drawers. Over
the chimney-piece of black marble is a mirror and a clock. (There is not
a room in Paris which does not boast a looking-glass and a clock or
clocks, though the latter may not go.) In a recess is a bed, which turns
out to be perfect. The last detail, however, strikes the traveller with
horror. He will be forced to wash with a slop basin and a milk jug. What
to do? The official in the fur cap listens with smiling courtesy to the
expostulations of Monsieur, but cannot comprehend his meaning.

There are excellent baths in the Rue Vivienne. But in the chamber? Ah,
good, they shall bring a hot bath to Monsieur at three francs. It is
still something else? The English waiter shall mount to Monsieur. A
shower-bath, a hip-bath, or a sponging-bath he hath not seen, neither
can he conceive. The philosopher straightway orders a hot bath, and
makes a note never to leave his country for the future without a
collapsible caoutchouc arrangement, which may so far make him
independent of the short-comings of continental civilisation. The
respectable steward retires, the hot bath arrives, painfully supplied
with water by a groaning gentleman in a blouse who evidently hates his
business, especially in its _higher walks_. Perhaps he will be a member
of a Provisional Government some day, and pay society off for his
present griefs.

Under the potent influence of hot water the traveller gradually returns
to his usual serenity. The bravos of Dover, the exhibitions of weakness
on board the steamer, the bureaucratic tediousness of the _douaniers_,
the insolence of the police, the jolting over the _pave_, the
interminable flights of stairs, all fade from his memory as he simmers
into a happier and more tranquil world of thought. Mysterious analogy to
the miracles of culinary science! His heart, so to speak, stews into
tenderness in like manner as the lobster, hideous and savage, gradually
is divested of his gross nature till he becomes the delicate inmate of a
Mayonnaise. Full of this pathetic thought the sage reaps his chin,
anoints his hair, makes an elaborate toilette, and descends like JUPITER
from Olympus to mingle with men of lower earth. He returns with
confidence the smiling salute of the _concierge_. Ah, Madame! you may
now regard us; we carry fair linen, and smell of sweet odours: we are no
longer a disgrace to Albion. An astounding breakfast, and so to the
Boulevards.

How much alike men are! Here are a few more Leiceste