OF POPULAR LITERATURER Science and Arts. CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS. No. 231. SATURDAY, JUNE 5, 1858. A PARISIAN SOIRÉE. Nor very long ago, I, Beatrice Walford, paid my first visit to Paris, and stayed there some time. I was very young, very fresh, and ardent in those days. I was open-eyed, open-eared, eager to enjoy, prone to admire, and not unwilling to criticise. I started, to be sure, with a great contempt for the French character: I knew that the men were monkeys, and not to be trusted; that the women were vixens, and given up to dress. This was all the mental provision I had made for my two years' residence amongst them. Otherwise, I entered almost in that state of innocence which finds it astonishing that the natives of France should speak French. My first single emotion was delight at the radiant world I found myself in. I was on a visit to a sister, who, some six years before, had married a French gentleman of the petite noblesse, had become a widow, and having lived a good deal in Paris, preferred still to reside there, but was very glad to have me, as she said, to give a little liveliness to her triste home.' I did not myself think it at all triste when I first arrived. It was in that bright bit of Paris, the Avenue des Champs Elysées, one of a row of elegant houses, all glittering in their brilliant white stone, with their moulded and gilded façades on each side of those broad sunny walks and their double avenue of trees. And did not my sister's small, pretty apartment open on me as a tiny Peri palace, as on entering the ante-chamber, I heard the gay piano sounding, and just saw into the bright little drawing-room within, where the sun, shining in from the Champs Elysées, played on a little shrine, gay and fragrant with flowers. And like the nymph of flowers and fragrance herself, came forward my graceful sister, to kiss and smile at me. When the first vague, happy greetings were over, she made me sit by the fire, and threw herself carelessly back in a low chair by my side, playing with her little queen-baby, a roseand-white child with two dancing sapphires of eyes. We were soon laughing together, for she was excitable and easily amused, and, though older by some years than I, more of a child. The dear Sybil! I never could describe Sybil, she was such a delicate blending of counter-elements-white nymph-like figure, with ethereal complexion, and golden-brown hair, and a kind of celestial sweetness in her eyes, and her still smile. The admiring Frenchman, monsieur or ouvrier, would pronounce her in the streets a blonde angelique; and I have known a lecture or concert room fill with a low general murmur of pleasure as she entered, followed by the not whispered PRICE 1d. word 'Anglaise.' But beyond that white charm, I do not know that Sybil was particularly English; there was a life and play, a foreign grace in dress, manner, and speech, that seemed to have been kindled in a warmer, more exciting atmosphere than ours. I believe that, nevertheless, the quick French eye could discern, underneath, the English simplicity and spontaneity which has so complete a charm of its own. Perhaps she was something of a coquette, but I did not mind that. 'Why, Sybil, it seems to me,' I said, as I leaned out on the light iron grillage of the balcony, 'that one can see all Paris without stirring from one's place. It is as if all the world was gathered into a picture below these windows for our amusement. From that bronze fountain, with its silvery jet-and-foam halo, in the Place down there, to that arch of triumph, so cut out in the blue air at the other end, it is all a dream.' 'There goes the President,' said Sybil; and I looked, though the name was not then much of a spell. I saw a low-hung, elegant calèche, with four horses, valets and postilions in livery of green and gold; and leaning back in it, with folded arms, a slight, inanimate-looking man, of clayey, or rather leathery complexion, who touched his hat now and then, with a wooden, immovable face, to the scant greetings of the passers-by. That tired and passionless man was patiently biding his time, seeing by the light of his star-in what appeared to others the dark chaos of his future-a clear, sharp path up to strange power and grandeur for himself; and in the dark silent workshop of his brain, forging with the hammer of his iron will the chain that he threw over France in a single hour. Was he laughing deep down at the folly of those who despised him, because, unlike themselves, he knew how to form his own plans, and hold his tongue? To me, as to the rest of that unforeseeing world, all was enjoyment-the enjoyment of eyes ever pleased, never satiated. The day was given, as were many after-days, to walking through this brilliant modern Paris, admiring her in her ordered and stately grace; then wandering into the gloom and squalor of the older city, entering grand buildings, the shrines of past ages-hearing divine thunders and angelic voices in churches; then, at one step again, amidst a torrent of human life, while the quick French