Yes, very tired my body is with pain, And heart with care, while thoughts perplex my brain. O sweet Repose! If thou mine eyes wouldst close, My wearied limbs compose, And bind me till the morn with slumb'rous chain! Not yet? Ah, cruel Sleep! soon I shall find Thy brother, sterner called, to be more kind. Most welcome guest, Death bringeth gift of rest-- Rest undisturbed and blest, When dream and care and pain are left behind. EMILIE POULSSON. THE PARIS CAFES. Alimentary, and not literary, is the modern cafe. Times are so changed since Voltaire, Diderot and the rest sang and shouted in the Cafe Procope--jested, reasoned and made themselves immortal there--there are so many people who have the means to frequent cafes, and there is such an immense floating population, eager, curious and bent on sightseeing, that no clique can live. Its precincts, no matter how hallowed, are invaded by the leering mob and His many-headed Majesty the Crowd. Still, certain cafes are able to boast a _clientele_, with the military, journalistic, artistic or commercial element in preponderating force--cafes where the stockbrokers, students or officers go--but the old historic cafe, the cafe of tradition, where you were sure to find some celebrity on exhibition--a first-class poet or a philosopher--may be said to be defunct. The Grand Cafe and the Cafe de la Paix under the Grand Hotel, being very central, near the new Opera, and gorgeously fitted up, are the chief rendezvous of the fashionable floating population, aristocratic loafers of all nations, where representatives from the remotest parts of the earth meet to stare at each other under the same roof--Persians, Greeks and Hindoos, Sandwich Islanders and Yankees. Tortoni's is a restaurant and cafe of the highest class, the most select in the city. Cafe Riche and Cafe Gretry, both fine cafes, are much frequented by stockbrokers, who in the evening are wont to assemble on the sidewalk near by, making the night air ring with their wild shouts of "give" and "take:" if dispersed by the police, as they often are, they generally gather into knots a little farther on. Cafe du Helder is appropriated almost exclusively to the military, officers in _bourgeois_ dress, students from the Polytechnic and St. Cyr, and horse-jockeys. The Cafe des Varietes belongs to the actors--a noisy, brilliant place--whilst the Cafe Madrid is the literary cafe of the nineteenth century, if there is any. Under Napoleon III. it was the centre of the radical opposition, being frequented by all the shades of Red, from the delicate hue of the _Debats_ to the deep crimson of Flourens and Rochefort. Under the Commune it continued to be notorious, and to-day it is the resort of lawyers, journalists and Bohemians--lesser lights who seem to like the location, on the confines of the bad Boulevard Montmartre, and have no objection to the _cocottes_ who come there in the