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OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.

MY DEAR C--,

News begins to be very slack, and Paris very dull for those whose friends are all gone, and who instead of a nice quiet gossip meet nothing on all sides but tantalizing hackneys, loaded with luggage, driving to the stations, and the happy faces inside, enjoying a foretaste of fields and groves. The sporting world left very exultingly: the victories of Gladiateur have roused us to enthusiasm; and the cordial manner in which John Bull feted him and his owner, has quite won our hearts, and has rendered the "entente cordiale" for the moment warmer than ever. The Frenchmen who were at Epsom, for the Derby, very much admired the pleasing face and amiable manners of the Prince of Wales; and his invitation to Mr. de la Grange has very much flattered them. They are surprised at his very simple way of appearing in public. There is certainly a great contrast when compared with the guard of honour that always attends the Heir of Imperial France.

The Emperor's return from Algiers was greeted by the Parisians with due enthusiasm, the streets through which he passed to the Tuileries were decorated with flags, and the public monuments were all illuminated; but then all that is official. The Empress and Prince went to Fontainebleau to meet him, where Her Majesty the Regent resigned the care of the empire into her august husband's hands, and no doubt received great compliments for her very clever way of governing. During his Majesty's visit to the province of Constantine he had a view of real Arabian life, and spent several hours under the tents of the great Semouls tribe, where a fête was given in his honour, by the chief Boulakas-benGannah. He also accepted a diffa, offered by the captain of the Spahis. A diffa is a feast composed of couscoussou (a stew of hard crushed corn mixed with pimento), fowls and sheep dressed, and served whole. One of the last acts of the Empress before resigning power was to confer the order of the Légion d'Honour on Rosa Bonheur, a rare distinction for a lady, who has not won it on the field of battle, or in a military hospital. But what enhanced the honour still more, was the graceful manner in which her Majesty went herself to Thomery, to the residence of Mdlle. Bonheur, and gave the red ribbon to the surprised artist herself. Mdlle. Bonheur is not only a great artist, but also the directrice of the school for drawing.

The Prince Napoleon is again put into the backgrounds his oratorial liberality brought down the storm upon him from the Emperor, while in Africa, who wrote him a very uncousinly letter, which the "Moniteur" published. The Prince's speech at Ajaccio, when presiding at the inauguration of the statue, erected in the birth-place of Napoleon I., displeased his Majesty. His Imperial Highness, wounded at this public reprimand, sent in immediately his resignation of

the offices Vice-President of the Privy Council, and President of the Imperial Commission for the Exhibition of 1867, which resignation was accepted. The day the Emperor's letter was published in the "Moniteur" the soldiers at Versailles and in Paris received orders to keep in their barracks all day long, and were all ready until eleven at night. Why? Did they fear a popular outbreak for the Prince? Goodness knows what is certain is, that they needed not, for in spite of his liberalism he is not a favourite, We know too well what the opposition of a Prince on the steps of the throne is, to be caught by it. The Empress does not like him, not only because he is an enemy to the Pope's temporal power, but because she sees in him a rival to her son. They say that she was the cause of the Emperor's letter, having declared that if his Majesty did not openly reprimand the Prince she would renounce the grandeurs of the throne, and retire into private life. Fancy what a public calamity! What should we have donethe Emperor absent, and we left alone to govern ourselves, and that for a whole fortnight! She was very near losing her béte noire the other day; the Prince having been thrown out of his carriage, while driving down the Champs Elysées; happily he was only bruised, but no bones broken. The old soldiers of the first empire are gradually dying off. Marshal Magnan was carried to his last home the other day. The funeral was very magnificent in military display; and after the religious ceremony, the body was conveyed to St. Germain, to be interred in the family tomb, attended by an escort of soldiers.

It was a false alarm I gave you last month about short dresses; it did not take. The only economy of stuff permitted is in the tops of the dresses; not in the bottoms, trains being longer than ever; as for the bodies, gentlemen say, that for the little that is left in ladies' evening dresses now, they might be suppressed altogether, but then men are so médisants-don't believe them. They also affirm that ladies in high-life are as much, if not more delighted with the amiable Theresa's songs and gestures as the frequenters of the "cafés chantants," a poor proof of ladies' taste and delicacy in this most civilized city in the world. At a soirée, a little while ago, given by a very rich fashionable lady, Mdlle. Theresa was engaged to attend for the amusement of our most delicate beauties. Theresa sang a song fit to be heard; the ladies were very much disappointed; and the mistress of the house protested. "Sing us something gaier, something to make us laugh," said she to Theresa; something plus piquant.” “The police forbids it," answered Theresa. "There is Monsieur le Préfet de Police, ask his permission, and I will sing you anything you like." The Préfet who was at the soirée accorded permission; and Theresa, with gestures and voice, gave full vent to her indecent vulgarity, until the men even were