nature seemed ever running like a light sound of laughter or music by our side. It was always a pleasure to come back to our own street, with its regular clean white houses, its row of windows à deux battans on the upper stories, all opening down to the floor upon long light balconies of prettily carved ironwork, the white and green persiennes thrown back against the walls, shewing the fair muslin curtains within, and all shining as nothing in London ever shines. We approach our own house; the great double doors fly open at a touch of the bell, and by the pull of a string, and before us appears a large handsome court, with two or three glass-doors at the end, one into the concierge's, lodge, the others opening on the great common staircase. Within, is another large court, built round by the four sides of the house. The outer court is adorned with flowers in boxes, dahlias, oleanders, and orange-trees; a marble Venus stands at the foot of the staircase. As we pass the concierge's lodge, I see, through the glass-door, the comfortable-looking room, lighted with fire and candle, and that grim, respectable old dragon and his wife reclining at their ease in fauteuils placed opposite each other. In the loge or the court is often to be seen that prime French favourite, a superb Cyprus cat, with waving, plumy exuberance, of fur. But when I inquire after him, I am so often sternly told that Monsieur se promène,' that I have given up this dissipated gentleman as scarcely a respectable acquaintance. Then comes the wide staircase, up whose smooth well-waxed parquetéd steps we trip so easily. But stop, I must learn to walk demurely, at least when I am alone; for I am told by Sybil's careful bonne, who watches over my morals, that on such occasions les demoiselles must not run up stairs; they must go la téte relevé, and leisurely, to shew that they are not ashamed of being seen. I must be careful too, shortsighted as I am, to see the concierge, wherever he may be, and to bow to him, for he is a man of lofty politeness, whose good manners I ought at least to try to imitate; and, as Gabrielle says, nothing is so necessary to demoiselles, nothing so carefully taught them in France, as a gracious and amiable deportment. So up we pass, only bowed to by some stranger locataire, should he pass at the same time, each landing-place exhibiting the safe-locked door of some elegant asylum in which a family may be dwelling, joyous, yet quiet, as at home in some English country cottage. We reach our own. Sybil and I each take possession of a deliciously elastic causeuse, all soft and rich with crimson velvet, see our own pleased tired faces in many a gilded mirror, and discuss the incidents of the day. 'Well, you little Anglaise,' said Sybil, a few days after my arrival, 'I must take you into a little society this evening. Very often I have two or three friends myself, who drop in, in a quiet way; but to-night we must go to Madame Gibbs.' 'Who is Madame Gibbs?' I asked. 'Oh, she is a droll little body-a Frenchwoman, married to an Englishman, who piques herself on being quite English, though you won't think so. Her society is very mixed; but the party will just suit you for a beginning, being quiet, yet very amusing. How do you expect to like it, from the specimens of humanity you have seen by day?' 'I confess,' I said, 'I am not yet so far reconciled to black beards and moustaches, cigars, absurdly cut clothes, and prolonged stares. Not that I long to kill every man I meet; but this, you will say, is illiberal; and perhaps it is.' But I have since grown so hardened or corrunted, that when the more serious Emile said to me: "Comment, madame, osez vous quelquefois vous promener seule? vous visgreez d'entendre des choses désagréables;" I answered with the most innocent fifteenyears old air: "Les choses que j'entend ne me sont pas désagréables." But I don't wonder that you do not yet feel accustomed to hearing varying statements as to your nationality and candid information about your "typé, your hair, and your complexion." But wait for this evening's experience; Frenchmen in the street and in the salon are not the same thing. At anyrate, don't utter those opinions before Hermine, as, though she may very possibly think the same, she may also betray you to her countrymen.' Parlez du soleil et vous verrez ses rayons." Just as Sybil spoke, the door opened, and in came two ladies-an elder and a younger, of whom the latter engaged at once my beauty-loving eye. They were Madame de Fleury-Sybil's mother-in-law, who lived in the same hotel, on a lower floor-and ber young daughter, Hermine, with whom I instantly made acquaintance. A brilliant little French syiph she looked, as she half-tripped, half-glided into the room. She moved quick and decidedly, with a grace half-careless, half-coquette; her small, trim figure had just that happy degree of compression which gives slightness without stiffness. Her face, I thought at the first moment, young and fresh as it was, was hard; it had a metallic sharpness and clearness, the very reverse of the soft, dreamy, veiled