one above the other may have much to do in increasing the display; but go where you will through Paris, and you find the houses covered with really artistic designs. Some of them, I dare say, are highly ridiculous to an English eye, but they produce the desired effect-they attract attention. I am surprised that our tradespeople have followed the fashion in so clumsy a way. You may see here and there through London, on the sides of houses, various boards suggestive of wants, and the right places to satisfy them; but there is a decided paucity of invention. I am sure Mr. Sala might take an instructive walk through Paris, and throw out many useful hints. On the other hand, we are far superior to the French in newspaper advertising; nothing is so wretched as the last page of one of their journals, and the loss of space is deplorable. Nor have they yet attained the scheme of advertising in 'buses, which is preeminently a feature among us; but I suppose that will come with time. But there is one deficiency in Paris I am surprised at: the nation that came over to teach us how to work our 'bus communication, has not yet started a Parcels Delivery Company. Nothing more tedious than to send a packet across Paris; it would reach London in less time, and probably at a cheaper rate. Awful formalities have to be gone through, and by the time the parcel reaches its destination it is covered with little etiquettes, all tending, possibly, to its security, but frightfully absurd to the English practical mind.

The general aspect of the shops is otherwise unchanged; the silk mercers have broken out into ampler proportions, probably owing to the crinoline expansion, and there are many more shops for the sale of mock jewellery than of real. Of course there must be retrenchment somewhere, and if ladies' dresses demand so many more yards than heretofore, the wearers must put up with a depreciation in their jewel-case. France is, indeed, more than ever governed by crinoline, as we are--a wicked wit said t'other day-by Delaine; and, as for any reduction of the rotundity, I really believe the ladies, out of sheer spite, grow more balloon-like in proportion to the abuse showered on the jupons-ballons.

Of course, a visit to Paris would be imperfect without the expenditure of sundry francs at the theatres. My time was limited, but I managed to assist at three representations, all of them deserving a word of description. My first evening was devoted to the Vaudeville and Balzac's play of "La Marâtre," which, it is true, I had seen eleven years before, when it passed unheeded, but which has now become, like the author, the idol of the French. Any thing more repulsive than this play it is hardly possible to conceive. Two ladies, a mother-in-law and stepdaughter, are in love with the same young man, and there is a regular ladies' battle between them as to who shall win the day. The scene takes place in the vicinity of London, where a M. de Grandchamp, an old Bonapartist general, has established a large factory. His daughter Pauline is twenty-two; his wife, Pauline's ex-governess, a few years older. The golden apple for which they contend is a certain M. Ferdinand, a handsome man, engaged in the factory, who is under a cloud, for his father had surrendered the gates of France to the allies, and the ex-Bonapartist would infallibly murder him if he found him out. Hence the young man has thought it advisable to shave and change his name. Ferdinand has assured both ladies of his love for them, and, of course,

they discover they are rivals. Ferdinand nobly hands Pauline all her stepmother's love-letters to him in order to force that lady into a compromise, and Gertrude doctors her to get possession of them. Pauline, driven into a corner, hits on the ingenious idea of poisoning herself and throwing the blame on Gertrude. The latter is arrested, and in a very awkward predicament, when Pauline avows all, and then Ferdinand follows her example by killing himself. Gertrude is left to live a life of misery with her husband. Faugh! no wonder Jane Eyre said that reading Balzac left such a bad taste in the mouth.

That once

Nor was my second experiment much more successful: for I went to the Théâtre Déjazet, better known as the Folies Nouvelles. great actress Déjazet was here dans ses meubles, and performed the hero in a very charming piece called "Les Premières Armes de Figaro." Eugh! it was terrible to see so old a lady performing a beardless boy of seventeen. She really ought to have known better. It was truly painful to see this decrepit lady tottering about the stage and attempting to assume the reckless airs of a Figaro. Her voice was so thin, her legs trembled so, her fingers were so long and skinny, that it was a cruel thing even to look upon her. My evening's entertainment was quite spoiled with her first appearance on the stage. It was the more atrocious, as we can all remember what the Déjazet was-why, then, force upon us the knowledge of what she is? I remember being disillusioned precisely in the same way in 1849. I was persuaded to go to the Odéon and see Mademoiselle George in "La Tour de Nesle;" and it was just such a painful exhibition as the present one-perhaps even more hideous, when we bear in mind the character of the play.

