ing of all, is carried on in an immense room, where the open windows carry away clouds of smoke. The price is lowered of those cigars that are not firstrate; while the best are placed in cupboards around dark rooms, where they remain eighteen months or two years in an atmosphere as nearly like that of Cuba as can be.

Tobacco for smoking is the only kind left to be described; and, as many of the processes are similar, it will not be necessary to dwell long upon it. After the softening of the leaves by water, they are placed in a machine not unlike a guillotine, which cuts them with the greatest precision: the blades are changed every twenty minutes, so soon do they lose their fine edge, and sent to be resharpened by steam. The fermentation, which gives the savor to snuff, would be ruinous to tobacco: it must be placed in a high temperature to kill all the seeds of it. A beautiful cylindrical machine, called a torrefactor, doing the work that used to require twenty men, is now employed: it seems as if it were endowed with intelligence, so well does it regulate the temperature of ninety-five degrees which is required. The cooling and cleansing from dust are accomplished by means of a ventilator in a turning cylinder, which does not allow of a moment's repose. All the essential operations are now ended: the tobacco, which looks very much like crisped hair, is collected in a well-ventilated room, where it remains for six weeks; the larger pieces are picked out, with any morsels of iron, leather, or wood that may have got in by chance; it is weighed, and made up into sealed packets, which are stamped and dated, in order that amateurs, who prefer the article fresh, may have the opportunity of procuring it.

Fashion has for a long time approved of the smoking of tobacco instead of the use of snuff, in which our forefathers loved to indulge; but official returns show a great increase under the head of rolls for chewing. Is it owing to the infiltration of American manners that this is due? Any one who has seen a rope-maker at work with a winch will understand how the rolls for this purpose are prepared. The leaves, previously moistened, are arranged on the turning-wheel, and, when twisted, cut into lengths of a certain weight to increase the flavor, and prevent too rapid drying, they are dipped in a trough filled with concentrated tobacco-juice. They are then pressed in packets, so as to give the proper shape, and express the superfluous fluid, after which they undergo a few days' drying, and are ready for sale.

The increase in the sale of all kinds of tobacco shows how many ardent votaries it has; but there are also its declared adversaries, who wage war upon it. Many surgeons undertake from time to time a crusade against it. Its abuse is pernicious in every sense; but there is a wide gulf between that admission and the consequences which some predict from its use. If a person smokes incessantly from long-used and too short clay pipes, he may be attacked with small cancers in the tongue; but this seems to be the only effect which science has established, though the Italian doctor, Pauli, asserts that the skulls of smokers become black. Public attention has been directed, since 1829, to nicotine, an organic alkali, composed of carbon, hydrogen, and azote, which is furnished by the leaves of tobacco, and is one of the most violent of poisons. It is certain that one of the stronger kind of cigars contains sufficient of this, which, if extracted and treated chemically, would kill a man; but the same may be said of a pound of almonds having prussic acid in them. It is one thing to swallow a pure body, chemically isolated, and to absorb it when mixed with foreign matters which take from it all its mischievous properties. Half the nicotine in tobacco is extracted from it, during its manufacture, by washing, fermentation, and evaporation; and, of the small quantity which remains, it is needless to speak, as people use it so constantly and do not die of it.

Some medical writers have supposed that the increase of insanity was in proportion, and had relation, to the use of tobacco; but it would be more according to truth to set it down to the excessive drinking which prevails in England, Sweden, and Norway, more especially; and also in France