charm of young English beauty. She wore a smile, not soft or timid indeed, but full of a gay, conquering brilliant sweetness of its own. Hermine was very gracious to me. Had she met me in the street as a stranger, she would most likely have measured me with the eye of quick, unsparing criticism, which, in a moment, takes in the whole figure and dress, and which not a spot, a wrinkle, or a fold of it, if the fashion, escaped; and then turned away with that slight derisive smile, so singularly calculated to disconcert or provoke an Englishwoman. But now, perhaps Hermine satisfied herself in that glance that my pretensions as a rival were not formidable, my gown and bonnet having obviously not been made in Paris. At any rate, coming up to me, graceful and self-possessed, she made her felicitations with a tone of affectionate interest, in her light, ringing, singing voice, and that air, so winningly empressé, which attracts, flatters, and caresses to the highest degree. A pretty Frenchwoman, who means to please, knows how to manage the briefest meeting, the slightest chance-intercourse, especially with the other sex-be it only a handing from a voiture, a making way in the street, and with but a bow, a smile, a 'Merci, monsieur,' so as to turn it all into a little sentimental passage; and this charming manner they all have, more or less, from the highbred young countess to the poor fruit-woman at her stall. Hermine and I exchanged a few light sentences; I making crude efforts to rival her manners, to smooth and refine my phrases as prettily as I could, instead of trusting only to my downright sans façon English good-will, which was quite put to shame by her exquisitely polished conventionalities, and all this in a language of which not a word came straight to my tongue when I wanted it. Sybil soon relievingly interposed that it was time to dress for Madame Gibbs. We withdrew together, leaving Hermine and her mother, who were prepared to accompany us. 'It seems to me so,' said Sybil candidly; 'but then I have been some years learning toleration. As for staring and talking to one, you know, there are two things a Frenchman never can help using, his eyes and his tongue. As that dear Monsieur Lamonette once said to me, when, being younger, I objected a little to the process-no impertinence is intended; it is only an artless, spontaneous tribute. "Un homme naïf et ingénu comme moi," as he was pleased to say, "can't help expressing his feelings." | by my blunders.' 'Will you put me up a little to these soirees?" I asked of my sister; 'you know I have lived so long in a lonely corner of Cumberland, I shall feel giddy at this sudden plunge into Paris life, and disgrace you Oh, these people are so indulgent,' said Sybil: 'they regard a foreigner's first crudities as charming and piquant novelties: to the newly arrived, all things are forgiven. I will tell you the sort of thing. One evening in every week, a lady receives company; and her acquaintance, if once they have had an invitation, are expected always to come that evening. They come, however, or not, as they like; the party is large or small, as may happen; they dress as they please; they come in and go out with no ceremony beyond just that of greeting their hostess; they stay long, if they find it amusing, or only a few minutes, if it is not so, or if they want to go elsewhere. The same people get a habit of frequenting the same places; so that one very often becomes intimate with a person whose family, or even name, one scarcely knows, and perhaps never sees by daylight, from meeting him or her two or three times a week, which, as mutual acquaintance have also their evenings, will often happen. So you see there is no effort, no gêne. People here meet to talk, and that with all their hearts. There is always the pleasant expectation of meeting there again any one who has begun to interest you, and the certainty of new faces, and of watching foreign and amusing ways.' 'Well, I like that,' I said; 'if only I need not talk a word the first three evenings.' I did not know my fate; or rather, I did not know myself. dancing-room is not made use of, except by an impromptu. The ladies' dresses are simply demitoilettes-the corsage montant not yet replaced by the décolleté. The young ones bring their fresh clear tints of pink and white, unworn by a long Paris campaign; there are plenty of happy idle men, the Chamber of Deputies not having yet opened, nor the collegelectures begun. The rooms of this apartment are not large, but they are pretty ones-well arranged for receptions, well furnished, and well lighted. They consist of two salons, just of the right sociable size and shape, each warm and cheerful, with a sparkling wood-fire in each, and couches and fauteuils scattered round in most inviting groups. I shall name no one to you beforehand,' said Sybil; 'it is so much more amusing to find out for one's self, except Emile de Fleury, who is a sort of relation: he is Hermine's cousin; has lately left the Ecole Poly-taires, some serious-looking Italian exiles, some half technique, and