My first visit to Paris was some twenty years ago, when I was sent on my travels, before settling down to a hum-drum law office. I remember well many quaint nooks and corners, which I look for in vain now. Among other places, I see in my mind's eye a certain queer old tavern restaurant, famed for its English dishes, its gray-haired waiters, and its cheapness; it stood in Rue St. Lazarre, at the head of the Chaussée d'Antin, a wide and populace thoroughfare. Here, escaping from my establishment "de garçon" hard by, I used to find myself at about six o'clock waiting for my slice of "Ros bif." Well I remember the old room, with its comfortable half light, and white-covered tables; well, too, do I remember the old gentleman who invariably took the cosiest nook, and secured the paper over which he invariably dozed; and the student of medicine who carved his chicken with a skill that made my blood run cold. But more vividly than all do I remember a young countryman of mine, an artist, with his English wife, a young girlish creature, who particularly interested me; they seemed so happy, made so light of that hard struggle with poverty--which so often turns the strength of young men to despair, and the love of young wives to sourness-- that I made an effort, notwithstanding my shyness, to become acquainted with them. We have been friends ever since, and as I write, the young artist, having conquered in the battle of life, is both known and respected in his native country; as to his wife, though she certainly is no longer girlish, she is as merry as ever, surrounded by her bevy of grown and growing daughters. {98}