since the Algerian army introduced absinthe: that and alcohol are the true causes of the increase of mental maladies. In the former, which contains seventy-two degrees of alcohol, there is real poison, which burns and destroys the vital organs; and traces of exfoliation and depression have been clearly marked on the brain of drinkers of absinthe, leading to maniacal madness, and softening of the mental organs. Tobacco, on the contrary, is a soothing narcotic, to which we become easily accustomed; the moderate use of which is without danger, and which helps to mitigate many of our troubles. To convince ourselves that the alarmists need not utter their anathemas as to its destruction of reason and health, it is only necessary to see what passes in the navy and the manufactories, where so much is daily consumed. It is ascertained, without doubt, that the quid is the form of tobacco in which the most nicotine is taken, since it is chewed, and thus enters into the digestive organs. Sailors are seldom without it in their mouths, as smoking is forbidden between decks, and at many other times. It is not found that there is more than an ordinary proportion of insanity in the navy. As for the workmen in the manufactories, those who live from morning to night amidst its emanations, and are, so to speak, steeped in the fumes of nicotine, no special illness attacks them. In cases of epidemics, they take their chance; but in these, and especially in cholera, they are found to be in some degree protected from contagion. Those who make the tobacco into rolls, and dip their hands into the concentrated juice, feel no evil from it. Sometimes the skin is slightly excoriated by the salts of potassium; but that is all. One man has been at the work for fifty years, and is eighty years of age: his hands are dyed black with the strong liquid, but he has never suffered from illness. There is only one affection noticeable: it is, that if a person, whose hands are impregnated, rubs his eye, it becomes inflamed, and a slight ophthalmia follows for a day or two, easily yielding to the use of eye-water.

For the rest, there is a very simple way of neutralizing the effect of tobacco, when too much has been taken, or when tried by a débutant: it is to drink a cup of strong coffee. The tannin which is contained in coffee is the antidote to nicotine. Those who are obliged to try the cigars, and smoke beyond all reason, when their taste is spoiled, take coffee, and recover immediately that sureness of appreciation which permits them to continue their work. In this, the Turks are our teachers: they have discovered the means of smoking continually with pleasure, and without weariness, by drinking a cup of coffee after every pipe, the grounds of which serve to clean their long chibouques.

"ON THE SURFACE.”

MESDAMES FOLIBEL occupied a double set of rooms, au premier, on the Boulevardes des Italiennes. On a door to the right, a large brass plate announced that Mme. Augustine Folibel presided over lingerie et dentelles, and invited the public to "tourner le bouton." To the left, a large steel plate proclaimed Mme. Alexandrine Folibel, Modiste, and invited the public to "ring the bell." But after a certain hour every day, both these invitations were negatived by a page in buttons, who, stationed at either door, kept the way open for the ceaseless flow of visitors passing in and out of the two establishments.

My friend, Berthe de Bonton, was just turning into the lingerie department, when I came up the stairs.

"How lucky!" she exclaimed, running across the landing to me, and then in a sotto voce, "Madame Clifford," pronounced Cleefore, "is here, and wants me to choose a bonnet for her. Now, if there's a thing I hate, it's choosing a bonnet for an English woman. To begin with, they haven't the first rudiments of culture in dress; then they can never make up their minds, and they find every thing too dear; but the crowning absurdity is, that they bring their husbands with them, and consult them! Figurez-vous, ma chère!" and Berthe, with a French woman's keen sense of

"Ah, bon jour, mesdames! I am at the orders of ces dames. Will they take the trouble to seat themselves just for one second!" entreated Mme. Augustine, who greeted us in the first salon, where she was carrying on a warm debate on the merits of Alençon versus Valenciennes, as a trimming for a bridal peignoir.

"I only want to say a word with reference to my order of yesterday: where is Mademoiselle Florine?" inquired Berthe, looking round the room, where there were several groups ordering pretty things.

"Florine! Florine!" called out Mme. Augustine. "Voici, madame!"

Mlle. Florine was a plump little boulotte of a woman, who wore her nose retroussée, and always looked at you as if she had reason to complain of you. Without being the least uncivil she looked it. Her nose was uncivil: it had a supercilious expression that made you feel it was considering you de haut en bas. The fact is, Mlle. Florine was not happy she was disappointed, not in love, but with life in general, and with lingerie in particular. She had adopted lingerie as a vocation, and it was going down in the world: it was degenerating into pacotille; grandes dames were beginning to grow cold about it, and to wear collar and cuffs that a petite bourgeoise would have turned up her nose at ten years ago. More grievous still was the change that had come over petticoats. The deterioration in this line she took terribly to heart; and the surest way to enlist her good graces and secure her interest in your order, be it ever so small, was to preface it with a sigh, or a sneer at red balmorals or other gaudy and economical inventions which had dethroned the snowy jupon blanc of her youth, with its tucks and frills and dainty edgings of lace or embroidery.

