At six o'clock, as on other days, Paris turns out to dinner, and although this leaving home to dine at a restaurant may seem to be a strangely undomestic proceeding, it should not be forgotten that families dine together. Monsieur Dupont does not visit the restaurateurs alone. He takes with him Madame Dupont, and his children, Monsieur Auguste, Octave, Maximilien Dupont; and Mademoiselle Victorine, Amélie, Therese Dupont. The grandfather or grandmother of the children is often of the party, and it is very charming to watch the attention of the married Duponts to their elderly relative, their devotion to their offspring, and the admirable behaviour of these last-mentioned little individuals, their quietude of manner, and habitual deference to papa and maman. The whole affair is, in feeling and spirit, as healthily domestic as the excursion of a mechanic-when the husband carries the baby proper, the wife the baby before the last, and the eldest boy the basin tied in a handkerchief that contains the cold meat, and bread and cheese. It is a great error to suppose that Frenchmen are more regardless of home ties than men of other nations-an error which their own novelists and romancers have done their utmost to create and to

foster. The prevailing notion of the relations of husband and wife in France is of a couple totally indifferent to each other-to say nothing worse-living entirely apart, and when meeting in society, treating each other with an odd sort of chilling ceremonious politeness. Nothing can be further from the fact. The littérateurs of France have found it convenient to represent the manners of only one section of society in Paris, and it is to a great extent to terrible De Balzac, cockney Paul, and others, that France owes the evil opinion held on this side of the water, of the habits and morals of their compatriots.

On re-entering my hotel, I found my friend Doctor Shaw waiting for me. 'Here you are,' said he. Where shall we dine?'

Now this was a question easy to answer on ordinary occasions.

'This is Christmas Day,' I 'said. 'Yes,' replied the doctor. And we both looked at each other. The fact was, that both the doctor and I wanted to dine à la Française, but we were much too English, having only known each other nine years, to mention that fact without

reserve.

"Ah!' I said, 'you see-on Christmas Day

'One likes to have a Christmas dinner.'

'Just so. When one is in Paris--'

'One must do as London doesjust so.'

There is no lack of English hotels in Paris; indeed, since the Anglomania, now prevalent in that big bonbonnière of a city, many restaurants, French as the time of Malbrook,' have broken out with British Tavern,' in large gold capitals; and, notwithstanding railways, exhibitions, and the entente cordiale produced by the Crimean wars, there still exists a strange misapprehension as to the appetites of the brave eccentric English. Foremost among these superstitions is the notion, that to a man we doat on mock-turtle soup. Numerous are the placards which inform the travelling Briton that Mockturtle' is always ready. Offer your English mock-turtle and you secure him, think the traiteurs. It is the only soup produced by his brave but benighted chief of the kitchen!

Shaw and I dined and drank after the manner of our forefathers, and I trust the indigestion and headache which we suffered next day were convincing proofs of our patriotism.

After dinner, as we sat puffing our cigars at the open window that looked on to the brilliant street, he said to me

'You know that English family that came to our hotel last week?' 'Yes.'

'And they've had a French doctor to the girl;' and Shaw laughed again. Well.'

The French doctor can't speak a word of English, and so physician and patient confer in signs. He doesn't understand the girl's symptoms, and he is bungling the case completely.'

'I really am at a loss to

"Wait a bit. You know Thomasine, the landlord's daughter, who says she can speak English, and can't. Well, she interprets for them. She only knows one phrase, which she told me she learnt in London, when she was there for the Exhibition; it is a question which she asks the patient every time she goes into the room. Can you guess what it is?'

'No.'

'I can't help laughing; it is so very applicable to a rheumatic case. Thomasine is always saying to her, "How's your poor feet?”'

We sat and smoked and drank, and drank and smoked, till we got up the proper Christmas postprandial feeling; and went home to the smiling concierge, as every man should on Christmas night especially, at peace with ourselves and with goodwill to all men.

CHRISTMAS AT THE THEATRES.

Of

English folk have their pantomimes, Parisians their revues. late years this species of entertainment has languished. As has been well pointed out in Figaro,' the revue is no longer a comic summary of the events of the year; dramatic writers are not permitted to make capital of political events. It is no longer possible to allude to a commercial panic by a dirge called 'La Morte de Commerce,' and a funeral procession of all the trades of Paris. The revue is now simply and purely theatrical; and the various dramatic events of the year are burlesqued, imitations of popular actors given, some well-arranged ballets danced, pungent parodies sung; and nothing more. Widely different was it when there was no dramatic censorship in the days of the famous La Propriété c'est le Vol and La Foire aux Idées.

While the popularity of pantomimes with us would seem to increase every year, the taste for revues has so much declined that few theatres now attempt them.