is in the army.' Our voiture rumbles and jumbles along the execrable paves of the aristocratic Faubourg St Germain, which is also the literary quarter, the colleges being chiefly there, and in this class of society lay our present acquaintance. The rooms are gradually filling, but the full choir of conversation is not begun. People stand, flit about unfixedly, exchange a word here and there, presenting those who wish to meet, find each other out, choose their places, and fall into a happy cleft of talk, either in a duet, or a group of three and four, changing as people leave or join it. Ere long the salon seems to present nothing but a crowd of black-bearded moustached men, whose white gloves are all waving eagerly through the room, and their tongues incessantly going betwixt talk and laughter. All are voluble, easy, selfpossessed, and seem in high enjoyment, except here and there an insular form, rising like a column above the rest, blonde-headed, reddish whiskered, heavy, good-looking, either silent or speaking quietly, perhaps with an air of gêne, and with looks and attitudes anything but at ease. Besides these there are very bearded artists, professors with lorgnons, a few miliun-nationalised travellers-citizens of all worlds, and many of them queer ones-some suspected Jesuits, with smooth smiles, softly joining every lively group of talkers, listening and seeming as lively as any. Here and there is a stray grand seigneur of the old school, known by his more quiet polished mannersgenerally a zealous Catholic, dévot without morality, and a chivalrous legitimist, doomed thus to coudoyer red republicans of the most emancipated creed; and finally, as large an element as any, fair bright English girls, often habituées of Paris, but national all over in speech, look, and dress, and evidently, in their fresh beauty and joyous simplicity, great favourites with these causerie-loving messieurs. French demoiselles make a very thin sprinkling; and when they do appear, it must be owned their countrymen neglect them a little. We stop at a large old dingy-looking house, in the Rue de l'Université, once the handsome hôtel of some grand seigneur, whose various floors are now filled with artists, students, and full-grown littérateurs. The porte cochère is open; we drive through into the paved open court, where several carriages are already standing. Three flights of stairs lead to the apartment of Madame Gibbs; we are ushered into a nice little anteroom, where an open stove or brasier, with its white marble top, diffused a delicious warmth, in compensation for the starry frozen bitterness without. Two smiling maids took charge of the ladies' mantles, There sits a knot of right English maidens-a cachemires, capotes, and all the rich winter-wrappings bouquet of two or three of these island lilies or northern that shroud till then the still more elegant evening-roses-and every now and then a lively-looking Frenchdress within. The light chorus of voices from within man slides up to them, hat in hand, and, with a smile, reached the ante-chamber, and in a few moments we makes two bows, the first at a distance, reverential; were amongst them. the second near, empressé-however intimate, hands are never shaken-and after a most polite inquiry as to the health of the young lady he has singled out-which must be answered, as he will repeat it till it is-he opens at once an animated flirtation. The mixture of lively badinage with compliment only implied, the appearance of interest, the pretty turns of speech, shewing just enough consciousness of their different sexes, and not too much, the readiness to listen as well as to talk, and the open-hearted, confiding frankness with which he communicates for her sympathy his feelings, his cares, or his sorrows-all strike the young English mind as very un-English indeed. Madame Gibbs had just re-commenced her weekly soirées. These were of a kind very frequent among the lettered, artistic, professional, and generally not very rich or exclusively fashionable circles in Paris, consequently, very mixed, very easy, and very agreeable. There was no show, expense, or elaborate hospitality of any kind; the greater part of the guests having long been in the habit of attending, were as much at home there as by their own firesides. Besides this regular and natural re-union of intimates, Madame Gibbs-being a brisk and vigorous societylover-was at some pains to flavour it with a spicy ingredient or two-a new arrival, a foreign celebrity, a queer character, a known talker, who either became permanently added to her set, or just lighted it up for the winter, or perhaps the evening, like a passing meteor. As yet, the season for gaieties, for balls, and fêtes, had not begun; the full flood of strangers has not poured in; as yet, therefore, these soirées have more of a quiet domestic character; the parquetéd The favourite beginning topic is a laughing raillery of mademoiselle on her prejugés atroces against his nation, which he either playfully deprecates or exaggeratedly confirms; and meanwhile, the English girl-if