quarter you find newspapers addressed to the American taste; drinking shops with the latest American contrivance in beverages; bazaars, where American fashions are taught in apparel. The hotels cultivate American custom, and pander to a supposed American appetite for fishballs and buckwheat cakes. The American section includes the Champs Elysées, the Boulevard Haussmann, the Grand Hotel, and Grand Opera Quarter, and the radius of wide, magnificent avenues which sweep

around the Arch of Triumph. It is noted that in this quarter the tradesmen paint American coats of arms on their windows, and charge twenty-five per cent. more for their wares than their neighbors over the river. There are American clergymen who minister to your spiritual comfort; and the American dentist becomes an institution almost royal in its relations and appliances. There is a Fourth of July which, in ancient days, was wont to be the season for patriotic refreshment of soul. But since the jar which the war gave to our patriotism, Americans do not come together as much as in the past, and the eagle-wor

Duke of Bethnal Green, and wears his colors. Our British friend has troubles with his family, and they limit his allowance; when he becomes thirty he will have his money, and a little loan until that time would be so jolly-and if you would like to know the Duke, be at Chantilly on Sunday. Then we have our friend the Count, who speaks English with such a clear accent, and has been all over America, and will become a director in your company and place shares with his noble family for £5,000.

Then you have your Irish friend, whose French-barring the Tipperary accent-is fluent, who is a graduate of Trinity College, and was punished for his devotion to the true cause, and found times bad enough even in New York, and would like to travel with you, and pay his share of the expenses, if you could advance him a little until he hears from his bankers. Then

you have your friend who chews tobacco and sees nothing in Paris to compare with America, and he has an invention, and wants to ascertain how he can invite the whole Paris press to a déjeuner; never mind the expense-a bottle of champagne on

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each side of each plate, if necessary. Then you have your friend who belongs to the Church, and has a cough, and travels on a purse made up by his congregation, and means when he reaches Rome to deliver a lecture against the Catholics; who wants to dispute with the Pope in person, who eats an early breakfast, is always on the run from one palace to another, and carries a carpet-bag with him, which holds his clothes. Then comes your sharp young man, who crosses the ocean six times a year-as purchaser of goods for wholesale houses in New York,

and knows the best tables d'hôte, and tells English travelers of the horrors of American life, and how no prudent man would walk up Broadway without carrying a loaded pistol, and how Americans are dying for a monarchy, and would like to be ruled over by one of the Queen's sons. Then you have your friend who is always in trouble, whom no one treats well, who suffers from a succession of unappeasable wrongs; and you lend him a hundred francs to pay the landlady who is actually in possession, and have your own thoughts when you see him. beaming with smiles, riding in the Bois de Boulogne in the afternoon with-well, we need not be too particular.

There are colonists that one does not meet at the Grand

Hotel or on the boulevards. One who knows told me that during the siege Americans came to light of whose existence the legation was not aware. Some come for study and rest-literary people and artists-who slip down to Fontainebleau during the summer, and in the winter do their work in quiet out-of-the-way studios, over near the Luxembourg. When Mr. Lowell came to Paris he took an apartment in the Latin Quarter, near the libraries, and was never seen in hotel or

banking house.

Here he entertained Mr. Emerson, and I question if one colonist out of twenty knew that two of the most famous Americans of the day were dwelling with them. As an art center Paris is not as pretentious as Florence or Rome. There is no such gallery as in Madrid or Dresden. But good work has a perpetual market, and around Paris there are endless opportunities for study and observation. In Paris it is so easy to burrow into the deep earth and hide away, with no care for society or kid gloves. Paris is a charming place for true literary work. Writing people-who suffer from the damp,

depressing fogs of London and the roar and fever of New York life, say that Paris has a tranquillity and sunshine that they do not find elsewhere. When the mind becomes jaded and will not obey the spur, there are the outlying forests and long walks in the Bois, and little runs to Sceaux to dine under the chestnut trees, or a day at Versailles to see the fountains play.

If the colonist is literary and historical in his tastes, he will find inspiration in the associations of the wonderful city. You may walk miles and miles along the Paris streets and almost at every step you have palaces and palace ruins, from the wall of the baths where the Roman emperor Julian bathed, down to the charred wall of the Tuileries. But under this is a history. Here, for instance, lived Robespierre. It is a plain, dingy house, on the Rue St. Honoré-a house of his time, as the architecture shows, but now occupied by a tradesman. Duplay, the carpenter, and the daughter, and Robespierre, with his dog, have vanished like shadows; and this narrow gateway, which looks so dark now, and through which passed and repassed the first men of France in the anxious days of terror, is given over to workmen who plod in and out, and tradesmen who chaffer with you over a bargain. And you have only to take a short walk along the route paced daily in those days by Robespierre himself, and you come to the site of the Jacobin Club, where Mother Jacobin ruled until Thermidor came. But club and club house, and all the men and women who were wont to gather there, have gone into the realms of silence, and now you see a commodious market-house, and burly women cry fish on the spot where Danton once thundered. Nor is it far to the old Church of St. Roch, which has this memory-that one Napoleon Bonaparte found the beginning of his career here for St. Roch is the church which was held by the insurrectionists when he, as general of the Convention, opened upon them with real powder and ball, and so ended the French Revolution. Cross the river and see the top garret-room which Napoleon and Junot occupied at five francs a month-the darkest shadows ahead-nothing to do but to sit brooding and looking