nine o’clock at night
-- _ Paris ! _ cried I , repeating the name the third time -- The first , the finest , the most brilliant -- The streets however are nasty . But it looks , I suppose , better than it smells -- crack , crack -- crack , crack -- what a fuss thou makest ! -- as if it concerned the good people to be informed , that a man with pale face and clad in black , had the honour to be driven into _ Paris _ at nine o'clock at night , by a postilion in a tawny yellow jerkin , turned up with red calamanco -- crack , crack -- crack , crack -- crack , crack , -- I wish thy whip -- -- But ’t is the spirit of thy nation ; so crack -- crack on . Ha ! -- and no one gives the wall ! -- but in the SCHOOL of URBANITY herself , if the walls are besh-t -- how can you do otherwise ?