My third and last evening was, however, a compensation for the two former, for I spent it with M. Hamilton, successor to M. Robert-Houdin. He is certainly one of the neatest prestidigitators I ever saw, and one of his tricks I had not seen before. His little foot-page stood on a stool upon the stage, holding loosely in his hand two long green cords with brass handles at the end. With these M. Hamilton walked up the room and invited any one to lay hold of them. The effect was most ludicrous when a stout Englishman held them and tugged fiercely. All at once, though, he changed his key, and vociferated, "Oh, hang it, let go!" quite forgetting that he was the holder. The force of the galvanic current completely drew him off his chair before he dropped the handles. Others of M. Hamilton's tricks were also done with remarkable neatness, and, in short, the evening was a truly enjoyable one. I tried hard to induce M. Hamilton to come among us, but he is diffident, for, in spite of his name, he cannot speak a word of English. I think, though, he would be as much admired as was his predecessor, whose life and adventures I had recently the honour of making known to British readers.

No sooner was this performance over than I had to pack up my portmanteau to catch the train leaving at midnight. I had thus the satisfaction of travelling twice the same road without seeing an inch of the country between Dieppe and Paris. And even after that I had to cut four hours to waste in Dieppe ere the tide allowed the boat to start, and other three at Newhaven, a place composed apparently of a custom-house and an hotel. Surely the company might manage these matters better.

I

And now, in conclusion, what shall I say of the French at home? found them on this occasion most cordial to Englishmen, and they treated me with great kindness, possibly mingled with condescension. As for the soldiers with whom I conversed, they really regretted the necessity which would force them to pay us a visit next April, but then, "ce Waterloo, mon cher !" In vain did I tell them that our rifle volunteers would be most ready to meet them; they only replied, "Ah bah!" with an inimitable click of the tongue that spoke volumes. I really do not believe that the French soldiers bear us any animosity, but they are convinced it is their destiny to efface Waterloo, and they have quite got over that feeling of irritation the Crimean campaign produced, though I know not what the Chinese allied expedition may bring forth. As for attempting to teach them that the emperor is too long-sighted to run his head against a stone wall, that is too good a joke. You might as well try to persuade them that the Austrians fought bravely in the late war. They consider themselves cocks of the dunghill at present, although the English may I assure attempt a weak crow, which they can silence at any moment. you there is no better amusement on the cards than conversing with a French soldier who was engaged in the Italian war. To hear him talk, you would fancy the whole army was recruited from Gascony.

As for the Parisians themselves, as far as I could gauge, they are very happy under the present government. The feeling of security is so intense the impossibility of any revolution is so certain, while their gains are so large-that they have no wish for a change. Having no affection for republicans of any colour, I did not try to ask their opinion, but I suspect they are too wise to attempt any émeute so long as a sergent de ville leans against every post, who makes his beard precisely after the model of his imperial master. The improvements in Paris have been carried out so strategetically that revolt is quite hopeless, and the bourgeois, knowing that he can retire to bed to dream of his gains without the prospect of being aroused by a salvo of musketry, has no great desire to see the press enfranchised, for he remembers that the turbulent writers always put themselves at the head of every popular movement, by which, whoever may be the gainer, he is quite sure to suffer.

THE LESSON OF THE LEAVES.

BY MARKHAM JOHN THORPE,

AMONG the chesnuts of the Tuileries

The ringdoves murmur forth their sweetest cooing,
Too soon the early autumn gilds the trees,
Fond happy lovers in the groves are wooing,
While all the world is gay and up and doing.
Boom forth the cannon of the Invalides,
The trumpet voice of Victory forth flying
Speaks to the world of high heroic deed,

Of fields where thousands, friends and foes, are lying,
Of battles won, at which the heart should bleed;
And the poor trees say sadly, softly sighing,
"Alas! alas! so soon that we are dying!"