Berthe, it so happened, shared very strongly this dislike to colored petticoats, and was guilty of considerable extravagance in the choice of white ones: Mlle. Florine's sympathies consequently went out to her; and no matter how busily she was engaged, or with whom, she would fly to Berthe as to a kindred soul the moment she appeared.

"I have been thinking over those jupons à traine that I ordered yesterday," said Berthe, to the pugnacious-looking little lingère, "and I have an idea that the entre-deux Anglais will be a failure. We ought to have decided on Valenciennes."

"Ah! I thought Madame la Comtesse would come round to it!" observed Mlle. Florine, with a smile of supreme satisfaction: "I told Madame la Comtesse it was a mistake."

"Yes: I felt you did not approve; but, really, twelve hundred francs for six petticoats did seem a great deal," observed Berthe deprecatingly. "Now, suppose we put alternately one row of deep entre-deux and a tuyauté de baiste, edged with a narrow Valenciennes, instead of all Valenciennes ?"

"Voyons, réfléchissons!" said Mile. Florine, putting her finger to her lips and knitting her brow.

It occurred to me in my bed last night," continued Berthe; "and I fell asleep and actually dreamed of it; and you can't think how pretty it looked: so light, and, at the same time, très garni.”

"A la bonne heure! Parlez-moi d'une pratique comme cela!" exclaimed Mlle. Florine, clasping her hands, and turning to me with a look of admiration, which was almost affecting from its earnestness: "there is some compensation in working for madame, at least. If ces dames knew what I have to endure from les trois quarts du monde!" and she threw up her hands, and shook her head in the direction of the premier salon. "But let me get out the models, and see how this dream of Madame la Comtesse's looks in reality." Boxes of lace and embroidery were ordered out by the excited lingère, and under her deft and

Here was a predicament!

"Attendez," said Florine, dropping a dozen rouleaux of lace on the floor, as if such costly chiffons, the mere mortar and clay of her airy architecture, were not worth a thought : laissons la question de jupons pendante; I will go myself this evening and discuss the toilettes of Madame la Comtesse with her femme-de-chambre; we will see the style and fall of the new skirts, and adapt the jupons to them."

"Que vous êtes bonne!" exclaimed Berthe, looking and feeling grateful for this unlooked-for solution of her difficulty.

"It is a consolation to me, Madame la Comtesse,” replied Mlle. Florine, with a sigh; " and I need a little now and then!"

We wished her good-morning.

"Let us go back now to Alexandrine," said Berthe. "I hope Mrs. Clifford has made up her mind by this time."

But the hope was vain. Mrs. Clifford was standing with her back to the long mirror, looking at herself as reflected in a hand-glass that she turned so as to view her head in every possible aspect, while Mr. Clifford looked on.

her.

Do you think it does?" she inquired, as we came up to

"I think a darker shade would suit you better," I said: "that pale pink has no mercy on one's complexion."

"I've tried on nearly every bonnet on the table," she said, looking very miserable; " and they don't any of them seem to do."

"Madame will not understand that the first condition of a bonnet's suiting, after the complexion, of course, is that the hair should be dressed with regard to it," interposed Mme. Alexandrine, who, I could see by her flushed face and nervous manner, was, as she would say herself, à bout de patience: "these bonnets are all made for the coiffure à la mode, whereas madame wears un piegne à galerie. Mon Dieu! mais il y a six mois que le peigne à galerie ne se porte plus!"

I suggested, à l'appui of this undeniable argument, that the comb should be suppressed.

"Oh, dear no: I wouldn't give it up for the world!" said Mrs. Clifford, with the emphatic manner she might have used if I had proposed her giving up her spectacles. "Then you must have one made to order." "Yes," said Mme. Alexandrine: "I will make one for madame after a modèle à part."