she be new and inexperienced-looks on the Frenchman with a sort of doubt, suspicion, and yet curiosity; he is a mystery of which she finds the study far from disagreeable. Theoretically, she has a horror of him, as something wicked, worthless, dangerous; yet, while drawn on by him to express this, she finds her real actual feelings to be those of surprise, amusement, interest, and, above all, that delicious one of gently gratified vanity. For the benefit of such innocent English girls, I may observe that this way of talking and style of manners is with a Frenchman a mere matter of course, and means very little indeed. Of course, my initiation into French society was somewhat on this wise; but I missed a good many of the favourite personalities, from the fact of my not being precisely the blonde et candide Anglaise which seems stereotyped in their imaginations. In fact, I was not in person of the peculiar English type (to use their pet word), though I soon discovered that I was to them most abundantly britannique in character and manière d'être. I could, after a while, perceive, not indistinctly, that I was somewhat of a favourite, and that I owed this solely to Sybil's extreme popularity. There would come up to me one after another, either led by Madame Gibbs or by the strong spirit within, to inquire, in tender tones, if I was not 'La sœur de cette charmante Madame de F-;' and very good they were to endure my sins of grammar and absurdities of pronunciation for her sake. So I sat by Sybil's side, and watched her innocent, delicate gaiety in the light passages of talk she had with divers kinds of people, her pretty caressing attentions to her female friends, her manners, so carelessly serene to the gentlemen, old and young, who came up to her. I had, as I said, my share of introductions; for some time, it was a quick desultory succession of indifferent persons. I scarcely caught a name, I hardly knew one face from another-all was equally strange, an Englishman often wild, and bearded like a foreigner, a foreigner sometimes speaking excellent English. 6 Before long, there came up to Sybil a young man, who at once detached himself to my eye from the crowd of similitudes, and who was named by her as M. Emile. He had decidedly a military air; but the first thing that struck me was his superiority in height, figure, carriage, and style of face to almost all the other young men. I had not then learned to distinguish at once a meridional' from a true Parisian, or son of the north, and did not know how characteristic of M. Emile's half-Spanish race was the tall, slender form, the superb curl and splendid black of his hair, beard, and silky small moustache, the pale olive hue of the south relieved by the softness of the expression, and the depth of the large black eyes. He approached Sybil quietly, with an air of homage almost timid, yet very sweet; then, on being introduced, bowed and addressed me with a kind of gentle formality; but I noticed in him, as indeed in most Frenchmen, an ease and propriety of attitude which gaucherie or nonchalance too often hinders an Englishman from attaining. A Frenchman presents himself well, and stands or sits straight and at rest -all but his gesticulating hands: his bow and his smile, without being empressé, have the air of one who means to please and be pleased. In the case of M. Emile, the gentleness with which he entered into conversation, formed a kind of shelter from the exuberant, noisy vivacity of the others, and I soon found myself pleasantly floating along a stream of metaphysical, critical, sentimental, and other discourse with the intelligent young militaire. He talked well, like other Frenchmen; but though his smile was ready and sweet, and his remarks often playful, he yet seemed to me subdued in comparison with the others; and I took occasion of a break in our conversation, to ask my sister if the young officer's heart had been blighted. 'No, I think not,' said Sybil; the state of his country, and his own want of hope of rising, tend to depress him; but you will often see him lively enough.' This was enough. When M. Emile, with his own quiet perseverance, again found a place by Sybil and me, to make me begin to talk politics, I asked him how he liked his present ruler. He shrugged his shoulders à la Française. You think him only better than anarchy?' I persisted, with English directness. 'I am in his service-I must not speak ill of him,' he replied. I begged pardon for my question indiscrète, and was politely forgiven. Indeed, a determined reserve was not in M. Emile's character-at least, towards one in whom he began to place a friendly confidence; and he ere long developed feelings which made me say: I am charmed to find you really a republican.' 'Mais vous êtes la première qui en auriez douté, he said in a gently injured tone. Still further emboldened, I affirmed: Si j'etais à votre place, je jeterais mon brevet aux quatre vents.' He pleaded the necessity of a profession, the chance and hope of serving his country in some way or other, which a present surrender of his position would for ever destroy-alleged reasons which I felt to be valid, but would not allow. I stood to my text-affirmed, with easy heroism, 'il n'est pas necessaire de vivre,' and so on, till he was reduced to a smiling, protesting 'mais vraiment, mademoiselle;' then to break off wondering at such enthusiasme exalté-' he had no idea he should find an Anglaise so democratique,' &c. I liked to see him as he stood smiling down from his tall height under his dark silken moustache, and pleased, amused, half-embarrassed smile, crossing and uncrossing his arms in a light and gentle style of his own, as he entered his protest against my exultation. I was a little displeased with M. Emile for what appeared an absence of heroic consistency-at least a temporising submission to circumstances; but I did him wrong, as his conduct on an after-occasion proved. It was perhaps fortunate for our nascent friendship that at this juncture there approached a gentleman whom I did not know, a complete contrast to the quiet, thoughtful, low-voiced militaire, and who had been fluttering about, or rather had paused in his erratic flight a moment near us, and then waiting for no introduction, plunged into the conversation, which from that moment he carried on, and almost engrossed with a torrent of spirits, esprit, badinage, laughter, and animation of look, tone, and gesture that I despair of describing. To say that he was amusing is little; I was never in my life so amused before. To say that he was extremely noisy, is also strict justice; and when attracted by the flood of talk and éclats of laughter from our group, other gentlemen from time to time joined it, till it consisted of five, six, or even seven at once, contributing their quota to the excitement, I felt myself at last in a bewilderment and fever of amusement, surprise, and exertion. Sybil at first gave me some aid, but she was called away by Madame Gibbs, and left to herself, the unfortunate'étrangére' found her difficulty in speaking become ten times greater. But this mattered nothing; the flattering politeness, the inexhaustible conversation and electrical good-humour of the unknown, covered and overpowered all. Encircled by these vehement talkers, I could not and did not think of escaping, and nothing but my own final departure put an end to the game, which seemed so agreeable to these gentlemen, of astonishing the Anglaise. I must say that they were also extremely well-bred, and the quickness and courtesy with which the unknown in particular listened to, understood, helped out, and replied to my very English French, was perfectly charming. As for recording one-tenth of what he said, it would be impossible; not without the tone and manner would it seem much worth recording; I can only collect some few stray drops from this Niagara of talk. I was first (of course) rallied on my supposed English prejudices against the French, and confirmed in them by the assurance that they were bavards, frivolous, foolish, and unreflective: the Gallic cock, said my new friend, was the exact emblem of the national character. Nothing could be more amusing than the way in which they ran themselves down, appealing constantly, in seductive tones, to 'mademoiselle,' for whose edification these tirades were uttered. They talked about national cruelty; their ferocity, especially that of the military, was admitted without a dissentient voice; but some one pronounced the cruelties of the English worse, because they were committed in cold blood, while the French were hurried away by passionate excitement. Finally, of all the excesses of all the most savage soldiery, those committed by the Austrians were said to be pre-eminent. Then the gentle M. Emile was rallied on the ferocity he had brought from one short campaign in Algérie; but to allay the horror I might be feeling for him, I was assured that he was the most humane of all, and that he had not 'egorgé plus d'une douzaine de femmes, ni mangé plus de quatre ou six enfans.' M. Emile then told composedly some stories of horrible massacres and murderous adventures in Algérie; but when he tried to allay the effect by touches of interesting incident or picturesque descriptions, he was unmercifully laughed at by his friend, who bade me believe nothing he said, for that M. l'officier was 'romanesque, ou peu sentimentale même.' You, at any rate, are not, I thought to myself. It was great fun to see this lively man teasing his friend, and then consoling him with a patronising, caressing good-nature, all of which the militaire took with his usual amiable serenity. From foreign they came home to domestic cruelties, which they told apparently with great gusto. Voilà, mademoiselle, encore le tigre,' was the delighted wind up. Having thus lighted on politics, we pursued the theme with something more of earnestness than before, and then my new friend, by certain oratorical poses, betrayed himself to be one accustomed to the tribune and to public representation. All Frenchmen, I observe, at all in the habit of public speaking, make a point, when interrupted for but two minutes, of following Lamartine's great example, and standing with their arms folded in an attitude of august calm. My friend's natural majesty was not much, but he did what he could. A pensive Italian joined the group; the sprightly professor-for so far I had made out what he was-instantly turned his fire of raillery on him, said something with much emphasis about 'le roi Bomba,' and then turning again to me, said: "We have one comfort; so long as the Neapolitans exist, we cannot be called the last of nations,' which hit the young democratical littérateur took very well. Then he gaily quoted the president's late reported saying: 'Il faut supprimer l'Angleterre,' and asked me how I liked it. 