eem old friends, so full and cordial had been their hospitality, and
so much had we found to talk of in the quickly-passing hours of my
visit. Mr. Kingsley drove me three miles on my way to Winchfield. His
talk with me was interspersed with cheery and friendly words to his
horse, with whom he seemed to be on very intimate terms. "Come and
see us again," he said as we parted: "the second visit, you know, is
always the best."

ELLIS YARNALL.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

A WOMAN'S OPINION OF PARIS AND THE PARISIANS.

I have now lived in Paris two consecutive years, and during this time
the question has often been put to me, "How do you like Paris and the
Parisians?" That question I will now try to answer.

Like Paris? Of course I do--heartily and truly. Cold indeed must the
heart be that does not find space in its depths for a true affection
for the fair queen-city which welcomes all strangers so kindly and
hospitably, which has a smile for all, and which at the wide banquet
of her bounty sets forth food for every phase of mental hunger. Do you
wish to study? Her libraries lie open to your research--her monuments,
her galleries, her public institutions are given to your inspection,
freely and without price. Do you seek amusement? Paris, in that
respect, is like the rollicking heroine of _Barbe-Bleu:_ there is none
like Boulotte, "quand il s'agit de batifoler." Do you wish to hide
yourself in depths of unbroken quiet? There are in her very heart
lonely streets where scarce a cart ever penetrates, and in her suburbs
green shaded nooks where the spirit of Solitude reigns supreme.

Life runs on such smooth and well-oiled wheels for all humanity in
Paris that half the cares that torture us are cast aside as soon as
we enter her precincts. Take, for instance, the grand question of
housekeeping. Fancy living in a land where all the servants
are skilled and civil, if not all trustworthy and honest; where
washing-days and ironing-days and baking-days are unknown; where there
are no staircases to sweep down and no front-door steps to scour;
where rents and eating and all other household expenses may be gauged
in accordance with one's purse. If you wish to entertain, you may give
a soiree that will cost ten dollars if you cannot afford to give a
ball that costs five thousand. Nothing is _de rigueur_ in Paris. It
is neither incumbent upon you to be housed splendidly nor to feast
sumptuously--to drive your own carriage nor to e