at last, upon a little open Place, where was
indeed the Théâtre Provisionnel, all glittering
with flaming lamps and blazing pitchpots,
with the usual complement of loungers and
soldiers hanging about the door.

Interiorly, the Théâtre Provisionnel was
prettily decorated, and about as full as an egg.
There was a most diverting piece being then
played, the whole strength of which lay in the
amusing incident of a certain Islander's visit
to a French country-house. The Islander
carries his members in a sort of stiff fashion
not wholly unfamiliar to the traveller, keeps
bursting in upon the French familiar circle
at inopportune seasons, pays his addresses in
the most awkward and ungainly manner, and
raises inextinguishable laughter upon all
sides. Suddenly it flashes upon the traveller
that this Islander must be meant for himself
and his countrymen. And so, on reference
to the printed bills, it turns out. When that
piece concluded, which it did in the hopeless
mystification and cruellest torture of the
wretched foreigner, a funny person, with a
singularly droll twist about his mouth, came
out to sing, and sang, a very comic thing
descriptive of servant life in Paris, with
pantomimic burden imitative of oak polishing. The
traveller laughs immoderately with the rest.
V-v-ish, v-ish, the burden goes, with spirited
corresponding motions of lower limbs,
conveying exactly the idea of what they call
Frotter. Suddenly some one is calling over
the stairs; the comic boy-of-all-work's countenance
assumes a dull vacant expression, his
hands sink deep into his pockets. The traveller
feels a presentiment of what is coming.
''Bee quicks!" says the voice, sounding
hoarsely from over the stairs. "Bee quicks!
Goddam! Yaise! Wee-wee! Goddam!"
It was the unfortunate Briton once more,
brought in by head and shoulders. That
night they were determined to hunt him
down to the death; for in a third piece he
again made his appearance, in sailor shape,
affording cruel sport and merriment to those
who follow the same profession in Boo-long.
The traveller flies from the Théâtre Provisionnel
in disgust, and, with the morning light
quits the town, casting the dust from off his
shoes as he goes.

The same Nemesis still dogs his steps
all the way from town to town until he
reaches the capital. Everywhere the effigy
of his outraged countrymen is thrust upon
him. Until, at last, being set down in the
metropolis, he thinks some little regard will
be had for the tender feelings of the great
nation whose sons go forth and fill their
splendid caravanserais. Too soon shall the
scales fall from his eyes! There is that famous
piece, brought out at the Comical Medley
Theatre, which is having such an extraordinary
run, now in full swing as it were, which
must be seen by all strangers as of course. It
is the startling, transpontine, powerful, thrilling,
horror-stuffed rnelodrame of The Fugitives!
With new effects, dresses, and decorations!
Founded with extraordinary fidelity
upon the late horrors experienced by the
English in India. Everybody goes to see it,
and so does the traveller. In six acts and
nine tableaux. Nothing less. One: The Holy
River. Two: Les Jungles, et cetera, with
plenty of Englishmen. There is Wattson
and a person called Willongby; and, with
a sort of sinking of heart, the traveller
makes out characters that seem to take the
shape of Williams! There are many more
brave and noble Englishmen introduced; but,
some way, the whole burden of the fighting,
the rescues, and the terrific is thrown, most
unjustly, upon gentlemen of the French
navy, who, by some lucky chance, have
found their way into the country. Wonderful
indeed the prodigies wrought by these
children of the sea. Wonder, which indeed
worked into admiration when, at the most
critical portion of the piece, the ladies of the
party are in danger from a strong force of
natives, and it is known by the audience and
everybody else that no help can come from
the marine of France, those gentlemen being
engaged fighting battles, at fearful odds,
elsewhere; when all human help seems
hopeless, two French sisters of charity come
rushing in with crosses uplifted, and so
deliver the victims. Happy denouement! Most
opportune machine goddesses!

So, it is to be feared, our dear French
friends will go on, reproducing the stuffed
figure to the end of time.

          RATHER LOW COMPANY.

QUOTH Mrs. Borum, addressing me the
other day, (I beg to observe that I am also
a "Mrs."), "You must have been dead of
ennui, my dear, in that atrociously slow place,
with nothing whatever going on."

This almost made me angry. For, while
I should despise myself if I could depreciate
the happy time I have had, since the happy
marriage, which elevated (?) me to that world
in which the fashionable Mrs. Borum shines;
still, I hope I know, in a very quiet way, that
the pith of my happiness does not consist in
what that brilliant lady most values. Can I
be so ungrateful towards the cheerful, hard-working
days, at dear old Fowley, when I was
a shy little nobody, only the mistress of the
National School, struggling with and taming
the rough boys and girls in the village, and
looking up to my husband—now so dear and
familiar—as the stateliest, and most
unapproachable gentleman that ever lived in a
Hall! Can I so far forget those times as to
say, there was "nothing going on!" There
were human creatures going on. Children
going on. Work going on. As to ennui, that
is quite Mrs. Borum's affair. It is the weight
of her life. We never heard of such a thing
at Fowley.

i love to think of those dear old days, so