HAVE been enjoying Paris to the last degree. Weather as near perfection as this sublunary sphere allows. “The season” in full blast. Opera, theater and concerts for ourselves, these and all kinds of social entertainments, balls, parties, dinners, etc., for those who belong here and are “to the manner born.”

President Grevy gives jams and crushes; the remains of the aristocracy seem most given to the races, which occur almost daily somewhere in and around Paris; the ambassadors give their dinners and receptions; the artists, the literateurs, the everybody, are giving their particular kind of entertainment. Arsene Houssaye gave one the other day—his “Assembly,” it is called. It is peculiar, called “The Chase of the Dominos.” Everybody has to wear a domino. To insure an invitation, wit, vivacity and gayety are indispensable, while, in addition, behind the masks of the women must be beauty. Eulogy exhausts itself on the brilliancy of the success of this host. A dreamland palace, the earth despoiled of its treasures to adorn it, an exquisite cuisine, and the incomparable host. There is no hostess. One’s private character has nothing to do with it; only genius, it would seem. Such a curious medley of guests as were mentioned, Sarah Bernhardt heading the list of the feminine! I—I—wouldn’t have minded being there, not “incog,” but invisible! Just to have heard and seen that constellation of blazing stars. Every name was one known to fame.

I am having my chance at the musical side of Paris.

A pleasant American family, father, mother and two young lady daughters, give me the opportunity; always ready to go and eager to have me along. I am more than gratified. Will you be shocked if I admit to a Sunday afternoon concert? You know Sunday has none of our sacredness to Parisians; it is only a better, freer sort of fÊte day for those who have time to spare. Not all have. On my way to the concert, a week ago Sunday, I saw the house-painters busy; great wagons full of house-plunder—families changing their abodes, etc. Once in the concert-hall, “The Conservatoire,” the music made everything divine, I am sure. I do not coax impressions; so I think I may tell you, as proof of the character of the music, that at one part I seemed suddenly to have escaped from earth to that sphere we think of as Heaven. Hosts and hosts of orchestras were playing in perfect harmony with choruses joining in of countless myriads of voices, and through it all I was catching the music of the spheres. To give the least idea of how I felt, is beyond me. I was more than lifted up into “the seventh heaven.” The entire audience seemed equally under the unutterable influence. It is considered the finest audience in every respect that Paris has.

Am to spend to-morrow at the Luxembourg with one of the charming, young American girls. Don’t you wish you could be along? She is bright, well informed, amiable—a girl worth knowing and not too young—say about twenty-six or twenty-seven. She talks well, has an active mind, is ambitious for knowledge, and I like her. Besides, she cossets me if I feel under the weather. I think I like that best of all! Would not you? I can answer for you—yes. I am too tired for another sheet. Are you not glad?

L. G. C.

Paris, April 1, 1884.