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OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.

MY DEAR C,

Paris is now quite Paris again, and the pleasure-seeking multitude have only the Embarras du choix: wherever they turn their eyes, bills announce the great attractions of the day, and the care that is taken to banish ennui. Müller and Dr. Demme are forgotten, in spite of their vogue a month ago, and Tom Pouce (Tom Thumb), second edition considerably augmented in width, with the addition of a wife and baby, is now the hobby of the day; he receives his visitors in his apartment, Hotel du Louvre, as a gentleman of independent fortune, and admits no children. Why this last clause I cannot tell; perhaps because children are too apt to consider him on an equality, and the little man seems to have a vast idea of his dignity, particularly now he has a baby. But this living wonder does not prevent us casting an envious eye on you in London, where we read, in our papers, an account of the marvellous achievements of your one-legged dancer, Donato, and of your heroine Dolores Adah Isaacs Menken; rumour says that the latter will soon visit us, so we have hope. En attendant, our masked balls have commenced, and at the first bal de l'opera the crowd was immense, and the exhalations garlickish, particularly in the foyer, where bears chatted with shepherdesses and grand lords with babies. A real lady made her appearance there, which is a rare thing. She was soon so distinguished by the throng that she was obliged to take refuge in the first box she could get in. Concerts, too, are very fashionable; and as for lectures, they spread with the rapidity of wild-fire, so much so that we shall soon have more lecturers than auditors: for now almost every man who can put two words together, considers himself born to lecture his fellowcitizens. At the Italian Opera Malle. Patti con tinues to reap fresh laurels in "L'Elisire d'Amore" of Donizetti, an opera that has long been neglected here, and in which Patti and Naudin now excite frenetic enthusiasm. You know that a little while ago the Director of the Italian Opera raised a great murmur in the Parisian press for having prohibited the entrance of the demi-monde, otherwise frail beauties, in his theatre he has lately made another reform behind the scenes, in the same praiseworthy spirit, and which meets with general approbation from those who frequent the opera to hear good music in good company. "Roland à Roncevaux" abates nothing yet, in its success at the French Opera, and the "Africaine" remains still for the future. Madame Arnold Plessy nightly exhibits in Maître Guérin her four magnificent dresses that cost six thousand francs: the theatre pays her dressmakers. And

L'Ouvrière de Londres-The London Workwoman,-dramatised from a novel of "Miss Braddon" by Mr. Hostein, fills the Ambigu not yet surpassed, in spite of the dark deeds, the with weeping eyes and exclamations of horror tragic theatres have lately fed us with. Two retired actors of renown have re-appeared,— "Passé Arnal at the Bouffés Parisiens in minuit" a piece which he played before Queen Victoria, when she visited Louis Philippe at the Château d'Eu, and which he again played before Her Gracious Majesty, Prince Albert, and the King and Queen of the Belgians in July 1845, in London, by the Queen's command, when Her Majesty laughed "comme une simple bourgeoise,” and the public laughed as much because the Queen laughed, as they did at the piece. The other is Bouffé, who had a benefit which gave him 25,000 francs, all expenses paid, the Emperor having granted him the Opera-house for the occasion, in remembrance of a promise made in London, just after Prince Louis Bouffé, at Bonaparte's escape from Ham. that period was performing in the English capital two pieces with equal success-one in which he was a boy, and in the other an old man. One evening, after performing the boy, he had retired to prepare for the old man, when the Count D'Orsay and a stranger entered his room. "Bouffé," said the Count, "my friend is very much puzzled to know how you managed to metamorphose yourself into an old man. Dress before us, and let him see." Bouffé, who was in great haste, needed no persuading, but went through the operation, to the infinite amusement of his two spectators, who thanked him for his kindness; "and," said the Count's friend, "if Prince Louis Bonaparte ever has it in his power to oblige you, he will." Bouffé wrote to the Emperor, reminding him of the promise, and the Opera-house was immediately lent him for

his benefit.

