MY DEAR C,

Paris is now quite Paris again, and the pleasure-seeking multitude have only the Embarras du choix: wherever they turn their eyes, bills announce the great attractions of the day, and the care that is taken to banish ennui. Müller and Dr. Demme are forgotten, in spite of their vogue a month ago, and Tom Pouce (Tom Thumb), second edition considerably augmented in width, with the addition of a wife and baby, is now the hobby of the day; he receives his visitors in his apartment, Hotel du Louvre, as a gentleman of independent fortune, and admits no children. Why this last clause I cannot tell; perhaps because children are too apt to consider him on an equality, and the little man seems to have a vast idea of his dignity, particularly now he has a baby. But this living wonder does not prevent us casting an envious eye on you in London, where we read, in our papers, an account of the marvellous achievements of your one-legged dancer, Donato, and of your heroine Dolores Adah Isaacs Menken; rumour says that the latter will soon visit us, so we have hope. En attendant, our masked balls have commenced, and at the first bal de l'opera the crowd was immense, and the exhalations garlickish, particularly in the foyer, where bears chatted with shepherdesses and grand lords with babies. A real lady made her appearance there, which is a rare thing. She was soon so distinguished by the throng that she was obliged to take refuge in the first box she could get in. Concerts, too, are very fashionable; and as for lectures, they spread with the rapidity of wild-fire, so much so that we shall soon have more lecturers than auditors: for now almost every man who can put two words together, considers himself born to lecture his fellowcitizens. At the Italian Opera Malle. Patti con tinues to reap fresh laurels in "L'Elisire d'Amore" of Donizetti, an opera that has long been neglected here, and in which Patti and Naudin now excite frenetic enthusiasm. You know that a little while ago the Director of the Italian Opera raised a great murmur in the Parisian press for having prohibited the entrance of the demi-monde, otherwise frail beauties, in his theatre he has lately made another reform behind the scenes, in the same praiseworthy spirit, and which meets with general approbation from those who frequent the opera to hear good music in good company. "Roland à Roncevaux" abates nothing yet, in its success at the French Opera, and the "Africaine" remains still for the future. Madame Arnold Plessy nightly exhibits in Maître Guérin her four magnificent dresses that cost six thousand francs: the theatre pays her dressmakers. And

L'Ouvrière de Londres-The London Workwoman,-dramatised from a novel of "Miss Braddon" by Mr. Hostein, fills the Ambigu not yet surpassed, in spite of the dark deeds, the with weeping eyes and exclamations of horror tragic theatres have lately fed us with. Two retired actors of renown have re-appeared,— "Passé Arnal at the Bouffés Parisiens in minuit" a piece which he played before Queen Victoria, when she visited Louis Philippe at the Château d'Eu, and which he again played before Her Gracious Majesty, Prince Albert, and the King and Queen of the Belgians in July 1845, in London, by the Queen's command, when Her Majesty laughed "comme une simple bourgeoise,” and the public laughed as much because the Queen laughed, as they did at the piece. The other is Bouffé, who had a benefit which gave him 25,000 francs, all expenses paid, the Emperor having granted him the Opera-house for the occasion, in remembrance of a promise made in London, just after Prince Louis Bouffé, at Bonaparte's escape from Ham. that period was performing in the English capital two pieces with equal success-one in which he was a boy, and in the other an old man. One evening, after performing the boy, he had retired to prepare for the old man, when the Count D'Orsay and a stranger entered his room. "Bouffé," said the Count, "my friend is very much puzzled to know how you managed to metamorphose yourself into an old man. Dress before us, and let him see." Bouffé, who was in great haste, needed no persuading, but went through the operation, to the infinite amusement of his two spectators, who thanked him for his kindness; "and," said the Count's friend, "if Prince Louis Bonaparte ever has it in his power to oblige you, he will." Bouffé wrote to the Emperor, reminding him of the promise, and the Opera-house was immediately lent him for

his benefit.

