ed the rest; from their evident age
and their position in regard to each other they must have been old
friends of mine grown out of all knowledge.

I saw them only twenty years ago, from the top of a Passy omnibus,
and recognized every one of them. I went from the Arc de Triomphe to
Passy and back quite a dozen times, on purpose--once for each tree!
It touched me to think how often the author of _Sardonyx_ has stood
leaning his back against one of those giants--_au piquet_!

They are now no more; and Passy omnibuses no longer ply up and down
the Allee du Bois de Boulogne, which is now an avenue of palaces.

An umbrageous lane that led from the Rond-point to Chaillot (that
very forgettable, and by me quite forgotten, quarter) separated the
Institution F. Brossard from the Pensionnat Melanie Jalabert--a
beautiful pseudo-Gothic castle which was tenanted for a while by
Prince de Carabas-Chenonceaux after Mlle. Jalabert had broken up her
ladies' school in 1849.

My mother boarded and lodged there, with my little sister, in the
summer of 1847. There were one or two other English lady boarders,
half-pupils--much younger than my mother--indeed, they may be alive
now. If they are, and this should happen to meet their eye, may I
ask them to remember kindly the Irish wife of the Scotch merchant of
French wines who supplied them with the innocent vintage of Macon
(ah! who knows that innocence better than I?), and his pretty little
daughter who played the piano so nicely; may I beg them also not to
think it necessary to communicate with me on the subject, or, if
they do, not to expect an answer?

One night Mlle. Jalabert gave a small dance, and Merovee Brossard
was invited, and also half a dozen of his favorite pupils, and a
fair-haired English boy of thirteen danced with the beautiful
Miss ----.

They came to grief and fell together in a heap on the slippery
floor; but no bones were broken, and there was much good-natured
laughter at their expense. If Miss ---- (that was) is still among
the quick, and remembers, it may interest her to know that that
fair-haired English boy's name was no less than Bartholomew
Josselin; and that another English boy, somewhat thick-set and
stumpy, and not much to look at, held her in deep love, admiration,
and awe--and has not forgotten!

If I happen to mention this, it is not with a view of tempting her
into any correspondence about this little episode of bygone years,
should this ever meet