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Alphonse Karr, in spite of his retirement in his lovely garden at Nice, has sent a new comedy, Les roses jaunes-Yellow Roses to Paris, we expect to have a treat. It is a very long time since the world has heard anything of our witty writer, except as the cultivator of the finest flowers in the country of flowers. His roses in particular are celebrated: they deck the tables of all the sovereigns and princes that visit Nice, and all the rich visitors pride themselves in having flowers from Alphonse Karr's hot-beds, though some find them rather dear, and think that 25 francs for a bunch of roses is too much. "You will let me have this bouquet for half the price," said a rich, but sparing Count, who had lately made friends with Karr. "If you only pay half the price, you will only have half the

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return. A little while after, M. Mocquard being at Arenemberg, the Prince Eugène happened to be alone in the latter's room one day, and discovered the manuscript of the anonymous biography: he immediately carried it off to his sister, the Queen. "Ah! this is how you betray your friends," exclaimed Hortense, a few minutes after, as Monsieur Mocquard entered her apartment. Betray!" answered he, in surprise, "how?" "Yes, yes," added Prince Eugène, enjoying the puzzled look of his friend, and we must punish you for it: Hortense, let us give him our mother's watch." The enigma was soon explained, and M. Mocquard has since then preciously preserved the Empress Josephine's watch, thus given to him by her grateful children. There is another anecdote related of him. Between his estate at St. Cloud and the Imperial residence there existed a large property, on which M. Mocquard often cast a longing eye, and he had the habit of frequently saying before the Emperor, "When I can afford it, I shall buy that estate; and I shall throw down the wall, make a door, and then, your Majesty, I shall be your neighbour." But the place was dear, and M. Mocquard not rich enough to purchase it. One day he was beginning again, "When I am rich enough.-" The Emperor, with a smile, interrupted him: "I have bought the estate, Monsieur Mocquard, I have thrown down the wall, I have made a door, and now you are my neighbour;" and he presented him the key of the long-coveted property. It was thought that Monsieur Duruy, the Minister of Public Instruction, would be M. Mocquard's successor; but happily-I say happily, and that in the cause of public instruction-Monsieur Duruy remains at his post, and M. Mocquard's place is to be divided into three. He was also a senator.

bouquet," answered the gardener. "Well, send, me half, that will be sufficient." The bargain was agreed to, 12 francs paid, and the Count received at his hotel an hour after a parcel on which was written, "Half the bouquet bought by the Count." The Count opened it, and found all the stalks of the bouquet, but not a rose: Mr. Karr had divided it fairly, but horizontally. The political world is still occupied with what we call "the procès des treize❞—the thirteen persons condemned, for being an assembly of more than twenty persons, last election. All the most eloquent advocates in Paris assembled for the defence and the pleading was admirable; but every one expects that they will lose again, eloquence being nothing in a cause like theirs. The Court, after a brilliant season at Compiègne, is back again at the Tuileries. The fair Bellanger also thought she would like a peep of home again, and reappeared on a sudden in the field of her glory, but was as suddenly sped off again the same day, much against her wish: decidedly her reign is over. I told you that the fashion was to dye the little white pet dogs all colours; but dyeing is not considered costly enough, so now they are gilded-to resemble, I imagine, their mistresses, who have adopted red for the colour of their hair. This operation for dogs costs a thousand francs-£40-and the poor little animals rarely survive a second gilding. What will be imagined next? I wonder! The death of Monsieur Mocquard, the Emperor's secretary, has deprived his Majesty of one of his devoted friends, and the Bonaparte family of one of its oldest supporters. The Emperor himself wrote a letter of condolence to M. Mocquard's children, in which he assures them of his protection. M. Mocquard is a personage in the life of Napoleon III. He was educated for the bar, but a disease in the throat disenabled him for that profession, and he accepted a place of Sous-préfet under Louis Philippe. It is said that during that time he accompanied the Duke d'Orléans in an ascension of a mountain. The Préfet Bar, being of the party, insisted in walking in front of the Duke, his immense back masking_completely the view from his Royal Highness. The Duke at last begged Monsieur the Sous-préfet, who was behind, to change places with the Préfet, and thus allow him to enjoy in peace the landscape before him. In 1840, however, M. Mocquard sent in his resignation, and joined (in London) the Prince Louis Napoleon, whose interests he has never since abandoned. M. Mocquard was also a talented writer, and has composed several comedies, which have been successfully played in Paris: "La prise de Pekin" was performed two hundred nights. He was also a journalist, Lo! the clouds come gathering dimly; shadows and for some time was chief editor of two Bonaparte papers. It is said that his first publication On my bosom, weeping softly, and all wordless, was in defence of the Queen Hortense, the Emperor's mother, by an anonymous biography in reply to a biography attacking that lady, published by Arnaud. As the author was unknown, they attributed it to an historian of the Empire, who received a magnificent present in