But then it will be dowdy and old-fashioned," demurred the English woman.

"Then let madame sacrifice le piegne à galerie! What sacrifice is it, after all? Nobody wears them now: c'est d'un autre siècle," argued Mme. Alexandrine, appealing to

me.

"This one was a present from my husband," replied Mrs. Clifford, in a tone that seemed to say, You understand, there is nothing more to be said.

I did not dare look at Berthe. Luckily she was beside me so I could not see her face; but I saw the muff go up in a very expressive way, and suddenly she disappeared into a little salon to the left, set apart for caps and coiffures de bal. I heard a smothered "burst," and a treacherous armoire à glace revealed her thrown back in an arm-chair, stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, and convulsed with laughter. Mme. Folibel, whose risible faculties long and hard training had brought under perfect control, received the communication, however, with unruffled equanimity.

66

That explains why madame holds to it," she answered very seriously "c'est naturel et c'est touchant. Still, one must be reasonable; one must not sacrifice too much to a

sentiment. Monsieur would not wish it," turning to the gentleman, who stood with his back to the fire-place, listening in solemn silence to the controversy.

"Monsieur understands that the chief point in madame's toilette is her bonnet. I grieve to say English ladies themselves do not sufficiently realize the supremacy of the bonnet: yet a moment's reflection ought to show them how allimportant it is; how necessary that every other feature in the dress should succumb to it. The complexion, the hair, the shape of the head, are all at the mercy of the chapeau. Of what avail is a handsome dress, and fashionable shawl or mantle, costly fur, lace, an irreproachable tout ensemble, in fine, if the bonnet be unbecoming? All these are but the rez-de chaussée and the entresol, so to speak; while the chapeau is the couronnement de l'édifice. Le chapeau, enfin, c'est la femme!"

At this climax, Mme. Folibel paused. Mr. Clifford, who had listened as grave as a judge, his hands in his pockets, and not a muscle of his face moving, while the modiste, looking straight at him, delivered herself of her credo, now turned to me.

"Unquestionably," he said, in a serious and impressive tone," there must be a place in heaven for these people: they are thoroughly in earnest."

Mrs. Clifford took advantage of the aparté between her husband and myself to follow up Mme. Folibel's oration by a few private remarks.

Clearly, she was staggered in her fidelity to the "sentiment" which interfered so alarmingly with the success of the couronnement de l'édifice; but she had not the honesty to confess it outright. She was ashamed of giving in. Without being often one whit less devoted to the vanities of life, an English woman is held back by this kind of mauraise honte from proclaiming her allegiance to them: she is ashamed of being in earnest about folly. Now, this British idiosyncrasy is quite foreign to a French woman; even when she is personally, either from character or circumstances, indifferent to the great fact of dress, she is always alive to its importance in the abstract, and will discuss it, without any assumption of contemning wisdom, but soberly and intelligently, as befits a grave subject of recognized importance to her sisterhood in the carrying on of life.

"What do you advise me to do, dear?" said Mrs. Clifford, appealing to her husband, the wife and the woman warring vexedly in her spirit.

"Give in," said Mr. Clifford. "What in the name of mercy could you do else? A dozen men in your place would have capitulated, after that broadside ending in the woman and the bonnet."

"What does monsieur say?" inquired Mme. Folibel. Monsieur had answered his wife with his eyes fixed on the French woman, as if she were a wild variety of the species, that he had never come upon before, and might not have an opportunity of studying again.

"I suppose I must sacrifice the comb," observed Mrs. Clifford, affecting a sort of bored indifference, and looking about for her old bonnet: "so we will leave the choice of the model open till I have had a consultation with Maccadock, my maid, and see what she can do with my hair: she is very clever at hai-Iressing."