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scandalized, but the ladies laughed and encored
with delight. Never was Theresa more fully
appreciated. Well, every one amuses himself
according to his taste, as M. Gagne, "per
exemple.'
The universal and supernatural can-
didate in the last elections, who made his appear-
ance again before the public the other day, by
writing a pendant to the Supplice d'une
femme," a universal piece, he says, and which
he calls "The Supplice d'un mari." In his
conclusion, he asks for the pain of death, as a
just punishment for all infidels to marriage
faith. A writer pretends that if such a law was
made, the executioner would never find time
enough to fulfil his task. But that writer is an
inveterate old bachelor, so we must not put
implicit reliance on all he says on that subject:
entre nous, celibacy does make men so tart.

You will be glad to hear that the children of La Pommerais's victim (Madame de Pauw) are in a fair way of getting nearly, if not all, the 550,000 francs insured on their mother's head. M. Lachaud, Madame de la Pomerais's counsellor, asks for the return of the 18,000 francs paid by her husband out of her property (unknown to her to the companies. She does not ask it of the companies, but of the children, should they get the 550,000 francs. M. Lachaud would not satisfy the curious as to what had become of Madame de la Pomerais: all he would say was that she remained worthy of respect and sympathy. I do not think that the Countess Civry is so near getting a few of her father's diamonds as she could wish. The magistrates appear to be reluctant in rendering judgment, and have postponed it again, hoping that the Duke of Brunswick will compromise. It will be rather a funny thing if his Highness sees himself condemned to maintain eight children, whose father is living, whose mother he will not own as his child, and that in a country where no illigitimate child has a right to demand support from its father!

M.A. Second, of the Grand Journal, pretends to be no believer in spiritualism, yet he relates a very extraordinary adventure of a M. Bach (professor of music), whose son on the 4th of May last bought at a sale a very curious, antique spinet, which he immediately made a present of to his father. M. Bach, delighted, spent the rest of the day admiring the instrument, and examined it so minutely that he at last found a date inscribed on it. It had been made at Rome in 1564—no wonder, then, when asleep at night, that he dreamt of his spinet. In the middle of his slumbers he saw a man with a long beard, and dressed in the costume of Henry III.'s time. "Friend," said the vision, "the spinet that you now possess belonged once to me. It was with that that I used to amuse my young master, Henry III., when he was gloomy. He composed an air, and words, in memory of a certain lady he had fallen in love with in a hunting-party, and whom they had shut up in a convent, where she had died. When the king was sad he used to hum the tune, and I then accompanied him on my spinet,

Listen!" The vision seated himself at the in-
strument, and played a soft, melodious air.
Bach awoke from emotion, and was in tears.
He arose and looked at his watch; it was two
o'clock, and, returning to his bed, he was
scon asleep again. In the morning, when
he awoke, judge his surprise on seeing on
his bed a page of music, covered with
the tiniest writing possible, under small notes!
They were verses written in an old-fashioned
style, and the music was the air the vision had
sung to him. M. Bach never composed a verse
in his life, or has he the least idea of the
rules of prosody. M. Second adds: "The
Journal de l'Estoile says that Henri III.
fell desperately in love with Marie de
Clèves, Marquise d'Isles, who died in the bloom
of womanhood, in a convent, some think of
poison, and that an Italian named Baltazarini
came to France at that epoch, and was a great
favourite of the King." "Can it be the esprit
of Baltazarini who wrote the verses?" asks M.
Second. For my own part I should be more
inclined to think that it was the esprit of M.
Second; but then I am very incredulous in
spiritualism. However, if you are curious to
see verses and music thus mysteriously handed
down to posterity, they are published by
Legouix, Boulevard Poissonnière, No. 27, Paris.
Some pretend that M. Bach wrote both music
and verses, while in a state of somnambulism,
though he declares that he is not somnambule.
I leave the solution to wiser heads than mine.

Among the numerous hunting weapons belonging to the late Jules Gérard, and given to him by most of the sovereigns of Europe (weapons that were sold by public auction the other day), was a rifle (a present from the Duke d'Aumale) which was marked by the teeth of a lioness with which the intrepid lion-killer had had to struggle hand to hand.

But talk of sales, never have we had so many auctions of pictures, china, and curiosities as this year. There is now a collection of autographs on sale, containing 1,253 letters, amongst which is one written by Louis Phillippe to a General, which is rather curious:

be raised to power. I have had several ministers without portefeuille; but he would be a portefeuille

"I have seen X. He is a nullity that cannot

without a minister."

