Remembering all these things, one of my first excursions was to this place, hoping to live these memories over again, and thereby perhaps to feel young once more. But I looked in vain; on the very spot where the humble restaurant stood, towers at this moment a beautiful new church, with wealth of statues and ornaments; it is called "La Ste. Trinité," and is the pride of the neighborhood. But I looked at its highly decorated white façade with a feeling of disappointment. I should so have liked another slice of that famed "Ros Bif!" Everybody has heard about the boulevards of Paris, encircling the city, and intersecting it in every direction, giving it fresh air and beauty. Every one, too, has heard of the straight new avenues, radiating from the Arc de Triomphe like rays from a sun, and of the manifold new streets which have swallowed up so many old ones; and, above all, of the wonderful opera house, which stands just opposite Rue de la Paix, and which is to be one of the wonders of the world. I have heard and read that it is almost finished, therefore conclude that it is my own want of perceptive powers which makes it still appear to me like a huge, uniform mass; lately, however, through the breaks in the scaffolding I have perceived parts nearly finished, with ornaments of color and white marble, and from these glimpses I conclude that when the time comes, I shall be able to indulge in the ecstasies of admiration expected from all beholders of this mammoth enterprise. But all this is not Paris, Paris of olden times, of history; it is beautiful, but it is terribly new, and the old fogies of the Faubourg St. Germain, emerging from their narrow streets, shake their heads at the broad new avenues, with their unmitigated straightness and meaningless uniformity. The other night I went to hear a play now much in vogue, called La Maison Neuve, a capital satire on this "Nouveau Paris," and full of local hits. But why should I attempt to tell you anything about it? Americans know everything about everything, and probably while you are reading this, The New House is figuring in large letters on the play bills at Wallack's, and managers "out West" are conning over the possibilities of adapting this nice little tid-bit of novelty to their stage. All the French shading, all the palpable hits, will, alas! be made limpingly to apply to New-York, Chicago, St. Louis, etc. We are a great people, there is no doubt; but do we not, sometimes, in our great hurry to be ahead of everybody else, make little mistakes? In a recent conversation with some French friends, I mentioned that La Famille Benoiton was figuring East and West. "Mais comment! how can they understand it? even Frenchmen, if not Parisians, would have difficulty! mais c'est impayable." I quietly replied that we were a great nation, which is a convenient answer on many occasions; but between ourselves, is it not a pity that we do not aim at a little originality? that we must ape Paris quite so much?