the British youth to that capital, events befell him there, last
winter, which are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way
of warning to all.

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a
couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album,
drives his own gig, and is considered, both on the road and in the
metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, thriving young man.
Pogson's only fault is too great an attachment to the fair:--"the
sex," as he says often "will be his ruin:" the fact is, that Pog
never travels without a "Don Juan" under his driving-cushion, and
is a pretty-looking young fellow enough.

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October; and it was in
that city that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear.
He worked his way down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the
towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares
as his masters dealt in ("the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt
like a nosegay--went off like wildfire--hogshead and a half at
Rochester, eight-and twenty gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and
crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the
Diligence. He paid for two places, too, although a single man, and
the reason shall now be made known.

Dining at the table-d'hote at "Quillacq's"--it is the best inn on
the Continent of Europe--our little traveller had the happiness to
be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the
extreme pink of the nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with
eyes and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles,
sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings