'I am sure I never said it in those words, which, putting aside their vulgarity, don't mean anything whatever.'

Then you have said it in others quite as expressive,' persisted Milly. I remember, perfectly, one night at the Strangways' (that night papa did not go, and you would sit out half the dances with Arthur Peel), just as we were leaving the cloakroom you congratulated Paul upon Mrs. Strangways' attention to him, and he said

'My dear Milly, it is time for us to go,' interrupted Jane; but she reddened somewhat guiltily. 'You have talked quite nonsense enough for one occasion, I am sure.'

But Milly was not to be silenced. 'And Paul shrugged his shoulders, and said, "No, Miss Dashwood, I must really disclaim the happiness you assign to me. Mrs. Strangways is not at all likely to take any trouble

about so insignificant a person as myself. Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle." I remember it so well because I asked you what that meant in English as we were driving home.'

'Then all I can say is that it's a great pity you have not better things to remember, Milly. Any man living might be excused for making a stupid remark at the fag end of one of Mrs. Strangways' stupid "At Homes;" but it is really too bad that such speeches should be chronicled.'

And then Miss Dashwood so resolutely changed the subject by discoursing about the gaieties that they were to have during the ensuing winter, and her hopes that Miss Fleming would be induced to join in them, that Esther (whatever in her heart she might desire) had no further opportunity of hearing Paul Chichester's name that day.

TH

HERE is one radical difference between the rides, drives, and promenades of London and of Paris. Here, true British Brahmins that we are, we preserve our caste even out of doors-there, both the world and the people choose the same spots for air and recreation. Here, the upper classes keep aloof from the middle classes, and the middle classes from the humble. There, marquis, millionaire, merchant, shopkeeper, and ouvrier mingle as naturally, and sometimes as agreeably as the ingredients of a salad. Socially and personally, every Englishman is a human island, every Frenchman only a portion of continent-not that the Gaul's nature is more adhesive than the Briton's but his climate makes him more gregarious, and he must either chatter constantly or die.

The term 'London Society' carries with it a distinct meaning. A man is either in society or out of it, or on its threshold or its stairHe may be in it and not of

case.

it; but there are not two opinions as to what the term means. Now in Paris, society is both more divided and more conglomerated-more exclusive and more open-more accessible and more hermetically sealed.

There is the ancienne, composed of the old historic names, feudal seigneurs who have not trilled syllable on political affairs since 1830. To the rest of France, their salons are closed and their concierges are respectfully forbidding: foreigners they will welcome with that grand old pre-revolutionary French politeness that neither the overthrow of the monarchy, the destruction of that charming safeguard of the honour of families the Bastille, decapitation, exile, senatorial self-annihilation, and Zouave uniforms, has ruffled one marabout feather. As Brummel'cut' the Prince Regent, so have these highly-bred cavaliers and stately dames 'cut' France. She is unworthy of them

they will fight for, dance for,

legislate for, and trample on her no more. About the time that breeches went out, and trousers came into fashion, France expired, and the Faubourg St. Gerinain plunged itself into perpetual mourning. But they are society, these grand old nobles, and whether the political part they play be pitiable or imposing, they are still the crême de la crême de la crême.

Following up the lacteal metaphor, the nobility of the Empire, even from the Legitimists' point of view, may surely be considered the very best fresh milk, capable, when it has stood' long enough, of producing the very richest cream. The statesmen, field-marshals, engineers, and authors, who, since the beginning of this century, have done so much towards ruling, conquering, improving, and delighting the whole world, are society, and very good society; but would the dwellers in the tall houses of the grim old aristocratic faubourg recognize them? Sooner shall the white lilies be grafted on the tricolor, or the lilies themselves change hue, blush red, and blossom blue.

The

There is another sort of society that goes to court and gives receptions. It is of inferior pasture, and was called by Balzac the new noblesse of the Chaussée d'Antin. It must be remembered that the great novelist spoke of the Chaussée d'Antin of forty years ago. speculators and entrepreneurs who compose it no longer live in their old quartier; but wherever they pitch their tents, there is crimson and cloth of gold, there champagne sparkles, and foie gras is rich in the mouth. The young men of this metallic nobility are the viveurs of Paris, and are known at the Café de Paris, the Maison Dorée, and Madrid. Their dress is stentorian, their waistcoats and shirt-fronts being especially complicated, gorgeous, and arabesque.

