the very worst of positions, and his expressive countenance lighted up with smiles of "pleasing pain." His eyes beamed with philanthropy and kindness on the respectable multitude around him; and an occasional sigh escaped his mighty breast, when the sight of some tatterdemalion awakened feelings of commiseration and pity in his bosom. He was not, however, doomed to be very grievously afflicted on this occasion; for we are confidently assured that out of three hundred people, twenty-seven were dressed in decent coats, and upwards of forty in fustian shooting jackets. There was, moreover, à brilliant display of gaberdines, aprons, and shirt-sleeves.

A deputation, volunteered and self-elected, of about two dozen small boys, having prepared the inmates of the Hotel Meurice, for the arrival of the illustrious visitors, the whole house was immediately involved in confusion and riot: and when the procession reached the entrance of the hotel, and precipitated Mr. Pickwick on his legs, amidst thunders of applause, an army of domestics,-cooks, waiters, chambermaids, ostlers, &c.-was drawn up to welcome the great man and his illustrious followers. Mr. Pickwick would have addressed the

multitude, had not two reasons-t -the first of which was suggested by circumstances, and the latter by Mr. Winkle-prevented him.

"You are right, my dear friend," said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Winkle, without a moment's reflection: "the crowd is so noisy that I should not be heard-and, as you very properly observed, the half of it is composed of Frenchmen, who would not understand me."

"Thank God, Arabella is not with us!" said Mr. Winkle,' hastily, and turning up his eyes to heaven with an extraordinary air of piety. "Why so?" demanded Mr. Pickwick, looking sternly for a moment at his young friend.

"Because Tupman is really indecent in his conduct," responded Mr. Winkle. "He has already entered into conversation with the pretty chambermaid in the yard of a public hotel."

"Sam!" said Mr. Pickwick, abruptly, so soon as he had satisfied himself of the truth of Mr. Winkle's statement.

"Sir!" said Mr. Weller, touching his hat.

"Tell Mr. Tupman to follow us immediately into the coffee-room: the eyes of the whole town are upon us.-Waiter, show us to the Coffee-room."

The waiter, who had been lurking about the new-comers ever since the first moment Mr. Pickwick alighted in the yard from the shoulders of his bearers, and who happened to speak very good English, instantly obeyed the command, and ushered Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle to the coffee-room, whither they were shortly followed by Mr. Tupman, who wore a cunning smile upon his countenance, and Mr. Samuel Weller. It is almost needless to remark that the illustrious party took off their hats to the crowd that thronged the entrance of the hotel, as they withdrew from the presence of that respectable congregation; and it may also be perfectly well understood that the members of the said congregation were peculiarly delighted with their morning's amusement, and separated for the purpose of repairing each to the café or English pot-house he was in the habit of frequenting. The sporting character in vain looked for an invitation to dinner with Mr. Pickwick and his friends, as a reward for his eloquent oration; and at

length withdrew in disgust, accompanied by a broken-down parson, who boasted of being the illegitimate son of some lord, and two or three other seedy-looking representatives of the great English nation, to a low tavern, where his egotism made him an important person for the remainder of the day.

"Well, after all," said Mr. Winkle, as the travellers seated themselves opposite a cheerful fire in the coffee-room, "there is not so much difference between an English and a French town."

"Bricks is bricks, Sir, all the vorld over," observed Mr. Weller, relapsing a moment from his occupation of hanging up great-coats, hats, &c., on the pegs attached to the walls.

"You will find the manners and customs somewhat different, Winkle," said Mr. Pickwick, "before you have been here long." ""Tis a lost country, Sir," said Mr. Weller, with a doleful shake of the head.

"A lost country, Sam !" cried Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.

"Yes, Sir-a lost country-a nation vithout principle, Sir," replied Mr. Weller, earnestly: "since a period vich they calls the evolution, Sir, there has n't been no manners in France; there's no sich thing as a gen'leman known-a servant is as good as his mas'er, Sir,-for they air all equal, as the nobleman said, ven he give the chimbly-sveep a cheer (chair), and told him to make his-self at home."

“I am afraid, Sam," suggested Mr. Pickwick, mildly, "that your account is rather exaggerated."

"Quite unpossible to be discorrect, Sir," returned Sam, "ven it vos the skipper o' that 'ere wessel in vich ve come, as took the trouble o' hedificating me on that 'ead. "The French is greatly to be pitied, Sir,' says I, 'if there isn't no gen'lemen among 'em'.-"They don't know the walley o' liberty,' says the captain, mournfully. No more they does, Sir,' says I, 'since they've a-made their-selves all equal.'- Werry common to see a private sugger arm-in-arm vith a officer,' says the captain, and that isn't discipline. But it's no vonder,' continues he more sorrowf'ly than afore, as they've a-bolished flogging in the army.'-He vould a-gone on vith his argiments, but his okkipation obleeged him to go into a hole beneath the biler for a moment, and Mr. Vinkle vanted a glass o' brandy-an'-vater, vich unforeseen accidents caused us to separate, as the scientific gen'leman said ven he fell from the parishoot.'