With the compliments of the season, yours truly, S. A.

THE ORIEL WINDOW.

BY L. CROW.

In the oriel window, watching where the moonbeams softly fall,

With its glowing colours tinted on the floor and tap'stried wall,

Dreaming fancies of the future rise from out the

misty light,

Many-hued, like those fair colours, changing oft,

but ever bright.

float before mine eyes :

Alice lies.

With cold hands my own enclasping, and yet shrink

ing from my kiss,

Half entreat I, half command I, "Speak! my sister,

what means this ?"

To my bosom fondly clinging, clinging closer than before"Maud, I love him! yes, I love him!" this she Tell her how she sadly wrongs me, if my faith she doubts indced:

"Gentle sister of my dear one! for me plead, sweet Alice, plead!

whispers, and no more.

But my heart, affrighted, questions, "Can she dream Bid her speak some word forgiving, if through me that I, too, love?"

And the moonlight leaves the casement; clouds are round us and above.

Then rebellious murmurs rising in my soul unspoken cry:

"She, the child, the petted darling, thinks she loves, but not as I !

Years have taught me, looks have told me that he seeks me for his own;

And must I, this joy evading, tread life's dreary way alone?"

To my bosom still she clingeth-ah! she knows her power so well!

these silent tears:

Leave me not to wrestle longer with such chilling doubts and fears."

As I hide, in arms caressing, Alico' downcast look of pain,

Slowly out the sombre cloudland sails the placid moon again,

While I strive to hush her murmured "Selfish I, and I alone!

But forget, dear Maud, a folly thou and only thou hast known,"

From my bosom gently raising, looks still full of girlish shame,

"Much she loves thee!" Alice whispers: "it is I have been to blame."

There, from earliest childhood nestling, every girlish And the rainbow-tinted moonbeams fling a halo grief to tell,

round her head,

Does she guess how fierco the struggle ere my voice And the clouds that made the oriel sad and sombre can form reply?

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--all have fled.

THE UNCULTIVATED MIND OF THE LABOURER.-There is something humbling to human

"Loose my hands, sweet Alice-loose them; I must pride in a rustic's life. It grates against the heart

hence, love, ere the dawn:

to think of the tone in which we unconsciously permit ourselves to address him. We see in him

On thy face of winning beauty let his eyes rest, in the humanity in its simplest state. It is a sad thought

morn.

to feel that we despise it; that all we respect in our

Be thy voice the first to soothe him, should he, species is what has been created by art-the gaudy

grieving, seek for me:

Ask not why, or where I hasten; only know 'tis best for thee!

dress, the glittering equipage, or even the cultivated intellect. The mere and naked material of nature we eye with indifference or trample on with disdain. Poor child of toil, from the grey dawn to the setting sun, one long task! no idea elicited-no thought awakened beyond those that suffice to make him the machine of others-the scrf of the hard soil. And then, too, mark how we frown upon his As from out the darkness springing, for an answering scanty holidays; how we hedge in his mirth, and

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turn his hilarity into crime! We make the whole pleasure, to him a place of snares and perils. If he of the gay world, wherein we walk and take our leave his labour for an instant, in that instant how many temptations spring up for him! and yet we have no mercy for his errors: the gaol, the transport ship, the gallows-these are our sole lecture-books, and our only method of expostulation. Ah, fie on the disparities of the world! they cripple the heart;

Now, again, the darkness gathers, as he sighs, ""Tis they blind the sense; they concentrate the thousand I you shun!