The mot is not bad for the old King. Nor is the following either from the Emperor:

A Mayor had asked and obtained an audience with his Majesty, in order to show him and to explain to him some invention. He had studied and knew his speech by heart; but the Emperor's presence so bewildered the poor man, that it was impossible to master his emotion; nor could he remember one word. The Emperor, seeing his confusion, smiled and said: "If I embarrass you, Monsieur le Maire, I will go away."

We have had quite a new sight in Paris, and not a very agreeable one for those who cannot walk far. The other morning all the cabmen announced to their employers that without their

wages were raised they begged leave to retire from public life; so that, for two days, not a fiacre was to be had, for love or money. Never has Paris been so silent since cabs were invented. I suppose "cabby" has got his rights (he asked five francs a day instead of three and-a-half), for I see and hear their vehicles running again. The Préfet de Police was, however, obliged to interfere, and to order the cabs to run before a specified hour on the third day, therefore the company was in a fix.

The ceremony of selecting a rosière, at Nanterre, took place on Whit-Sunday, with all the customary pomp. Monsieur le Maire delivered his yearly speech on Virtue, and placed the crown of white roses on the head of the most deserving maid in the village, while he put in her hand the 3,000 francs which accompany the roses, and on which the rustic swains have | their eye. It is a pretty rural sight, the people crowd to the church, round which the young girl is led to collect sous, by the chief lady in the village. The good curé seemed in his glory, and when I saw the smiling peasants surrounding him, and his not less smiling face as he descended the pulpit and came amongst them, I could not help thinking of the curé, who was so beloved by his parishioners that, in the enthusiasm of their affection, they determined to offer a handsome present to their pastor. It

was in a wine-country, so it was agreed that each peasant should bring a certain quantity of wine, and thus fill a cask, and then offer it to the curé. The agreement was executed, and the day after, the worthy priest having a friend to dinner, sent his servant into the cellar to draw a bottleful of the precious liquid for his friends to taste. Judge the good man's surprise when he poured out water! Each parishioner, counting on his neighbour's wine, had only brought water! And to think what a unity of sentiment in one village!

The Emperor and Empress do not leave Paris until July, when they go to Fontainebleau for a short time, and thence to Biarritz, I imagine, as the young prince has expressed his desire to go there this season.

I have not said a word of the "Exposition of Paintings," now opened at the Palais de l'Industrie. A portrait of the Emperor, by Cabanel, attracts great attention, and is certainly very good, but cannot be compared with that Flacadrine painted a few years ago, and which is the portrait that will pass down to posterity. The "refused" have no space allowed them this year. They were really too grotesque in general, and the public has had enough of them. With mille compliments, au revoir, S. A.

LEAVES FOR
FOR THE LITTLE ONE S.

LITTLE MIKEY.

BY MINNIE W. MAY.

There was a little new scholar at the district school that winter. His life had come up to its eighth year, though he did not look so old; his face was so pinched and thin, and his carefullypatched garments hung loosely upon his small limbs. He kept aloof from all the scholars, and they seemed also to shun him. He took his place quietly in the morning, and did not once leave it, except for recitation, till school was over. All through the long morning he sat watching the sports of his schoolfellows, and Charlie Harper had often noticed that he never replied, only by a little quiver of his small mouth, when the boys would taunt him with being a drunkard's child, and a little Paddy. Charlie's mother told him one morning, as he was starting for school, to keep his eyes open that day, and see if he could not do some good, kind act, that would leave an influence upon some of his mates, as well as himself; but Charles kept it in mind as he walked on, with his satchel on his arm, and along with the thought flashed the remembrance of the child, Mikey O'Connel. He looked off at the end of the long lane where there were few foot-prints, except the little ones that Mikey's feet had made, to the small, low house, that had stood tenantless for a long time.

It was so old and ruinous, and he knew the people who lived there must be very poor, and he felt grieved in his childish heart that he had neglected the forlorn little scholar so long. He was already in his place when Charles entered the school-room, sitting by himself, as he always did, and Charles went up to him a little timidly, hardly knowing what to say to open an acquaintance.

"Wont you come out at noon upon the ice? I have a pair of new skates, and a sledge all painted green; you may use them both, if you like."

A pleased, happy look, came into those great, sad eyes, and the thin face lighted up all over.

"Thank you!" he whispered softly, but very heartily." I should like to ride on your sledge. I never learned to skate. But maybe if I come out, the boys will plague me." The old look coming back into his face.

"No, they shall not!" exclaimed Charles, manfully-"I wont let them. And say, Mikey, don't you want me to come over and set with you?"