At the Palais Royal, 'Les Perruques' was so heartily disapproved of that in a few nights it was withdrawn. The doctor and I went to see it, and certainly such a farrago of unamusing absurdity was never witnessed. The only revue which stood its ground, with the exception of one played at a theatre we did not visit, was 'Eh! Allez donc Turlurette!' at the Variétés, and after the first act that was very poor. The Prologue or Introduction took place at the house of a literary lionne, where a number of guests are invited to hear the lionne herself read her own tragedy. The veteran Arnal sang and acted with his usual charm; and Dupuis, one of the best eccentric actors on the French stage, appeared as the meek, subdued husband of the brilliant bluestocking. The company is seated, and the reading is begun: the husband's rapture is so great that he expresses it in the same manner as Mr. Pickwick his admiration at the leaders in the Eatanswill Gazette,' on the buff job of appointing a new keeper to the toll-gate-his eyes close with intense appreciation, the guests depart one by one; the unconscious authoress rolling forth her periods with such abstracted gusto that she is unaware of the defection of her audience. Arnal makes good his retreat by crying 'Charmant' as he retires; and finally the lady is left declaiming to one solitary auditor— her unconscious husband. The curtain falls on her as she continues to pour forth tragic verse; and the sleeping Dupuis is left close to the footlights, from which he is soon hidden by a property cloud, which bears upon its anything but undulating surface the words, 'C'est une reve!'

The first act reproduced a piece called 'La Reine de Crinoline,' and at the same time carried out the lionne idea of feminine domination and masculine submission. The ladies are the ruling and moving powers in the state. Ladies are

lawyers, ladies are soldiers, sailors, and drum-majors. A corps of awkward female conscripts, are drilled by a lady-serjeant, who gives an admirable imitation of the military brusquerie of a vielle moustache. The queen has left her court to fight her country's foes. The king, personated by Dupuis, remaining behind to weep and mourn her absence. Amid a grand flourish of drums and trumpets, the female warriors return; and the king, who has reason to fear his dread queen and master's presence, is agitated and confused. 'Loveliest, you are pale!' exclaims the anxious queen.

Tis-'tis nothing; a passing indisposition-not more.' Then contemptuously remarks an old soldier, full sixteen years of age, with saucy eyes and a brilliant complexion,

Les hommes, ils sont toujours pale!' and so the scene proceeds. The rest of the revue was purely theatrical- the second act treating of the removal of the theatres, from the Boulevards to the Place du Châtelet; the spectres of successful melodramas holding a midnight meeting, and talking greater rubbish than could be supposed to be uttered by even melodramatic ghosts. In the third act the characters of the famous Rothomago are found fishing on the river in their dramatic costume, and when asked by their irate director the reason of their conduct, they reply that it was his orders that they should all meet in costume sur la scène (sur la Seine)-as bad a pun, perhaps, as was ever perpetrated. The piece concluded with some imitations of the most popular actors, Lafont, Lesueur, Landrol, Melingne, Brindeau, Bouffé, Chilly, Arnal, Dupuis, and others; and the curtain fell on a fairy scene with a fountain of real water; a number of the corps de ballet, dressed as Pompièrs, supplying the fountain with fire buckets. Sad silliness, sham fun, and make-believe wit, utterly unworthy of French writers and French actors.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Of all days in the year, Parisians think most of New Year's Day

possibly because it is new. L'an est mort. Vive l'an!

This first day is essentially a day of costume-a day for brilliant bonnets, glossy hats, varnished boots, perfume and cosmetique. Dressed, brushed, oiled, waxed, and gloved, Monsieur first pays his service to the Emperor. The approach to the Tuileries is a great sight, and philosophical must be that civilian who does not feel himself utterly crushed and humiliated by the neighbourhood of the gorgeous uniforms around him. The white stone buildings of the Rue de Rivoli form the background for a military tailor's Paradise. And how happy are the militaires inside the uniforms. How they feel that they are the show, that the world is looking at them, and that the occasion is their own. How complacently they sport their medals, and what a quantity they carry of those certificates of valour. The corpulent old gentleman in a cocked hat, now waddling across the road, carries an enormous weight of metal. First there is his gorget-that queer bit of brass that reminds one of the labels round the necks of bottles, still found in some old country houses, on which the word port or sherry is engraved. Then there is his sword, which is pendent from a wonderful complication of straps and buckles; and as for medals, the man must have fought victoriously in every battle since Pharsalia. Yet he is modest, though he wears large scarlet trousers, and sucks a bad cigar with the bon-. homie of a bourgeois.

A French soldier is happier in scarlet trousers than in those of any other colour. In black, blue, green, or grey, he may exist; in scarlet he lives.

More costumes tramp and glitter by; soldiers, soldiers and soldiers; then, for variety, some officers of the Marine; soldiers again. Russians, haughty, elegant, and furred; magnificent Circassians, men whose bearing indicates their habit of looking down upon the world from mountain tops; and more cocked hats, swords, and scarlet trousers. Look on, Parisians, and admire, for

your army deserves it at your eyes. It is for this they stormed Alma, fought Inkermann, flooded Solferino, and pocketed Pekin. Vive la France! Vive le Tricolor, and Vive la Gloire!