I have angered or have grieved you, whom I hoped so fully won.

links between man and man, into the basest of devils laugh out, when they hear us tell the boor earthly tics-servility and pride. Methinks the that his soul is as glorious and eternal as our own; and yet when, in the grinding drudgery of his life, not a spark of that soul can be called forth-when Or, far worse, that gift, so treasured, is't not mine cradle to the grave, without a dream to stir the it sleeps, walled round in its lumpish clay, from the

In that hope too much confiding, have I cold or careless seemed?

as I have deemed?

deadness of its torpor.-Bulwer.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. A Novel in three volumes. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel. T. Cautley Newby, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish Square.)-Wanting the force and passion which the title leads us to expect, and for the true working out of which the authoress held all the elements in her hand, "Reaping the Whirlwind" is nevertheless a well-told story of considerable power, and exhibits the writer's knowledge of the better nature of her sex in a marked and intelligent manner. Nothing can be more real, more loveable and womanly, than the character of Ethel Beamish, nothing more true to nature than the imaginary sorrows of her early married life-her aching jealousy, her morbid fears for the continuance of her husband's love, her exigence, which arises not

from selfishness so much as from her own excess of affection and, as time passes on, the gradual recognition of her husband's true regard, and of the rationale of wedded life. With Gertrude, her sister, we cannot profess much sympathy; she walks apart, even by the side of an only and younger sister, and makes us feel the coldness of her self-contained and haughty nature, repelling from the very first. But the inhabitant of Primrose Cottage, and the two maiden sisters, the Miss Downings, and their niece and protegée Jane Norton, are charmingly real, and with all the "miching mallecho" of the lively little widow, Mrs. Vivian, and the peculiarities of the spinster's, pleasant persons in village society But Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel shall describe them herself:

Miss Downing was a lady of about forty years of aze, with a tall, stately figure, and the remains of considerable personal attractions. She was strongminded, healthy, energetic, and of very decided literary tastes, which had more than once induced her, it was said, to open a correspondence with the editor of a local paper, and to offer to supply both the poetry and the leading articles on very moderate terms, as well as to regale the editor (who lived at Boltby) with tea and toast whenever he felt inclined to walk as far as Graybourne. No one seemed very clear as to the result of these overtures; but Miss Downing was always suspected of being the author of several heroic and didactic compositions, which from time to time had appeared in the poet's corner of Theshire Instructor, and which were signed "Semiramis." In temper and disposition Miss Downing was really a pattern to elderly spinsters in general, being cheerful, contented, and, as far as appeared on the surface, entirely reconciled to her lot. The little widow at Primrose Cottage said, indeed, that she had by no means relinquished all hope of escaping from the despised sisterhood yet; but then that little widow wasn't a bit charitable towards other women, and could not quite forgive Harriet Downing for looking so well and handsome at forty years of age,

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The second sister, Miss Dora, was an invalid and very romantic. She had long fair hair, which she wore in ringlets that were always out of curl, and somewhat wiry in texture; but her blue eyes were soft and pensive, and there were some sweet tones in her low and rather melancholy voice, which, united with her general appearance and invalid state, gave her a claim to be reckoned by most persons of the other sex as an interesting woman. Jane Norton, the niece, whom these kind-hearted ladies had adopted on the death of her parents, was a bright-eyed girl of about eighteen; not pretty, not graceful, certainly not clever, and yet with a quaint odd charm about her that it would be very difficult to define. Her aunts were very fond of her, and allowed her to do exactly what she pleased; and the consequence was she did nothing (when she was not playing with the cat) but a little needlework on her own account, and spent altogether as idle and profitless a life as could well be imagined. Her fat good humour, keen observance, and love of soft-furred animal pets, culminating in her affection for "Blabberty Cutsoms" (a pet dormouse), makes her, in Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel's hands, quite a character. It is only where the wicked people, with their wicked ways, come on the stage of the story, that the author dwarfs her own conceptions and disappoints the expectations of her readers by her evident fear of entering the list of the sensationalists. But the character of Meta belongs of right to that class of novels, and loses half its vigour by being transposed to the calm foreground of respectable domesticity. Her unscrupulous deeds lack action, and become tame enough when recorded at second hand. Also her lover Guy, who is meant to represent the unreasoning recklessness of a blind, infatuated, ill-regulated passion, exhibits no passion whatever in the presence of the reader; but is, in point of fact, boyish, and weak and insipid enough to conciliate us to his wife's indifference. Her active wickedness degenerates, in the last volume, into a weakness for brandy-andwater, and involves Guy, who for love of her had given up the profession of the church, and the aspiration of his genius, in the gathering of the weird harvest which she had sown, and which gives the title to these volumes. Walter Kenyon, the spoiled darling of fashion-the man of good impulses and weak will-amiable and irresolute-is well depicted; and the character of the vicar of Graybourn, though perhaps a little overshaded, is one well calculated to account for the tenderness and reverence with which Ethel Beamish regards him. But the charm of the story is in its telling. All the events but those which refer to Meta, and the mystery which surrounds her, evolve themselves quite naturally, and have that pleasant air of vraisemblance that the autobiographic style in which it