Glory, like summer-time, is rich in fruits,
Blooming and beauteous to the longing eye,
But all unripe and bitter at their roots,
While yet the fountains of their sweets are dry.
Wreaths may be woven for a few short hours,
The fresh green leaves will yield them plenteously,
But these will wither fast as rootless flowers;
The wreath of glory needs a deeper dye,
The smile of Heaven, to paint its blazonry;
As summer waits for autumn and its showers
To ripen all its fruits and deck its bowers;
The red leaves then in fulness, winter flying,
Sighing not, weeping not that they are dying.
Emperor and Conqueror !-for both thou art-
Look to thyself, more truly know thy part;
Take the sweet lesson of these falling leaves
That round thy palace walls are newly lying;
Think of their glory early gone, the wreaths
Of thy new summer chaplet by thee lying;
Think of its early beauty quickly flying,
Think of the fancy every poet weaves,
Ponder the thought each sacred lesson breathes,
List to the words these leaves are sadly sighing,
"Alas! alas! so soon that we are dying!"

To rule is not alone to trade in war;
Empire is surer gained by heavenly peace;
To conquer, more is needed than the jar
Of arms; the mightiest of all said, "Cease,
Be still!" and wilder elements than these
Thou dost contend against were stilled by Him.
Thy will is not as His, but thou may'st learn,
As all, His meekness, His undying glory,
His arms, His armour, and His diadem!
His lessons thou may'st read aright, and earn,
Conquering thyself, a name most great in story.
List to the leaves around thy chamber sighing,
Lisp not their words when on thy death-bed lying,
"Alas! alas! so soon that we are dying!"

The speaker was la Mélusine, and the hearer was Nina, who considerably resented the half-patronising, half-mocking, yet intensely amiable manner the widow chose to assume towards her. Gordon was stricken with warm admiration of madame, and never inquired into her morality, only too pleased when she condescended to talk to or invite him. They had met at a soirée at some intimate friends of Vaughan's in the Champs Elysées. (Ernest was a favourite wherever he went, and the goodnatured French people at once took up his relatives to please him.) He was not there himself, but the baronne's quick eyes soon caught and construed her restless glances through the crowded rooms.

"Je ne cherche personne, madame," said Nina, haughtily. Dressed simply in white tulle, with the most exquisite flowers to be had out of the Palais Royal in the famous golden hair, which gleamed in the gaslight like sunshine, she aroused the serpent which lay hid in the roses of madame's smiles.

Pauline laughed softly, and flirted her fan. "Nay, nay, mignonne, those soft eyes are seeking some one. Who is it? Ah! it is that méchant Monsieur Vaughan n'est-ce pas? He is very handsome, certainly, but

On dit au village
Qu'Argire est volage."

"Madame's own thoughts possibly suggest the supposition of mine," said Nina, coldly.

"No,

"Comme ces Anglaises sont impolies," thought the baronne. indeed,” she said, laughing carelessly, "I know Ernest too well to let my thoughts dwell on him. He is charming to talk to, to waltz with, to flirt with, but from anything further Dieu nous garde! Lauzun himself were not more dangerous or more unstable."

"You speak as bitterly, madame, as if you had suffered from the fickleness," said Nina, with a contemptuous curl of her soft lips. Sweet temper as she was, she could thrust a spear in her enemy's side when she liked.

Madame's eyes glittered like a rattlesnake's. Nina's chance ball shot home. But madame was a woman of the world, and could mask her batteries with a skill of which Nina, with her impetuous abandon, was incapable. She smiled very sweetly, as she answered, "No, petite, I have unhappily seen too much of the world not to know that we must never put our trust in those charming mauvais sujets. At your age, I dare say I should not have been proof against your countryman's fascina