Poets, authors, painters, and journalists are of society, for the world of Paris is so benighted as to think a writer or an artist of distinction fit company for a kaiser. They are much behind us in that respect, these unfortunate Parisians!

The promenade, as they call it, or the ride or the drive, as we should call it, most frequented 'du monde,' and least by les bourgeois et les ouvriers, is the Bois de Boulogne. Thackeray has sung in his famous song of Drummer Pierre:

You all know the Place de la Concorde, 'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall;' And the Elysian Fields, on a bright clear day, present a sight seldom forgotten by the man who looks towards the Arc de Triomphe for the first time. And how charmingly laid out is this small celestial prairie! What facilities are afforded for that distraction' for which all Parisians of all degrees are seeking! There are the Cafés Chantants, and the little toy-houses, that are neither mosques, nor pavilions, nor conservatories, nor arbours, nor Chinese josses or junks, but have a painted, picked-out panel flavour of them all. Then there are all sorts of conveniences for small gambling, the favourite game being a compound of croquet, billiards, and the familiar schoolboy pegtop, and roundabouts such as the childhood of our cold clime never dreamt of, even under the influence of a Christmas indigestion-roundabouts where, for the small charge of two sous, a jeune monsieur or a jeune dame can ride anything, from a low-backed car to a fiery dragon. To the practised eye of a gamin, a hippogriff is a commonplace animal, and Pegasus a circulating medium of every-day

occurrence.

But these sights are stationary, and it is the panoramic effect of the many moving equipages that gives most pleasure to the looker-on. There are plenty of carriages, but few horsemen; and that most graceful of female gear, the long flowing breezy riding-habit, is seldom seen. The gandin prefers driving to the saddle. En cavalier, he is subject to the rude remarks of urchins. It is a charming thing for those very young men, who are sensitive to street-pleasantry, to know that the dirty little boys of one great capital exactly resemble the dirty little boys of another. There is a family likeness in gaminerie, and the Pa

risian variety of the species have a quick eye for a bright spot of costume, or any external peg whereon to hang a ludicrous conceit. On the race-course, at Longchamps, a highly-dressed young gentleman was caracoling on a prancing steed. A gamin caught sight of his wellfitting gloves, which were of a brilliant yellow. 'Pierre,' shouted he, 'this gentleman there has been and shoved his hands into a pair of omnibuses!' The reader will perhaps better appreciate the joke when reminded that in Paris the omnibuses are yellow.

Although the ride to the Bois is charming, the majority of Frenchmen are not happy on horsebackthey seem on duty rather than on pleasure, when followed by un groom. Un groom is generally so emphatically un groom, and not a groom!

In the carriages, the men sit sternly upright, and the ladies lean back majestically. The pace is pleasant but slow, and is kept up during the drive. There is none of the dash and gallop of our equipages when they find an open space, nor of the crawl and dawdle when the 'Row' is packed. As has been remarked in a former paper, the vehicular turn out' of Paris has wonderfully improved since 1851, and 'les dog-carts' look quite knowing and turfy.

The good folks on foot sit down very much during their walk. It is their way of enjoying pedestrian exercise; for your Parisian is so inveterate a flâneur one would think he would flân during a bombardment. He seldom goes beyond the Arc afoot; and the carriages, as they roll through that charming piece of vainglorious sculpture, into the Avenue de l'Impératrice, have it all to themselves. A pleasant trundle over a well-watered road, and the beautiful gates of the beautiful Bois admit you to its leafy serried ranks of foliage-for a large portion of the park is laid out with military rectangularity. The lower branches of the trees are lopped off, and they stand in the earth stiffly, like soldiers at the word 'Attention!' There are broad roads for carriages,

and narrow alleys, or columns, of verdure, under which equestrians can canter.

The pedestrian who prefers trunks of trees to street-lamps, is permitted to wander from the paths to a thick, umbrageous solitude, where he may, if he please, indulge himself with reflections, like Jacques, but must not, like Orlando, carve any name on any tree. C'est défendu! as all mischief ought to be.

