though slightly enough. Next above the
show-rooms, is an entre-sol, and here the
presses are at work, forcing the papier mâché
into different moulds, where it is left to dry,
before taken out to harden, and to be put
through the ornamenting and finishing
processes. Among these presses there is an
hydraulic press, which exerts an enormous
power, equal to a weight of eighty tons.
Over these rooms are the graining and
gilding-rooms; and over these, again, are
rooms where other moulding and ornamenting
operations are carried on. At the top
of all, are the carpenters' work-shops. One
side of the house is separated from all the
rest; and here, in the rooms on each floor, from
top to bottom of this lofty house, are kept the
various articles forming the "stock," all ready
to meet any extensive home or foreign orders.

I have not sufficient space to speak of
the modelling-rooms and casting-rooms, to
me, the most interesting in point of art;
but the works are not only carried on with
the best skill and promptitude, but are of
singular variety. This latter quality may be
estimated when I mention that, among other
"old friends," the mask of Polyphemus, when
"Acis and Galatea" was produced so
exquisitely by Mr. Macready, was modelled in
this department; the anxious manager coming
frequently himself to inspect and give instructions
during the progress of the one-eyed
countenance.

The old comparison of a house built "like
a pack of cards," intended to express a sense
of utter flimsiness and insecurity, bids fair in
these days to have its jest turned into earnest.
I understand that when the Pasha's Boat
is completed, Mr. Bielefeld intends to turn
his invention of these great slabs (which by
new machinery he can manufacture of the
size of an ordinary cottage wall, all in one
piece) into house-building. By these means
a complete house may be sent out to
Australia, or elsewhere, all in flat pieces, occupying
a comparatively trifling space in stowage;
and on its arrival at its destination, the whole
can be screwed together in a few hours.

SONNET.

TO ROBERT BROWNING;

SUGGESTED BY A SUNSET OF UNUSUAL, BEAUTY.

A MIGHTY sorrow gathers, while the eye
Is by the sun's departing glories fed,
For they recall the fate of poets dead,
Who with the noblest of past age vie,
And, lately veil'd by earth's horizon, shed
Sad beauty from beneath it; yet a power
Like the pale moon that to their lustrous hour
Gave modest tribute as a young ally,
More felt than known, consoling light should shower
From crystal urn that holds the precious dower
Of Browning's genius—which, when breezes rend
Fond clouds, its lavish splendor glorify
With lingering love, its azure course shall wend
To high dominion in our purest sky.

FRENCH HORSE-RACING.

THE sky is very blue and very bright; the
air is crisp, clear, and invigorating. Objects,
both distant and near, seem more clearly
defined, more sharp and full of corners, than
usual. It is very cold in the shade, and very
warm in the sun. You feel a chilling blast
upon one cheek—that is the wind; and, upon
the other, something red-hot—the sun. The
wind is in an eccentric and changeable mood,
and seems bent upon putting the weather-cocks
out of temper. Everybody who has not
brought out an over-coat, wishes that he had;
and everybody who has, wishes that he had
not. Some people go closely buttoned up;
others carry their cravats in their pockets;
and nobody is certain which is best—so
frequent and so sudden are the alternations
from heat to cold. Wherever there are trees,
heaps of fallen leaves—ankle-deep, knee-deep
—are drifting before the breeze; occasionally
furnishing food for "bonfires," and filling the
air with clear blue smoke, and that peculiar
warm fragrance so suggestive of health and
rusticity.

In short, it is October—and October in
Paris; Paris, that is bidding adieu to al-fresco
fêtes, and beginning to find the inside of cafés
preferable to the outside. It is still, however,
a city of sunshine, and there is at any rate no
prospect of rain to spoil its out-of-door diversions.
Such was the comforting conviction at
which I arrived the other morning, when I
prepared, with true English ardour, to "go to
the races"—the last of the season.

I had a vague notion that "going to the
races" in France, was not a very dissimilar
proceeding from taking a trip to "the Derby"
in England. I had prepared myself for rising
at some unearthly hour in the morning;
for breakfasting in a state of trance caused by
the fear of being too late, in the midst of
anxieties relative to the packing of hampers,
and fears that the livery-stable keeper might
have mistaken his instructions, and be very
punctual in bringing round the phaeton
and four in time for—the Oaks; for
ultimately setting forth, amidst the applause
of small boys, provisioned for the day, and
with perhaps the additional luxury of a
pea-shooter and a post-horn—to which, had I
belonged to a " crack-regiment," I might have
added flour-bags and rotten eggs.

But, alas! going to the races in Paris is a
very prosaic proceeding. I grieve to say that
my friends called for me at my hotel, on
foot, after keeping me waiting about seven
hours. Not even a stage-coach was
practicable. There are, to be sure, Hansom cabs
in Paris (they are among the most recent
signs of civilisation), but we agreed that to
ride in a Hansom in a foreign land would
be something like profanity—almost as bad
as drinking bitter ale, another grand and
solemn pleasure to be reserved for London,
alone! Accordingly, we set forth as