On ordinary days only so many beggars are allowed to solicit alms, and they hold a permission from the police. On New Year's Day there is free trade in mendicancy, and at every tenth step you hear a beggar; but they are never obstinately importunate as English beggars are. Many of them bring out an old organ, that can sound only six notes, and turn the handle as they chant a dismal song, and the sight is touching to the stranger -the resident, who knows that these useful properties are safely stored, to be brought out once a year, is not moved by the sight. They are a singular race, the beggars of Paris, and would make an interesting study. One girl, of about twelve years of age, asked alms of me in French, English, German, and Italian. I discovered that in the last three languages she could only ask alms, that she had a quick eye for a foreign face, and seldom begged of her compatriots.

Among the huts that dot the Boulevards, there is the usual crowd hustling each other with undisturbable good humour. There are toys to more than realize the maddest fancies of imaginative childhood. Cigarres à la musique, serpents à la musique, and some wonderful little figures, three inches high, that 'dance themselves,' if placed on a piano, play the instrument, or thrum upon a table; and they derive a motive power from the mere vibration. There is a toy in which the figures are boxing, and the more you shake them the harder they box. There are rabbits affected by every feeling and motion of which humanity is capable. Rabbits making love, rabbits jealous, rabbits billing and cooing in honeymoon bliss, rabbits getting very tipsy, rabbits quarrelling, rabbits fighting duels, and rabbits borne away killed and wounded after a mortal encounter. Not only are rabbits depicted suffering all the inconveniences of an

artificial civilisation, but frogs are also shown loving, fighting, drinking, dying, and the rest.

Human nature is mimicked everywhere with a strangely weird and terrible fidelity. The dolls are wonderful. Dolls dressed à la Pompadour, with blue satin hoods and spectacles, and an expression of face that says plainly, 'I am a dollgrandmother.' Dolls seated on thrones, a gorgeous canopy' above their heads, and a mien of perfect majesty upon their waxen brows. Then there are dolls in uneasy circumstances-dolls that, to use the term by which the French politely imply poverty, are not happy.' There is a brilliantly-complexioned young fellow in a blouse-a he-doll of the people-asking a young woman of the people, in a head-dress like an exaggerated extinguisher or ornamented fool's-cap, to dance with him. From the limpid look of her eyes we know that she will answer Oui,' and smile and curtsy graciously. Close by is a Breton doll, a sturdy fellow, with a rough outside but a warm heart within, his musette in his hand. The group was so perfect that I turned away, or I should have doubtless heard the Breton strike up the zing-zing of the musette, and seen the young couple foot it to the music, as only French folks, intoxicated with sugared water and gooseberry syrup, can foot it.

How happy must these dolls make their fortunate possessors, and how happy must be the little darling whose grandpapa, that worthy old bourgeois, has just presented her with a New-Year's gift!

The tastes of children are alike all over the world. Girls love something to pet, love, and fondle, comb, wash, above all, dress, and— crowning glory and power of motherhood-put to bed. Boys prefer an article with which they can do mischief-a sword, a gun, or a cannon

they like destruction-anything that smokes or smells like gunpowder. As a young friend of mine observed upon a 5th of November, 'If fireworks are so nice, what must a battle be?'

to the million round-faced, blackeyed little children of France. Glorious day when they receive a compliment from papa and mamma. Bounteous day of distribution from Christmas trees; when there is affectionate contention and loving struggles as to who shall first rush into the chamber of papa and mamma to greet them with the first word, the first kiss, and the first embrace. Happy anniversary for all, rich, poor, high and low, from the well-bred child, secluded from the world in the Faubourg St. Germain, to the shoeless gamin who starts at the glimpse of a cocked-hat in the distance! Day when the domestic affections, dimmed and blurred by constant contact with a hard material world, are rekindled and reanimated by the sight of joyous little faces that unite the expression of those whom inclination, fate, and faith, have united irrevocably. Day that to monsieur and madame brings back

the memory of the brilliant blush of their happy honeymoon; of those strongly-knit home ties flashed from the eyes of loving, lovely children, intoned in the sound of their sweet voices, and mellowed in their merry and innocent caresses. Bearded husband, strong-limbed and determined; elegant wife, sprightly, naïve, and charming; brown-faced bonne from Alsace, with ruddy cheeks and comfortable cap, cheery bonne, who carries the baby; little monsieur and smaller mademoiselle, leaping and frisking with delightall are made happy as that central sun of the domestic universe, mamma, distributes to her darlings the gifts of the New Year. People of France, warlike, volatile, and gifted, what haughty and supercilious stranger, basking in the sight of your snug homes on the first day of the year, could deny that you are an affectionate, domestic, and homeloving people?

T. W. R.