"O de grâce, madame!" exclaimed la Folibel, terrified at the rough Scotch name, that boded ill for the couronnement. "Your maid, instead of mending matters, will only complicate them still more. You must put yourself in the hands of a coiffeur, who understands physiognomy, and who will study yours before he decides upon the necessary change. If madame does not know such a man, I can recommend her mine: a coiffeur-artiste, in whom I have unlimited trust. I send him numbers of my pratiques: he never fails to please them, and I can trust him not to compromise Madame understands, the success of my bonnets depends in no small degree on the way in which the head is adjusted for them. Il y a des têtes impossibles, that I could not commit my reputation to. I am sometimes obliged to make a bonnet for them, but I never sign it. I have my name removed from the lining, and so edit the thing anonymously. It would compromise me irremediably, if my

me.

Signature were seen on some of your countrywomen's heads."

Mrs. Clifford, awakened to the responsibility she was about to incur, promised to consult the artist instead of her Scotch maid; whereupon Mme. Folibel handed her a large card which bore the name M. de Rysterveld, and his address. Under both was a note setting forth his capillary capabilities, and informing the public that, — "Monsieur de Rysterveld tient à prouver qu'il est possible de rester gentilhomme tout en devenant coiffeur." The modiste then assisted Mrs. Clifford to tie on her own bonnet, observing, while she smoothed out the ribbon carefully, as if trying to make the best of a bad case, "I am glad that madame has consented to give up that peigne à galerie: it really is an injustice to her head, and it is simply out of the question her having a chapeau convenable while that impediment exists. Madame will be quite another person," she continued, addressing Mr. Clifford: "monsieur will not recognize her with a new chignon, and in a bonnet of mine."

"Oh, then I protest!" said Mr. Clifford dryly: he understood French, but did not speak it. "I protest against both the chignon and the bonnet, madame."

"Plait-il, monsieur ?" said Mme. Folibel, looking from one to the other of us.

"Dear Walter! She means I shall be so much improved," explained his wife, laughing.

"Improved!" repeated Mr. Clifford, not lifting his eyebrows, but writing incredulity on every line of his face. His wife blushed; and her eyes rested on his for a moment. Then turning quickly to Mme. Folibel, she made some final arrangement about a meeting for the following day.

Just at this juncture Berthe came back. I was glad she was not there in time to catch the absurd little passage between the two. A husband paying a compliment to his wife, and she blushing under it, after ten years' ménage, would have been a delicious morsel of the ridicule Anglais, that Berthe could not have withstood: it would have diverted her salon for a week.

"Well?" she said, five notes of interrogation plainly adding, "Are you ever going to have done?

"C'est décidé," answered Madame Folibel, coming forward with an air of triumph. "Madame sacrifices the comb!"

"A la bonne heure!" exclaimed Berthe. "I congratulate you, chère madame. Even au moral, you will be the better for it. For my part, I know no petite misère more demoralizing than an unbecoming bonnet."

We all went down stairs together; but at the street-door we parted from the Cliffords.

"Where are you going now?" asked Berthe.

"To the réunion at the Rue de Monceau," I said: "I got the Fairepart last night; and I want particularly to be there to try and get a child into the Succursale school. There is only one vacancy, and six are trying for it: so I fear my little protégée has small chance of success. and give me your vote, Berthe."

Come

to

"Chérie, I would with pleasure; but I am so dreadfully busy this afternoon. I promised la Princesse Mlook in during the rehearsal chez elle; and then, I've not been to Madame de B's jeudis for an age; and I almost swore I'd go to-day."

"Well, what's to prevent your going afterwards?" I said. "It's not yet four, and the réunion does not last more than an hour. Monsieur le Curé arrives at a quarter past four and leaves at five."

"But one is bored to death waiting for him," argued Berthe," and the room is so hot, chez les bonnes sœurs; and there won't be a cat there to-day, I'm sure; everybody is at the skating."

"Oh! the parish and the skating don't interfere with each other," I said, laughing; "but I see you can't come: so, good-by, I must be off. Mademoiselle de Galliac will be waiting for me."