Alphonse Karr, in spite of his retirement in his lovely garden at Nice, has sent a new comedy, Les roses jaunes-Yellow Roses to Paris, we expect to have a treat. It is a very long time since the world has heard anything of our witty writer, except as the cultivator of the finest flowers in the country of flowers. His roses in particular are celebrated: they deck the tables of all the sovereigns and princes that visit Nice, and all the rich visitors pride themselves in having flowers from Alphonse Karr's hot-beds, though some find them rather dear, and think that 25 francs for a bunch of roses is too much. "You will let me have this bouquet for half the price," said a rich, but sparing Count, who had lately made friends with Karr. "If you only pay half the price, you will only have half the

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. A Novel in three volumes. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel. T. Cautley Newby, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish Square.)-Wanting the force and passion which the title leads us to expect, and for the true working out of which the authoress held all the elements in her hand, "Reaping the Whirlwind" is nevertheless a well-told story of considerable power, and exhibits the writer's knowledge of the better nature of her sex in a marked and intelligent manner. Nothing can be more real, more loveable and womanly, than the character of Ethel Beamish, nothing more true to nature than the imaginary sorrows of her early married life-her aching jealousy, her morbid fears for the continuance of her husband's love, her exigence, which arises not

from selfishness so much as from her own excess of affection and, as time passes on, the gradual recognition of her husband's true regard, and of the rationale of wedded life. With Gertrude, her sister, we cannot profess much sympathy; she walks apart, even by the side of an only and younger sister, and makes us feel the coldness of her self-contained and haughty nature, repelling from the very first. But the inhabitant of Primrose Cottage, and the two maiden sisters, the Miss Downings, and their niece and protegée Jane Norton, are charmingly real, and with all the "miching mallecho" of the lively little widow, Mrs. Vivian, and the peculiarities of the spinster's, pleasant persons in village society But Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel shall describe them herself:

Miss Downing was a lady of about forty years of aze, with a tall, stately figure, and the remains of considerable personal attractions. She was strongminded, healthy, energetic, and of very decided literary tastes, which had more than once induced her, it was said, to open a correspondence with the editor of a local paper, and to offer to supply both the poetry and the leading articles on very moderate terms, as well as to regale the editor (who lived at Boltby) with tea and toast whenever he felt inclined to walk as far as Graybourne. No one seemed very clear as to the result of these overtures; but Miss Downing was always suspected of being the author of several heroic and didactic compositions, which from time to time had appeared in the poet's corner of Theshire Instructor, and which were signed "Semiramis." In temper and disposition Miss Downing was really a pattern to elderly spinsters in general, being cheerful, contented, and, as far as appeared on the surface, entirely reconciled to her lot. The little widow at Primrose Cottage said, indeed, that she had by no means relinquished all hope of escaping from the despised sisterhood yet; but then that little widow wasn't a bit charitable towards other women, and could not quite forgive Harriet Downing for looking so well and handsome at forty years of age,

The second sister, Miss Dora, was an invalid and very romantic. She had long fair hair, which she wore in ringlets that were always out of curl, and somewhat wiry in texture; but her blue eyes were soft and pensive, and there were some sweet tones in her low and rather melancholy voice, which, united with her general appearance and invalid state, gave her a claim to be reckoned by most persons of the other sex as an interesting woman. Jane Norton, the niece, whom these kind-hearted ladies had adopted on the death of her parents, was a bright-eyed girl of about eighteen; not pretty, not graceful, certainly not clever, and yet with a quaint odd charm about her that it would be very difficult to define. Her aunts were very fond of her, and allowed her to do exactly what she pleased; and the consequence was she did nothing (when she was not playing with the cat) but a little needlework on her own account, and spent altogether as idle and profitless a life as could well be imagined. Her fat good humour, keen observance, and love of soft-furred animal pets, culminating in her affection for "Blabberty Cutsoms" (a pet dormouse), makes her, in Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel's hands, quite a character. It is only where the wicked people, with their wicked ways, come on the stage of the story, that the author dwarfs her own conceptions and disappoints the expectations of her readers by her evident fear of entering the list of the sensationalists. But the character of Meta belongs of right to that class of novels, and loses half its vigour by being transposed to the calm foreground of respectable domesticity. Her unscrupulous deeds lack action, and become tame enough when recorded at second hand. Also her lover Guy, who is meant to represent the unreasoning recklessness of a blind, infatuated, ill-regulated passion, exhibits no passion whatever in the presence of the reader; but is, in point of fact, boyish, and weak and insipid enough to conciliate us to his wife's indifference. Her active wickedness degenerates, in the last volume, into a weakness for brandy-andwater, and involves Guy, who for love of her had given up the profession of the church, and the aspiration of his genius, in the gathering of the weird harvest which she had sown, and which gives the title to these volumes. Walter Kenyon, the spoiled darling of fashion-the man of good impulses and weak will-amiable and irresolute-is well depicted; and the character of the vicar of Graybourn, though perhaps a little overshaded, is one well calculated to account for the tenderness and reverence with which Ethel Beamish regards him. But the charm of the story is in its telling. All the events but those which refer to Meta, and the mystery which surrounds her, evolve themselves quite naturally, and have that pleasant air of vraisemblance that the autobiographic style in which it

