most see one round a corner); and
presenly a very modest green glass coach droave up, and in master
stept. I didn't in corse, appear on the box; because, being known, my
appearints might have compromised master. But I took a short cut, and
walked as quick as posbil down to the Rue de Foburg St. Honore, where
his exlnsy the English ambasdor lives, and where marridges are always
performed betwigst English folk at Paris.

. . . . . .

There is, almost nex door to the ambasdor's hotel, another hotel, of
that lo kind which the French call cabbyrays, or wine-houses; and jest
as master's green glass-coach pulled up, another coach drove off, out of
which came two ladies, whom I knew pretty well,--suffiz, that one had
a humpback, and the ingenious reader will know why SHE came there; the
other was poor Miss Kicksey, who came to see her turned off.

Well, master's glass-coach droav up, jest as I got within a few yards of
the door; our carridge, I say, droav up, and stopt. Down gits coachmin
to open the door, and comes I to give Mr. Deuceace an arm, when out
of the cabaray shoot four fellows, and draw up betwigst the coach and
embassy-doar; two other chaps go to the other doar of the carridge, and,
opening it, one says--"Rendez-vous, M. Deuceace! Je vous arrete au nom
de la loi!" (which means, "Get out of that, Mr. D.; you are nabbed and
no mistake.") Master turned gashly pail, and sprung to the other side
of the coach, as if a serpint had stung him. He flung open the door, and
was for making off that way; but he saw the four chaps standing betwigst
libbarty and him. He slams down the front window, and screams out,
"Fouettez, cocher!" (which means, "Go it, coachmm!") in a despert loud
voice; but coachmin wooden go it, and besides was off his box.

The long and short of the matter was, that jest as I came up to the door
two of the bums jumped into the carridge. I saw all; I knew my duty, and
so very mornfly I got up behind.

"Tiens," says one of the chaps in the street; "c'est ce drole qui nous a
floure l'autre jour." I knew 'em, but was too melumcolly to smile.

"Ou irons-nous donc?" says coachmin to the genlmn who had got inside.

A deep woice from the intearor shouted out, in reply to the coachmin, "A
SAINTE PELAGIE!"

. . . . . .

And now, praps, I ot to dixcribe to you the humors of the prizn of
Sainte Pelagie, which is the French for Fleat, or Queen's Bentch: but on