"Oh, if you only would!" with an eager, wistful look in his face. "The other boys just take their books, and set away, and it makes me feel as if I couldn't come any more. But mother wants me to learn so bad, and cheers me up; so I tries to forget it."

Just then the teacher came, and Charles went to his seat. It was at the other end of the long row. He picked up his books, and went up to the teacher's desk a little reluctantly, and as the tall man bent to hear what his pupil had to say, Charles whispered

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Please, sir, may I sit in the end of the seat, near Mikey O'Connel? I will be very quiet. The other boys do not like to sit near him, and it makes him feel bad."

The teacher glanced towards Mikey. He was looking at him with wistful eyes, that told how much interested he was in the answer to Charles's request. He was a kind-hearted man; so he patted Charles's head, called him a thoughtful boy, and granted his desire. Charles felt the eyes of the whole school were upon him, and he saw the scornful smile upon the lips of many of his mates; but Mikey's happy face repaid him for all he had lost in their friendship. When school was over for the morning, he drew the satchel from underneath his bench, and taking from it the nice cold bread and ham, the piece of cake and pie that his mother had placed there for him, he moved a little nearer Mikey, and said

"Let's eat our dinner in a hurry, and then go out and slide. Where is your satchel?"

A crimson flush shot up into Mikey's forehead, but he did not speak. Charles looked at him wonderingly a moment, and then with childish eagerness, reminded him of his dinner. Mikey turned his head away, and drew from his pocket a small crust of dry bread, which he tried to conceal from Charles.

"Is that all the dinner you've got?" almost escaped Charles's lips; but he saw how hard Mikey was trying to hide the meagre lunch from him; so he leaned back in his seat, and said nothing; only his little brain was planning - planning how he could give Mikey a part of his dinner, without making him feel humbled.

"Oh, mother gives me so much dinner!" he said, at length, taking a long breath-"I cannot begin to eat it. Here, Mikey, see if this isn't good," and he placed a liberal supply upon the child's end of the bench.

"Don't you want it?" asked Mikey, looking pleased.

"No, indeed; you eat it, if you can." "Oh, isn't it good?" he said, devouring it eagerly. "Are you willing I should carry this little piece to mother?"

"Yes, if you wish to; but doesn't she have cake?" asked Charles bluntly.

"No, not now," sighed the boy. "But I am all ready to go and slide," changing the subject hastily.

Charles put his satchel back in its place, and drawing on his warm mittens, and tying his cap over his ears, stood waiting for Mikey.

"Haven't you got any mittens ?" he asked, looking at the little bare hands, that were placing the odd cap upon the top of his head.

"No, I haven't," he answered, quickly; "but I do not need them; I'm tough."

"Why, I should think your hands would ache dreadfully these cold mornings."

"They do, sometimes," was the quiet reply. "Well, you take mine, and I'll go get my sister Susan's. She is two years older than I, and her hand is just as big :" and before Mikey could say a word, Charles was gone. He talked to his sister in a whisper, telling her about poor little Mikey's crust of bread, his bare hands and ears, and Susan's kind heart was touched.

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I was going out with the girls to slide," she said, without a shadow of disappointment in her tones, "but I had rather you should take Mikey, and have my mittens." She plunged her hand into her pocket, and took out a pair of nice white mittens, which she put in Charles's hand.

"And stop, Charlie; Mikey's ears must be almost froze. There's my little woollen scarf hanging on the peg under the shelf; you go and get it, and tie it over his ears. He might keep it, for I do not need it, and mother wouldn't care, I am quite sure."

Charles was delighted with his sister's generosity, and it was amusing to watch the kindness with which he tied the short, warm scarf beneath Mikey's peaked chin, and pulled his cap down hard, to keep it on.

"There, isn't that nice, Mikey?" he asked, viewing his companion quite proudly.

"Why, I should think it was summer!" was the pleased reply; and Mikey rubbed his hands over his bandaged ears with great satisfaction.

Charles was very attentive to his new friend that day, and tried to shield him from the thoughtless remarks of his companions, who, in a mischief-loving spirit, would call after him, as he dashed down the hill upon the pretty green sledge.

"Go it, Paddy! See Pat, now, how he goes! Look out, little O'Connel, or you'll lose your breath!"

But Mikey did not mind it much. He was enjoying it vastly, andit seemed as if he had never learned his lessons so easily as he did that afternoon. His step was light and his face bright, as he bade Charles good night, and started to run down the lane, fast as he could make his way through the deep untrodden snow, and in a few minutes he was lifting the worn latch of the old tumble-down house.