"Comment! Is la petite to be there? I particularly want to see her. I want to know how her snow-storm cos

* A fact.

tume went off at the Marine; for in the crowd I never caught sight of her. Chère amie, I'll go with you to Monceau. After all," she continued, drawing a long sigh, as we stepped into her carriage, "this life won't last forever: il faut songer de temps en temps à la pauvre âme."

We were a little behind our time for the canvassing. Four of my rivals were before me in the field, and had robbed me of a few votes that I might have secured by being there a quarter of an hour sooner.

"Now, Berthe," I said, "it's your fault: so you must bestir yourself to help me. Attack those young girls in the window, and persuade them to vote for my child."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know; go and ask them."

Berthe charged valiantly at the group in the window, introducing herself by embracing the young girls all round, and declaring her perfect confidence in their support. They gathered round her, fascinated at once by her beauty, and her frank, attractive manner. I saw at a glance that the votes were safe, and that I had no need to bring up re-enforcements in that quarter: so I set to work elsewhere.

Perhaps it would interest my readers to hear something of the bonne œuvre itself. Its object is to take charge of orphans of the poorest class, clothe, feed, and educate them till the age of twenty-one. The members are exclusively ladies, married or single. To be a member, it is necessary to be a parishioner, to pay a small sum yearly for the maintenance of the confraternity, and to assist at the monthly meetings, where the wants, plans, and progress of the work are discussed in presence of the curé, who is always president, and another parish-clergyman elected directeur; the rest of the board, treasurer, secretary, and vice-president, being chosen amongst the members. When an orphan is proposed for admission, a written statement, giving her birth, parentage, and circumstances, and setting forth the special claims of the case, is placed on the green table of the assembly-room, at which the dignitaries preside during the meeting. This preliminary fulfilled, the next step is to secure the votes of the confraternity. The demand being always much greater than the supply, when a vacancy occurs it is sure to be sharply contested. A zealous patroness takes care to canvass beforehand; but, from one circumstance or another, there are always a good many votes still to be disposed of on the day of the election; and the halfhour that elapses from the opening of the assembly to the arrival of the curé is spent in fighting for them, and presents a scene of interesting excitement. The patroness is looked upon as the mother of the little petitioner, who, once admitted into the orphanage, is called her "child." Those who are long members, and very zealous, succeed in getting in many orphans, and thus becoming mothers of a numerous family. The most devoted of these mothers are generally the very young girls. The way in which some of their young hearts go out to their adopted children is touching and beautiful beyond description. They seem to anticipate the joys and cares, and to invest themselves with something of the very dignity of motherhood in their relations with the little outcasts, who look to them for help in a world where, but for them, they would, apparently, have no right to be; where no one cares for them, no one loves them, except the great Father who suffers the little ones to come unto him, and will not have them forbidden. Every month the sœurs send in a special bulletin of the conduct and health of each child, addressed to the adopted mother, and read by M. le Curé at the meeting. According to the contents of the bulletin, the mothers are congratulated, or the reverse. Little presents are sent to the good children, and letters of reproval written to the naughty ones. In this way, the maternal character is kept up, till the children leave the shelter of their convent home. Then the mothers assist in placing them as servants or apprentices, or, better still, in getting them respectably married.

While Berthe was gathering up votes for me on her side, I was busy on my own, and when the bell rang, announcing, as we thought, M. le Curé, I had a pretty good poll.

The buzz of talk subsided suddenly, the high function

aries broke away from the common herd, and took their places at the green table, near the fauteuils, awaiting the curé and the vicaire. Some of the very young mothers looked eager and flurried. One in particular, who was a rival candidate with me, seemed terribly nervous. She was about seventeen. Two juvenile mothers, on either side of her, were speaking words of encouragement, and trying to keep up her hopes.

"Tu as bien prié pour que je réussise?" I heard her say to one of them. "The poor old grandfather will break his heart if Virginie is refused. He can't take her into Les Vieillards, even if it weren't against the rules, because he hasn't a crust of bread to give her. He has nothing but what the sœurs give him for himself. Oh! do pray hard that I may succeed!