is written agreeably conveys. Moreover, there is a purity and right teaching in the truths the author inculcates, which gives a moral value to these volumes.

MAGNET STORIES: RAINBOW'S REST. By Thomas Hood. (Groombridge and Sons, Paternoster-row).—Where all are good, it should be sufficient praise to say of this charming little story, that it is the best of this year's series. The honoured name of the writer carries with it a certain prestige; but "Rainbow's Rest" requires no adventitious aid, to make it acceptable to young readers of either sex.

WORKHOUSE VISITORS SOCIETY'S JOURNAL. (London: Longman, Green, and Co). A new feature, and a very agreeable one, in the shape of a sketchy article, illustrative of life in the workhouse, is superadded to the usual reports and grave papers in the present number, and, as the Journal in all probability finds its way to the inmates of the workhouses, is calculated to inculcate, in an acceptable form, good seeds that might be trodden on if more didactically offered. We are glad to see the Society extending its usefulness,

THE CLIFF CLIMBERS; OR, THE LONE HOME IN THE HIMALAYAS. By Captain Mayne Reid. We have been written to many

times, during the last two or three years, to know when Capt. Reid was going to publish the sequel to "The Plant Hunters." One little boy added, that he thought it was a shame to leave Karl, Caspar, and Ossaroo shut up in that mountain valley so long. We thought so ourselves, but could not answer the question. We can now, however, inform our anxious readers that "The Cliff Climbers" is the sequel to "The Plant Hunters," and that they can now learn how the boys and their Indian friend succeeded in escaping from their prison; and also all the

wonderful adventures with beasts and birds which befel them in their efforts. We think it one of Capt. Reid's very best books. Of course we offer it as a premium.

There has been little alteration in the theatrical bills. All the houses have been busy with the preparation of the Christmas pieces, which, before these lines see the light, will doubtless be enchanting crowded audiences. We must necessarily defer till our next the consideration of the pantomimes and burlesques best worth seeing. By-the-way we must briefly allude to the production at

THE ADELPHI

of a drama from the French, called "The Workmen of Paris," one of the most remarkable pieces ever produced. The great scene is one of a large foundry, with all the works in full progress. Mr. Webster plays the chief part with

consummate skill and perfect truth of nature.

W. R.

Amongst the general theatrical gossip, we hear that Mdlle. Beatrice is engaged at the Lyceum Theatre, where Mr. Fechter is about

to appear in "Ruy Blas." "Miss Bateman is also expected at the New Adelphi; and Sothern has already returned to the Haymarket.

ROYAL POLYTECHNIC.

We know of no place of amusement where the little people, who claim the largest share richly catered for than at this Institution. of attention at this particular season, are more Professor Pepper, with his usual generosity, has provided not only tubs of toys, to be gratuitously distributed to holiday visitors, but new Dissolving Views, a new Pantomime, and novel Ghosts. We confess to a little anticipative shudder at the story which is made the vehicle for their appearance, and almost regret that little children should be made familiar with the horror of an Indian Suttee.