The room was dark and dingy, just a glimmer of fire upon the broken hearth, and by its side his mother was sewing busily, while upon a low bed in the corner his father was lying in a deep sleep. Mikey's face clouded as he glanced at the sleeper, and he crept softly to his mother's side.

"Has he been off again? Did he find the

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it for drink. He had searched diligently for it after Mikey had gone to school, and by fierce threats had forced his wife to make known the hiding place.

She tried to retain a part of it, for they had little fuel or food, but he had taken the whole, gone off to the village tavern, and an hour before Mikey, had come staggering home.

"I have had a good time to-day, mother," he whispered. "See here," and he pulled the scarf from his neck, "Charlie Harper gave me this, and I've got a piece of cake for you. He gave me lots of good dinner, and came over and sat with me; then he let me slide on his sledge between schools. Oh, I did have such nice rides! He is the best boy I ever met. Why, mother, you're crying! Aren't you glad ?"

The poor mother only put her arm about her little boy, and drew him close to her and kissed him very tenderly, while the tears dropped upon his curly head.

"Yes, mother is very glad for her little boy. It is nice cake, but you eat it."

"No, mother I brought it for you," and the mother saw how much it would please her generous son, so she ate it all.

"Did the boys call you names to day?" she asked, sadly, though she was very glad to see her boy happy.

"Not much, and I did not mind it if they did, 'cause Charlie took my part."

Charles went home and told his good, kind mother all about little Mikey, and what he had done for him, and she kissed him and called him

her darling boy, and Charles felt very happy that night, and as if he had not kept his eyes open in vain. He went to sleep in his nice warm bed after eating his good supper, but Mikey only had a little meal porridge, his mother stirred upon the coals, and he crept off to his hard pallet, hungry and cold. But he did not complain. Visions of smooth, slippery hills, and sledges all painted green, and merry, laughing school boys, went dancing through his dreams, and the great round moon came up and looked into the windows of the old brown house and fell directly across Mikey's face, and his mother saw, as she stood looking at him, he was smiling in his sleep. Charles proved a true friend to Mikey, and gradually his mates came to take an interest in the forlorn little scholar, and through his influence Mikey was made a happy boy. Charlie did not realize the amount of good he had accomplished, something to outlast his life even, and go on widening in influence through successive generations. He had helped and encouraged Mikey. Perhaps if he had not, the child might have become weary of trying and sunk down, making just such a man as his father had been, and causing more evil than good.

So, little children, do not be discouraged because you do not seem to be doing much good, and earning a great name; perhaps, after all, you are like Charlie, casting an influence in the right way that will last long after you are dead.

MEMS OF THE

The weather is lovely, and it is exceedingly tantalizing for those who must remain in town until later in the year, though they will at least have the satisfaction of enjoying their holidays when others are thinking of returning to their labours. In this case is Your Bohemian, who even now is not at all inclined to furnish this communication, but who feels that he should uncommonly like to be idling at the sea-side before the days begin to draw in. In lieu of being out of town there is no more charming resort in London, on these summer mornings, than Kensington Gardens, where it is our delight to walk, on our way to the City, through a delicious avenue of pinks-out-Rimmelling Rimmell in their perfume-at an hour when we can almost fancy ourselves "monarch of all we survey," since "our right there is none to dispute;" unless, indeed, we should pluck the flowers, as some senseless youth did the other day, who was very properly made to pay for his amusement in addition to the amount of his depredation. We recommend this promenade in opposition to the Crystal Palace rose-shows and Cremorne suppers, though both these gardens are "more beautiful than ever," if we are to believe the daily advertisements, and we own to

MONTH.

having visited Cremorne on the Derby night, when we found ourselves in very good, though mixed, company. Hyde Park, at this season, with its Rotten Row, Regent's Park, and the Zoological Gardens, where, on Sunday afternoons, are congregated la crême de la crême, and out-door amusements generally are more to our taste than the thousand-and-one attractions announced in the newspapers, from the Handel Festival with nearly 4,000 performers, to Madame Tussaud's, where is exhibited "a full-length portrait-model of John Wilkes Booth, taken from a likeness presented by himself to Mrs. Stratton, wife of General Tom Thumb."

Croquet and Claret-cup are in the ascendant; and while we are glad to perceive that crinoline is not being carried to such a length-or rather breadth—this season, we should inform the fair sex that the "lawn dress" is the name of the ladies' new costume for the croquet-ground. It is similar to the Bloomer costume, and is considered very appropriate when playing the game.

The birth of a Prince is the most gratifying event we can record on the present occasion; and we should note the return of her Majesty from Scotland (the 20th of June was the twenty-eighth anniversary of her accession to

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