"Let us say another Pater and Ave before M. le Curé comes in," suggested her companions; and the three friends lowered their voices, and sent up their pure young hearts together in a last appeal to the Father of the fatherless in behalf of the little orphan.

The door opened. It was not M. le Curé.

"Ah! bon jour, cher ange!" exclaimed Madame de Bérac, embracing Berthe with effusion, and talking as loud as if she were "receiving" in her own salon. "What a charming surprise to meet you! I came to vote for Marguerite's protégée, and see how my dévouement is

crowned!"

I expressed my satisfaction at virtue's proving, in this case, its own reward.

"But why have I not seen you before?" inquired Berthe. I did not even know you were in town."

"I hardly know it yet myself," replied Madame de Bérac: "I only arrived last night. Marguerite wrote to me, imploring me to be here if I could, in time to vote for her. Chere aimée," she continued, turning to me, "till you reminded me of it, I actually forgot I was member at all.” "Well, now that you are in town, you mean to stay?" said Berthe.

"Hélas! I only remain a week."

"But you said you meant to spend the Carnival here?" "When I said so, I believed it."

"And what has changed your plans?" I inquired. Madame de Bérac shrugged her shoulders.

"Mon mari à l'indélicatesse de me dire qu'il n'a pas d'argent! One can't stay in Paris without argent." "Quel homme!" exclaimed Berthe, with a look of pity and disgust.

The door opened again. This time it was the curé.

After the usual blessing and prayer, he declared the séance opened, and read the reports of the board and the bulletins. These matters disposed of, the business of the election began at once. A brisk cross-examination soon put four candidates hors de concours. Two had fathers who could support them, but wouldn't. The confraternity found the children not qualified for its charge. Two others were not parishioners of St. Philippe du Roule. Of the six who had started, two, therefore, only remained on the field. One was mine, the other was the protégée of the young girl whose conversation I had just overheard. We were to divide the votes between us. Our respective orphans had the necessary qualifications: it only remained to see which of the two, as the more destitute, could establish the primary claim on the protection of the confraternity. Mine was ten years of age. She had two tiny brothers, and a sister some five years older than herself, who, since the death of their mother, six months ago, had supported the whole family by working as a blanchisseuse de fin by day, and as a lingère half the night. But the bread-winner gave way under the load of work, and now lay sick at the hospital, while the brothers and the sister, clinging to each other in a fireless garret, cried out for bread to the rich brethren who could not hear them. The Curé de Sainte Clothilde had promised to find shelter for the boys; but what was to be done with the girl? I had stated these plain facts in the petition, and now verbally recommended the case to the compassion of the members, and once again asked for their votes.

My rival's child was twelve years of age. She had no brothers or sisters. She was utterly destitute, but in good health, and nearly of an age to support herself. M. le Curé listened to the two cases; and, when he had heard both, his judgement seemed strongly impressed in favor of mine.

In spite of the interest I felt in my poor little protégée, I could not help regretting the impending failure of my young competitor opposite. She had answered the cure's questions in short, nervous monosyllables, and now sat drinking in every word he said, two fever spots burning on her cheek, while her eyes swam with tears that all her efforts failed to swallow.

"To the vote, mesdames!" said the curé. "I fear, Mademoiselle Hélène, you have a bad chance.”

"Oh, Monsieur le Curé !" burst from Hélène : "her poor old grandfather will die of disappointment."

66

"My poor child, I hope not," said the curé evidently touched by her distress, but unable to repress a smile at this extreme horoscopic view: "your protégée's having a grandfather is indeed an advantage on the wrong side."

"He's blind, Monsieur le Curé! and paralyzed! and eighty-six years old!" urged Hélène, gaining courage from desperation; "and his one prayer is to see the petite safe, somewhere, before he dies. O Monsieur le Curé!" She stopped, the big tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Voyons!" said the good old pastor, rubbing his nose, and fidgeting at his spectacles: "let us take the vote, and then we shall see. You have a child already, have you not, mademoiselle?'

