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 the casual lounger through its streets as the eye is offended constantly in London. In Paris you have to look for manifestations of wickedness, and then it is known that you will find them in abundance, but they are not thrust under your nose at every street corner. You may walk the streets and boulevards at the small hours of the morning, or in the full glare of evening gas, or in the gathering gloom of midnight, when the lights are being put out, and if nobody assassinates you, you risk no evil sight or sound. There are quarters, we know from the daily papers, where vile creatures of both sexes group themselves for the peril of the passer-by, where blood is shed, and hideous language befouls the air, but these lie off the travelled highways of the city; and if you never read a newspaper, you might live for fifty years in Paris and never suspect that such a thing as crime took place within its fortifications.

Rents in Paris are comparatively high, and space is precious; hence the exiguity of the average home of the middle and lower classes. Spare rooms are unknown, and closets and presses must be packed with the nicest precision. But it is surprising how soon one becomes reconciled to want of room in a French flat, and in how short a time one learns to pity the London householder—above all his wife and servants—for his superfluity of chambers. Once you have