streets of Paris!  What a museum it is!  Unknown fruits, foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of all climates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations!  It is the world seen in samples!

Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-windows and the tradesman’s display of goods.  Nothing has been taught them, but they have a rude notion of everything.  They have seen pineapples at Chevet’s, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf.  The Redskins, exhibited in the Valentine Hall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to smoke the calumet of peace; they have seen Carter’s lions fed; they know the