place of amusement without her little “bench” under her foot:  it is invariably brought her at theatres or cafes, as a rule; and each of the larger theatres in Paris has a dozen or so of these “ouvreuses,” as they are called, who are paid usually two sous by each lady who accepts a little bench.  In the present instance the fee is as small as it possibly could be, and the bench-woman ekes out her income by selling cakes, oranges and candies.  Curiosity to know her earnings elicits the frank reply that she often makes as much as thirty sous a night in her sphere of labor.

The Funambules orchestra is composed of three instruments—­a big bass, played by a tall, genial-looking man who wears a flannel shirt and a paper collar, and has a bald head; and a piano and violin, played by two handsome, dark-haired, romantic-looking young men, apparently brothers.  The music is excellent.  The performance lasts from seven till twelve, five hours, and includes three pieces.  The first is a farce, in which the orthodox stage papa looks over the top of a screen in a fury at the orthodox stage-lovers, and ends the piece by joining their hands with the orthodox “Take her, you young rascal!” The second piece is a nautical, black-eyed-Susan sort of drama, with the genteel young navy lieutenant who sings like a siren; the jolly old tar who swaggers like a ship in the trough of the sea; the comic servant who is in love with the heroine, and whose passion brings him droll burdens of woe; and so on.  Both these pieces are interspersed with songs, duets, quartets, after the manner of the old-fashioned Dibdin “Jolly Waterman” style of pieces, never seen on our stage now-a-days, nor on the French stage except at minor theatres.  Follows a pantomime—­Monsieur Goosequill’s Troubles—­the only pantomime of the kind introduced in America by the Ravels that I have ever seen in Paris, this style of entertainment having gone completely out of fashion in France.  The papa of the farce (who was also the Jack Tar of the drama) reappears in the pantomime as Pierrot, the white-faced clown; and tremendously funny is he.  There is a weird, elastic harlequin in a ghastly mask which he never lifts; and an amazing notary in an astounding nose, who proves to be Monsieur Goosequill.  There is a humpback of hideous deformity and a Columbine of seraphic loveliness; and all Monsieur Goosequill’s troubles come out of the fact that he endeavors to marry the humpback to the Columbine, who prefers to marry the harlequin.  And so the notary’s quill sets fire to the inkstand:  the table is bewitched and treads on his corns; and indeed he suffers terribly and turns somersaults of agony.  Peace arrives at last through the humpback giving up his suit; the curtain falls on Columbine and harlequin bowing and backing, hand in hand; gran’pere and the babies are all three fast asleep; but the bright-eyed boy in his mother’s lap asks with unabated interest, “Pou’quoi fait-on ca?”