An accomplished linguist--Le Petit Champ des Morts--Bird’s-eye view--Breakfast table of the hotel--English Embassy--Interview with Lady Stratford de Redcliffe--The sanctuary of high diplomacy--Lord Stratford de Redcliffe--Signor Roco Vido--His apartment--Importance of a good dinner--Lord Stratford’s diplomatic banquet postponed--Probable consequences--Quotation from the _Gastronomic Regenerator_. The rays of the sun on that showery March day assumed, towards five p.m., in the regions of the West, a most brilliant aspect. The vaporous edges of the humid clouds seemed gilded with vermilion and silver tints. The floods of light, like living fire, fell upon the rich masses of the domes of various mosques, and hundreds of pointed and slender minarets. While gazing in loneliness and contemplation, from the terrace of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, at this charming spot in the East, to which the beautiful mirage of an Oriental sunset lent an indescribable charm, a shrieking voice was heard from the lower terrace, saying, “Il signor, la table d’outre est servi! et il se refroidit fortement! La soupe il étoit tout à fait déménagée of the tureen!” Looking over the railing, I perceived the interpreter of the hotel, who was unfortunately the possessor of several tongues, addressing himself to me. He, no doubt, meant to imply that the table-d’hôte had been served, and the soup already removed from the table. This _olla podrida_ of languages having produced no effect upon my mind, half an hour after, the son of the hotel-keeper made his appearance, who, though speaking French like certain horned beasts in Spain, clearly gave me to understand that I was too late for dinner. Taking advantage of his unexpected visit, I inquired, looking towards the arsenal, “What part of the metropolis is that opening near us?” “Le Petit Champ des Morts, or the Small Field of the Dead,--so-called, though nearly two miles in circumference, which is now so full that no further interments are allowed within its area,”--he replied.