"Well, we shall see," observed Mr. Pickwick, doubtfully, when his domestic had made an end of speaking; and at that moment the waiter entered to lay the cloth for luncheon.

"What wine will you take, Sir?" inquired the waiter, addressing Mr. Pickwick.

"Madeira, by all means," cried Mr. Tupman, who had hitherto remained silent, his imagination wandering to the pretty chambermaid.

"I cannot recommend the Madeira, Sir," said the waiter, for the very simple reason that there was none in the cellar.

"Well, let us have some Sherry, then," returned Mr. Tupman. "Nor the Sherry, Sir," responded the waiter.

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"In that case we must put up with Port," observed Mr. Pickwick. "You will find the Port very thick, Sir, I'm afraid," remonstrated

the waiter.

"What can we have, then?" demanded Mr. Pickwick, opening his eyes behind his spectacles in undisguised astonishment.

"Here is the card, Sir," returned the waiter, placing a long list of long names into Mr. Pickwick's hands.

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"I do not understand French," said that gentleman; "but you, Tupman, I fancy, can do a little in this way."

"I understand that is, when at school-oh! yes," stammered Mr. Tracy Tupman, "I am far from ignorant-but these names, waiter, are new ones, I fancy."

"Not many centuries old, Sir," observed the waiter.

"The French use the word centuries for weeks," said Mr. Tupman in a whisper to his leader.

“Oh, indeed!” murmured Mr. Pickwick, poking the fire. all, I think it would be better to leave it to the waiter."

"After

"Thank you, Sir," said the waiter, gliding almost imperceptibly away from the room, and resolved in his own mind to furnish the most expensive wine in the cellar.

Mr. Weller, who had disappeared on the entrance of the waiter, now returned to the coffee-room where his masters were seated, and shuffled uneasily round the table, as if he were desirous of unburdening his mind of some oppressive weight.

"What is the matter, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick, at length, pitying the embarrassed situation of his domestic: "has any thing new occurred?"

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Beg pardon, Sir," returned Sam, "but I'm just a-come from the kitchen-and a more curioser place I never see.'

"Indeed, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick; "what is there so remarkable?" "In that 'ere kitchen, Sir," said Sam, seriously, "theres nothink that's kimmon to a kitchen in England. Fust, Sir, there are halfa-dozen man-cooks, vith vite night-caps and aperns; and each appears to be the captain o' ten or twelve different sarsepans-all of bright kipper-ranged, soldier-vise, on a large stove: and then the contents o' them 'ere sarsepans, gen'lemen, is 'stonishing to a degree. I opened the lid o' von, unbeknown to the cook as vos the presiding diwinity o' that quarter, and sure enough, I sees a pattridge a-stooing vith weggitables and sassages. Says I to myself, "This is rayther queer, as the banker observed, ven he looked at the cheque as vos forged. -'P'rhaps you'd like to larn French cookery, young man?' said von o' the vaiters, vith a vink o' slyness to von o' the varming-pans."

"To one of the warming pans !" exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, somewhat angry, for he recollected that the unfortunate subject of warmingpans had served as material evidence against him, in the mouth of Serjeant Buz-fuz on the occasion of his memorable trial.

"Hallegorical, Sir-purely hallegorical, Sir," returned Mr. Weller, "as the critic said to the author, ven he cut up his writings."

"Well-to return to the kitchen, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was speedily subsided, and who entertained some vague idea that his domestic alluded to a chambermaid, although the synonyme was at first rather obscure.

"If it suit your con-wenience, Sir," continued Sam, "to listen to my wagaries, I don't know no hobjection to my communicating of them. So to continue. 'P'rhaps you 'ud like to larn French cookery?' said

the vaiter. Wery much obleeged, young lily-vite,' said I; but had rayther let it alone, as the monkey said of the hot poker.'-Vould you like jist for to taste o' this 'ere dish, Mr. Veller!' persewed the vaiter, for he'd larnt my name from the top of my band-box; and, taking the kiver off von o' the sarsepans, he showed me a piece o' biled beef done to rags. Time to take that off,' says I.- No sich thing,' said he, looking at the clock: 'must stew till six.'-' And vot's in that 'ere large kaldron?' said I, not wenturing on a look of astonishment, as I vos afeard of 'traying my ignorance.- Stewed weal,' said the vaiter; and thereupon he took off the lid of the kipper sarsepan, and showed me a piece o' meat vith bits o' fat hanging about it on all sides. This he called a flich-and-go: but I 'pose 'twas 'is imperence. -Pray do you use pertaties in France?' said I.- Certainly,' said my friend the vaiter; here is some prime uns,' and sure enow I seed some pertaties cut into slices, and kivered over with butter and persely, jist ready to sarve up."

