ve of poverty only designated by a wooden cross; gray clouds flitted
along the zenith, and a pale streak of light defined the wide horizon;
Paris with its frivolity, temples, business, pleasures, trophies and
teeming life, sent up a confused and low murmur in the distance; only
the wind was audible among the tombs. Never had the beautiful Church of
England services appeared to me so grand and pathetic as when here read
over the coffin of one who had died in exile, and with only a few of his
countrymen, most of them unacquainted even with his features, to attend
his burial.

However a change of government may interfere with a Parisian's freedom
of speech and pen, the autocrat is yet to appear who dares place an
interdict on his culinary aptitudes. The science of dining in Paris has,
notwithstanding, its new mysteries; and in order to be abreast of the
times, it is wise, instead of drawing on past experience, to take
counsel of a friend who holds the present clue to the labyrinth of bills
of fare and fair bills. The little cabinet of my favorite restaurant,
sacred to the initiated, had the same marble table, cheerful outlook,
pictured ceiling and breezy curtains,--the same look of elegant
snugness; but, when we had seated ourselves in garrulous conclave over
the _carte_, it was to the member of our party whose knowledge was of
the latest acquisition that we submitted the choice of a repast; and as
he discoursed of the mysterious excellences of _cotelletes a la
Victoria, rissoles a la Orleans, pates de fois gras a la Bonaparte,
paupicettes de veau a la Demidoff, truffes a la Perigord_, etc., we
realized that the same incongruous blending of associations, the same
zest for glory and dramatic instinct, ruled the world of cookery as of
letters, and that, with all the political vicissitudes since our last
dinner in Paris, her prandial distinction had progressed.

From the restaurant to the theatre, is, in Paris, a most natural
transition; and the play and players of the day will be found far more
closely representative of the social tone, the political creed, the
artistic tastes of the hour, than elsewhere. The drama, for instance, in
vogue not long since at the Vaudeville Theatre in the Place de la
Bourse, is one we can scarcely imagine successful in another city, at
least to such a degree. It was _Les Filles de Marbre_; and this is the
plot. The opening scene is at Athens, in the studio of Phidias. It is
the day after that