I am not yet decided whether the French are the best or the worst drivers in the world. If the latter they certainly have most miraculous escapes. A cab-driver never pulls the reins except upon great emergencies, or for a right-about turn, and his horse has a most ludicrous aversion to a straight line. The streets are built inclining toward the centre, with the gutter in the middle, and it is the habit of all cabriolet-horses to run down one side and up the other constantly at such sudden angles that it seems to you they certainly will go through the shop windows. This, of course, is very dangerous to foot-passengers in a city where there are no side-walks; and, as a consequence, the average number of complaints to the police of Paris for people killed by careless driving, is about four hundred annually. There are probably twice the number of legs broken. One becomes vexed in riding with these fellows, and I have once or twice undertaken to get into a French passion, and insist upon driving myself. But I have never yet met with an accident. "_Gar-r-r-r-e!_" sings out the driver, rolling the word off his tongue like a bullet from a shovel, but never thinking to lift his loose reins from the dasher, while the frightened passenger, without looking round, makes for the first door with an alacrity that shows a habit of expecting very little from the _cocher's_ skill.
Riding is very cheap in Paris, if managed a little. The city is traversed constantly in every direction by omnibuses, and you may go from the Tuileries to _Père la Chaise_, or from St. Sulpice to the Italian Boulevards (the two diagonals), or take the "_Tous les Boulevards_" and ride quite round the city for six sous the distance. The "_fiacre_" is like our own hacks, except that you pay but "twenty _sous_ the course," and fill the vehicle with your friends if you please; and, more cheap and comfortable still, there is the universal cabriolet, which for "fifteen _sous_ the course," or "twenty the hour," will give you at least three times the value of your money, with the advantage of seeing ahead and talking bad French with the driver.
Everything in France is either _grotesque_ or _picturesque_. I have been struck with it this morning, while sitting at my window, looking upon the close inner court of the hotel. One would suppose that a _pavé_ between four high walls, would offer very little to seduce the eye from its occupation; but on the contrary, one's whole time may be occupied in watching the various sights presented in constant succession. First comes the itinerant cobbler, with his seat and materials upon his back, and coolly selecting a place against the wall, opens his shop under your window, and drives his trade, most industriously, for half an hour. If you have anything to mend, he is too happy; if not he has not lost his time, for he pays no rent, and is all the while at work. He packs up again, bows to the _concierge_, as politely as his load will permit, and takes his departure, in the hope to find your shoes more worn another day. Nothing could be more striking than his whole appearance. He is met in the gate, perhaps, by an old clothes man, who will buy or sell, and compliment you for nothing, cheapening your coat by calling the Virgin to witness that your shape is so genteel that it will not fit one man in a thousand; or by a family of singers, with a monkey to keep time; or a regular beggar, who, however, does not dream of asking charity till he has done something to amuse you; after these, perhaps, will follow a succession of objects singularly peculiar to this fantastic metropolis; and if one could separate from the poor creatures the knowledge of the cold and hunger they suffer, wandering about, houseless, in the most inclement weather, it would be easy to imagine it a diverting pantomime, and give them the poor pittance they ask, as the price of an amused hour. An old man has just gone from the court who comes regularly twice a week, with a long beard, perfectly white, and a strange kind of an equipage. It is an organ, set upon a rude carriage, with four small wheels, and drawn by a mule, of the most diminutive size, looking (if it were not for the venerable figure crouched upon the seat) like some roughly-contrived plaything. The whole affair, harness and all, is evidently his own work; and it is affecting to see the difficulty, and withal, the habitual apathy with which the old itinerant fastens his rope-reins beside him, and dismounts to grind his one--solitary--eternal tune, for charity.