In one of these well-kept jungles we met an Orlando and Rosalind of 1863 Orlando in bottes vernies, and lemon-coloured kid gloves Rosalind in a piquant and provoking little hat and feather, and the sauciest of abbé collars. She kept her eyes upon the moss as young Mr. O. into the porches of her pretty sea-shell-looking ear did pour his lover-like attachment. As they neared us their eyes met ours, but they did not start, or seem confused, or affect an indifferent manner, after the fashion of billers and cooers of Britannic parentage; but I went by as if we had no existence, Orlando bending towards her, his eyes fixed upon her cheek; Rosalind with half-averted head, but listening body. They were not ashamed of being seen, or of each other; and so they threaded the glistening stems and were soon lost in a silver verdant distance.

Out again into the open on the borders of the Lakes, and by the Cascade we see empty carriages. Messieurs and mesdames have descended, and are watching the waterfall, the flood, and the pleasure boats. Messieurs stroll away a short distance to enjoy a cigarette, and mesdames enjoy a good mutual stare, and make mental memoranda as to each other's costume. What a wonderful thing is that gaze of a wellbred woman! that sees everything, while it seems to look at nothing. The riotous gymnastic exercises of smoking and staring exhausted, messieurs and mesdames reascend, and the cocher is ordered to drive to the Jardin d'Acclimatation, or the Pré Catelan, or the Plaine de Longchamps-that smooth, well-shaven sheet of moss, with its white cardboard houses, and dry-land junks

and josses dotting its green surface, as daisies dot an unpicked lawnand so home either by the dusty Avenue de Neuilly, or airy Auteuil and picturesque Passy: the former of these charming suburbs, by the way, is rich in literary associations, for there dwelt Boileau, Molière, Chapelle, Baron, Racine, and La Fontaine. The celebrated Madame Helvétius too resided there, that devoted widow, who, to remain true to the memory of her lost husband, refused offers of marriage from Turgot and from Benjamin Franklin. Passy was the pied-à-terre of a celebrity of our own day, Béranger.

Where is there a route more charming than that from Paris to Versailles, with the view of the valley of Sèvres, the road leading to the Arc de Triomphe, and the heights of Montmartre crowning the distant city? The pretty little maisons de campagne, and the dryinggrounds of the blanchisseuses are picturesque as a scene at the Opéra! and then Versailles itself! Not to be commonplace, its associations, memories, and old historical renown rush through the brain and fill the mind with a vague wonder, as a railway train tears over a landscape and leaves a track of fleecy smoke behind it. Monsieur Vatout, in his 'Souvenirs historiques des Résidences royales de France,' describes Versailles-and we will not weaken the force of his description by translating it-in these words:

'Le génie de l'homme luttant contre la nature, les fleuves détournés de leurs cours pour apporter leurs eaux dans les lits de marbre, une armée occupant ses loisirs à ces immenses travaux, tous les arts à la fois rivalisant de zèle pour égaler la grandeur de la pensée qui les avait convoqués, un palais plus splendide que tous les palais des rois, s'élevant sur les plans de Mansart, et se décorant des trésors du pinceau de Lebrun, des jardins merveilleux dessinés par Le Nôtre, et ornés des chefs-d'œuvre du Puget et de Girardon, une maison souveraine prodiguant par millions les riches tributs de ses conquêtes, une

cour fastueuse ajoutant par son luxe à l'éclat de ce royal séjour; enfin, ces premières fêtes ordonnées par Colbert, animées par Molière, célé brées par La Fontaine, et présidées par un demi-dieu, rayonnant de jeunesse, d'amour et de gloire: tel fut le spectacle que présenta la pompeuse création du palais de Versailles.'

Bating the demi-dicu'-which we think an inappropriate compliment applied to little periwigged King Louis-this is not an overcharged description. Our own lovely Sydenham has rendered us fastidious in our judgment of gardens; but those of Versailles-if we consider the means at the disposal of Louis XIV., and of Napoleon I., the absence of steam power, and the appliances of modern sciencewill bear comparison. And à

propos of steam and history, this question is suggested: Had locomotives and iron-plated Monitors been invented in 1800, would the Little Corporal have died a prisoner at St. Helena? Perhaps not. Perhaps he might-but it is useless to enter on the question of what he might have done. It would only lead us into that leviathan labyrinth of mental bewilderment and cerebral chaos suggested by the words of the Ethiopian melody, 'Supposing I was you? Supposing you was me? Suppose we all were somebody else?' Here the faculties refuse to budge one conjecture further-and even the poet himself, who opened this enormous flood-gate of probable possibility, was compelled to conclude his quatrain with: 'I wonder who we should be!' True, O poet! who, indeed!