is written agreeably conveys. Moreover, there is a purity and right teaching in the truths the author inculcates, which gives a moral value to these volumes.

MAGNET STORIES: RAINBOW'S REST. By Thomas Hood. (Groombridge and Sons, Paternoster-row).—Where all are good, it should be sufficient praise to say of this charming little story, that it is the best of this year's series. The honoured name of the writer carries with it a certain prestige; but "Rainbow's Rest" requires no adventitious aid, to make it acceptable to young readers of either sex.

WORKHOUSE VISITORS SOCIETY'S JOURNAL. (London: Longman, Green, and Co). A new feature, and a very agreeable one, in the shape of a sketchy article, illustrative of life in the workhouse, is superadded to the usual reports and grave papers in the present number, and, as the Journal in all probability finds its way to the inmates of the workhouses, is calculated to inculcate, in an acceptable form, good seeds that might be trodden on if more didactically offered. We are glad to see the Society extending its usefulness,

THE CLIFF CLIMBERS; OR, THE LONE HOME IN THE HIMALAYAS. By Captain Mayne Reid. We have been written to many

times, during the last two or three years, to know when Capt. Reid was going to publish the sequel to "The Plant Hunters." One little boy added, that he thought it was a shame to leave Karl, Caspar, and Ossaroo shut up in that mountain valley so long. We thought so ourselves, but could not answer the question. We can now, however, inform our anxious readers that "The Cliff Climbers" is the sequel to "The Plant Hunters," and that they can now learn how the boys and their Indian friend succeeded in escaping from their prison; and also all the

wonderful adventures with beasts and birds which befel them in their efforts. We think it one of Capt. Reid's very best books. Of course we offer it as a premium.

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AMUSEMENTS OF THE MONTH.

There has been little alteration in the theatrical bills. All the houses have been busy with the preparation of the Christmas pieces, which, before these lines see the light, will doubtless be enchanting crowded audiences. We must necessarily defer till our next the consideration of the pantomimes and burlesques best worth seeing. By-the-way we must briefly allude to the production at

THE ADELPHI

of a drama from the French, called "The Workmen of Paris," one of the most remarkable pieces ever produced. The great scene is one of a large foundry, with all the works in full progress. Mr. Webster plays the chief part with

consummate skill and perfect truth of nature.

W. R.

Amongst the general theatrical gossip, we hear that Mdlle. Beatrice is engaged at the Lyceum Theatre, where Mr. Fechter is about

to appear in "Ruy Blas." "Miss Bateman is also expected at the New Adelphi; and Sothern has already returned to the Haymarket.

ROYAL POLYTECHNIC.

We know of no place of amusement where the little people, who claim the largest share richly catered for than at this Institution. of attention at this particular season, are more Professor Pepper, with his usual generosity, has provided not only tubs of toys, to be gratuitously distributed to holiday visitors, but new Dissolving Views, a new Pantomime, and novel Ghosts. We confess to a little anticipative shudder at the story which is made the vehicle for their appearance, and almost regret that little children should be made familiar with the horror of an Indian Suttee.

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