'Let him try!' I answered scornfully; adding, that it was very ungrateful of him to the country which had sheltered him so long. This remark was politely approved of; and when I was threatened with being detained prisoner at Paris in case of an English war, and answered 'Je resterai volontiers,' smiles and bows acknowledged my reciprocal politeness. When on being asked my political opinions, I confessed 'la rougeur la plus foncée,' and that I was ready to mount a barricade, M. le Professeur, with an air of most chivalrous gallantry, declared his determination de la monter derrière moi. A general shout of laughter informed him of his mistake, and it was in vain that he earnestly strove to improve it to 'devant vous;' he got nothing but the credit of the first assertion. In the course of the conversation on various subjects, the Italian littérateur, with a placidly professorial expression and in a tone of the mildest inquiry, suddenly asked: 'Quelle est la plus belle mort dont parle l'histoire?' This produced several instances, none of which I thought perfect, chiefly on account of their public, and even ostentatious character, and brought forward the negro slave in the wreck, who gave up his place in the life-boat to his master's two little sons. When I had begun this story, I became aware how little competent I was to bring it to a conclusion, and heartily wished I had never thought of it; but my hesitating narrative was received with as much silent, courteous, apparently interested attention, as if it had been le plus beau morceau d'eloquence au monde. I was sorry when Sybil summoned me away. A PLEA FOR THE EYES. THE eye of the workman is assuredly one of the choicest of his working-tools-the one, indeed, most deserving to be cherished and protected; and yet how great and prevalent is the carelessness regarding this exquisite instrument! Men in after-life have too often to pay dearly for not minding their eyes in their early days. It is eminently proper that the Society of Arts, after a hundred years of usefulness, should take up this matter; seeing that few greater contributions could be made towards the advancement of arts and manufactures, than a set of practical, sensible suggestions tending to the preservation of eyesight on the part of those who are engaged in industrial avocations. Some time ago, the Society appointed a 'Committee on Industrial Pathology on Trades which affect the Eyes,' consisting of Dr T. K. Chambers, Mr Simon, and Mr Twining. The course which this body pursued was, to send a circular of printed queries to all classes of persons, in all parts of the kingdom, who appeared likely to afford useful information on the subject under consideration. Some of the persons thus applied to made no response; while others dilated upon irrelevant matter-sending, in fact, a streamlet of text in a meadow of margin. Much valuable detail, nevertheless, was forwarded; and the committee made a report to the Society, embodying the chief facts laid before them. By condensing these facts, and throwing them into a different order, it may be possible to render the general bearings of the subject easily intelligible. The inquiry separates itself into two parts: what eye maladies are incident to particular trades? what eye maladies are due rather to injudicious management than to the exigencies of the worker's employment? In relation to the first question, there are undoubtedly numerous trades that seriously affect the eyesight. Artisans occupied at furnaces, such as smelters, glassblowers, and assayers, suffer in the eyes from excess of light; and it is difficult to see how this can be remedied; for the use of any kind of tinted spectacles that would modify the glare, would at the same time interfere with the workman's power of ascertaining when the glass or metal had arrived at its proper state of fusion-a point mainly to be determined by the intensity of light emitted from the molten substance. Chips of metal frequently cause injury to the eyes of metal-turners, fitters, hammermen, cutlers, and others, either by striking against the eyeball, actually entering the eye, or burning it when the particles are red-hot. Sparks are often very disastrous to foundry-men and blacksmiths, sometimes burying themselves in the very substance of the cornea, whence they have to be picked out. Chips of stone are sources of much eye-injury to |