Mais revenons à Versailles-to its green alleys, cool fountains, chiselled statues, and cut hedges. Such is the fickleness of man that we have ceased to wonder at its waterworks, once the pride and envy of surrounding nations. Our own Grandes Eaux at Sydenham surpass them. Now-a-days compressed vapour is paramount-and there can be no question that the Genius of the Ring, in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments,' has long been an overrated architect-the secret of

his instantaneous erection of Aladdin's palace was steam. It is steam that makes the world go round, and enables us haughty Britons to look coldly and critically on the splashing and spouting sea-horses of Versailles!

The bold and turbaned Zouaves guarding the gates look strikingly Asiatic at the portals of the palace of a Christian king; and the presence of three or four old ladies, guardians of as many stalls heaped up with cakes, lollipops, syrups, and lemonade, is not in keeping with this manufactured magnificence. But what would you? All sorts of folks come here, marchionesses, milliners, and masons, princes, pawnbrokers, and piemen-we will not pursue the alliteration further; and when one has thirst, one must drink, and one can obtain nothing spirituous or vinous in the gardens

the liquors are all pastoral as elderberries, and apparently, from their treacly consistence, not much nastier than elder wine.

The society on the terraces and in the alleys, in April last, was of a mixed description. It is a wonderful word that 'mixed,' as applied to men and women. How can human beings 'mix?' Towering in height and dignity was the inevitable Jritish tourist, happy in the possession of a catalogue and a strapped sac de voyage. The British tourist is in great request at Versailles. No sooner does he alight from the omnibus or cab, look at the palace depreciatingly and say, 'Pouvezvous?' than the guides and touters are upon him, and mark him for their own. He is not affable, the British tourist, but perhaps he makes up in liberality, in which case he must be very liberal indeed.

Scattered over the grounds are dozens of young mulattoes, dressed in the costume of the Ecole Militaire. If it be a holiday with them, they seem to bear it composedly and almost sadly, as if they would prefer being of a fairer complexion, not to afford so strong a contrast to the statues near and around them.

In the Bosquet d'Apollon, half a dozen young men are climbing and endeavouring to hurt themselves with

'Aie!'

every prospect of success. cries a gardien, 'Descend!' 'Why?' ask the young men. 'You will break your legs,' says the gardien.

'We are used to it!' is the reply of the climbers, who continue escalading with increased enjoyment.

All the world, his wife and family, have seen Versailles, which is fortunate for those who have to attempt to describe it-for it is indescribable. The eye in kindred action with the mind wearies with the embarras des richesses: the Salon des Pendules, the Cabinet des Chasses, the salle à manger where Louis XIV. welcomed Molière as a guest, and helped him to the wing of a fowl, to the intense indignation of the astonished courtiers, the Salle des Croisades, the Salle des Etats Généraux, the Salon d'Hercule, the Salle du Sacre, the Salon de Diane, the Salons de Mars, Mercury, Apollo, the Salon de la Guerre, the Salon de la Paix, the Salon de la Reine, and the Grande Galerie des Glaces, though they have been 'done' over and over and over again, are always wonderful-but they are to be seen, not spoken of. And it is in these gorgeous halls that the British tourist, who has a catalogue, begins to hate that ingenious instrument of torture, for it compels him to look upon its stereotyped pages, instead of absorbing the wealth of art around him.

The fourteenth Louis is so often represented in paint and marble, that after an hour's slide over the polished floor, you begin to detest that potent monarch with the intensity of a sans-culotte. Surely his whole existence must have been passed in posing' to various artists-and what a mercy for posterity that photography wasn't then invented!' He must have been a strange man, that highsouled, high-heeled little great one! In one of the ballets in which he disported himself, Night summoned the Twelve Dark Hours, who appeared with the sleeping Aurora as a prisoner. Aurora woke, and wherever she ran, was obstructed by the Dark Hours; the Twelve Hours of Day came to her rescue