On Wednesday I again took a trip to Paris, accompanied by my frescoed dog, Bologna, and found upon reaching that city that the Mackerel Brigade had built itself a theatre, after the manner of Drury Lane, and was about to partake of the rich intellectual drama. This chaste temple might possibly be taken for a cowshed, my boy, by those who are not conversant with architecture in one story. It occupies a spot which has been rising ground ever since the Mackerels commenced to dig trenches around it, and the front door is so spacious that you have to go all around the building to find where it stops opening. The seats are similar to those which are supposed to have been so popular with the Count de Grasse and the stage is exquisitely extemporized from several flour-barrels, with a curtain created from the flannel petticoats recently belonging to the wife of the Southern Confederacy. Passing over all intervening events, my boy, let me direct your special attention to the night we celebrated, when I found myself occupying a box (previously used for crackers) in the temple of the Muses, surrounded by uniforms and dazzled by the glitter of the shovels worn by the military celebrities present. In a box (marked "Sperm Candles--First quality") on my right, I noticed a number of distinguished persons whom I did not know, and to the left were grouped several celebrated visitors with whom I was not acquainted. The stage itself realized numerous brilliant footlights in the way of bottles containing gorgeous tallow-dips; and when the orchestra brought out his key-bugle and struck up the martial strain of "I want to be an Angel," there _was_ a dry eye in the house. (Make a note of this last unparalleled fact, my boy; for you, nor any other mortal man, ever heard of its occurrence before.) The curtain having been taken down by a gentleman who had forgotten to wash himself when the washstand went round last time, the play commenced; and I found it to be THE UNION AS IT WAS. A HIGH MORAL DRAMA, IN ONE ACK. BY CAPTAIN VILLIAM BROWN, ESKEVIRE. The plot of this admirable work is very simple, my boy, and appeals to those sentiments of the human heart which affect the liver. The scene is laid in Washington, where it has been frequently seen, and the drama opens with a fine CONSERVATIVE CHORUS. Abram, spare the South, Touch not a single slave: Nor e'en by word of mouth, Disturb the thing we crave. 'Twas our forefather's hand That Slavery begot; There, Abram, let it stand Thine Acts shall harm it not.