Singular!" said Mr. Pickwick, who had listened with deep attention to Mr. Weller's recital;-"very singular! But what did I tell you just now, Winkle ?"

Mr. Winkle was about to reply, when the entrance of the waiter and the luncheon attracted the attention of the three gentlemen to the repast which was now brought in-and which was to be the first that either had ever yet eaten of in France.

"Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, "why-this is a dinner!"

"Dejeuner à la fourchette," cried the waiter; and having ranged half-a-dozen dishes upon the table, he proceeded to draw the corks of three bottles of wine, and place them (the bottles, not the corks) upon the same convivial board.

"Meat-pie," said Mr. Pickwick, uncovering the dish opposite to him, and glancing curiously at a little fabric of paste standing in a very little piece of crockery-ware.

"Vol-au-vent aux grenouilles !" observed the waiter.

"Mutton-chops and vegetables," cried Mr. Tupman, disencumbering his dish of its tegument.

"Cotelettes à la jardiniere," said the waiter.

"Hash and young lobsters," exclaimed Mr. Winkle.

"Tête de veau à la tortue, et des ecrevisses," chaunted the waiter in a sing-song tone of voice."

"Chopped cabbages," said Mr. Weller, as he lifted up the cover of a dish containing spinage. "And some o' them identical pertaties," continued Sam, disclosing the contents of another plate, "consarning vich I vos hedificated just now. Kolliflour and melted butter is the third-and a' admirable display they air too. Good appetite, gen'lemen, as the skipper said to the sailors ven they vos short of perwisions, and he give 'em each a ounce o' salt-pork."

"This chicken-pie is excellent," said Mr. Pickwick, helping himself a second time to the attractive dish before him :-"I never tasted any thing so tender. You really can eat the very bones!"

"Indeed!" observed Mr. Winkle; "I'll trouble you for a piece, then." "With pleasure," returned Mr. Pickwick. "Tupman-try this dish of mine ?"

“I don't care if I do," said Mr. Tupman; and having been copiously

helped, he as liberally indulged himself in the consumption of the delicate food.

"Winkle, a glass of wine," said Mr. Pickwick.

"With pleasure," said Mr. Winkle; and the Burgundy was accordingly poured out and drank.

Elder-wine- is it not?" enquired Mr. Pickwick, emptying his glass, and smacking his lips with a peculiar relish.

"Burgundy, Sir," said the waiter" best Burgundy."

"I was just going to tell you so," observed Mr. Winkle; "and a very excellent glass of wine it is."

In the meantime Mr. Pickwick had helped himself a third time to the pie before him, and was about to commence a vigorous attack thereon, when his attention was suddenly attracted to Mr. Tupman, whose features were screwed up in a most extraordinary manner, and seemed to indicate every appearance of a desire to vomit on the part of that gentleman.

"Tupman-are you ill?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, laying down his knife and fork, and helping himself to a glass of wine in a momentary fit of absence caused by the alarming situation of his friend.

"Pray, don't be sick, Tupman-now, don't, there's a good fellow," cried Mr. Winkle, in amiable commiseration of that gentleman's indisposition.

"Oh, that pie!" groaned Mr. Tupman, retching most frightfully, while the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Waiter!" said Mr. Pickwick in an angry tone of voice: then, fearful that his rising choler might ovecome the equanimity of his temper, he tossed off the wine he had poured out in order to allow himself time for reflection.

"Yes-Sir," said the waiter, stepping forward from the side-table where he was stationed.

"What is in that pie, waiter?" enquired Mr. Pickwick.

"Yes-what is in it?" demanded Mr. Winkle, menacingly.

"In mercy, waiter-what was it made of?" murmured Mr. Tupman, whose face was now ghastly pale.

"Made of, Sir?" repeated the waiter.

"Yes-made of," cried Mr. Winkle, very angrily, and in a tone which seemed to assure the waiter that he would not be trifled with. "Young frogs' legs, I fancy, Sir," said the waiter, with the utmost coolness; and having assured himself of the truth of his statement by a glance at the dish, he added, "Yes, Sir-they are frogs' legs."

In one moment Mr. Pickwick's lap received the contents of Mr. Tupman's stomach, and Mr. Winkle rushed towards the bell, and pulled it with all his might, although the waiter was in the room. As for Mr. Pickwick, he was so bewildered by the communication made by the waiter, the idea of having eaten frogs' legs, and the certainty of having been made a hand-bason of by Mr. Tupman, that, in a moment of venial desperation, he seized the nearest bottle upon the table, and having poured out a tumbler of its contents, drank it at a draught.

Mr. Weller, who had left the apartment only a few minutes before the commencement of this extraordinary scene to look after his own luncheon, hastened to the coffee-room the moment he heard the bell ringing with all the violence that Mr. Winkle's arms could impart to