"Yes, Monsieur le Curé, I have two; but one is in the country. at the Succursale."

The votes were taken; and, by a very small majority, I carried it. My voters congratulated me, while Hélène's friends crowded round her, condoling. But the poor child would not be comforted: overcome by the previous emotion, and the final disappointment, she sobbed as if her heart would break.

"Oh! really it's too cruel to let that dear child be disappointed," said Berthe. "Can't we do something, Monsieur le Curé? Can't we, by any possibility, squeeze in another child?"

"Nothing easier, madame: you have only to create a new bourse, or get subscribers to the amount of three hundred francs a-year for the term of the child's education," replied Monsieur le Curé.

"Then I subscribe for two years down," said Berthe impulsively. Who follows suit?"

66

"I do," said another speaker: "I will subscribe for one year."

"And I will give forty francs," said a third. "And I a hundred," said the curé, who was always to the fore when a good work was to be helped on.

In a few minutes the green table glistened with gold pieces and notes. It was all done so quickly that Hélène had not had time to ask what it was all about when Berthe ran up to her with the good news that her child was taken in.

"How good you are, madame!" said the young girl; "but I knew you were good: you have the face of an angel!"

It is better to have the heart of one," said Berthe, laughing, and hastily rubbing a dewdrop from her own fair face.

"Now I must make haste away, or I shall be late for my lesson," said Hélène.

"What lesson are you going to take, ma petite?” inquired Berthe affectionately.

"I am going to give one, madame,” replied Hélène: "I live by giving music-lessons."

"Then you must come and give me some," said Berthe. "Here is my address. Come to me to-morrow, as early as you can!"

"You are not sorry I made you come; are you, Berthe?" I asked, as we went out together.

"Sorry! I would not have missed it for the world."

HAWTHORNE'S "SEPTIMIUS FELTON."

SEPTIMIUS is the last story written by Mr. Hawthorne. It is published by his daughter, just as it was found amongst his manuscripts. It will, as she anticipates and as we fully agree, possess a peculiar interest for his fellow-workers in the same art, from the fact that it had not received his final touches. After studying the finished performances of a great painter, it is very interesting to observe his work in its earlier stages. We may fancy that we gain more insight into his methods from the rough sketch than from the picture in its full dress. That this is frequently true in pictorial, and even in literary art, we are not at all disposed to deny. Whether it is true in the case of Hawthorne, seems to us to be a little doubtful. We may learn, indeed, from the imperfections and the gaps in the present story, how carefully he worked out the effects which have so singular a charm for many readers. We may learn, if we did not know it before, that admirable ease of style is the result, even in men of the most unmistakable genius, not of immediate inspiration, but of great talent combined with conscientious and patient labor. When we are piling up epithets to express our admiration of a first-rate poem or romance, we are apt to intensify the wonder by pronouncing its felicitous harmonies to have been struck out at once by the incomprehensible insight of genius. This, however, is a childish method of criticism. It is, or ought to be, a truism, that every perfect piece of execution has involved much previous labor, though it may be that in some cases the actual execution has been rapid and only the previous preparation long. Hawthorne's best writing, at any rate, was any thing but an improvisation. Many preliminary studies and much careful consideration of effects went to all his most brilliant work. But having learned thus much, we confess that we do not see any further lessons to be discovered. The secret of exquisite taste is incommunicable. We can see that "Septimius " might have been improved by subsequent elaboration; but we do not see how it came to be so good as it is, or by what principles the author was guided in feeling his way to its improvement. Certain notes are judiciously preserved in the text, which show us at what points he thought that further illustration was required, that a character needed to be more plainly made out, or that a particular vein of sentiment was capable of fuller development. Half-way through the story, the lady with whom the hero has been in love becomes his half-sister. The change certainly simplifies the construction of the story, and renders the main situation more telling. We see, in short, the good effects of the change; but we are just as much in the dark as ever as to how and why it occurred to the author of the story.

Such, at least, is our state of mind; and curious as it is in a certain sense to watch the statue growing under the sculptor's hand, we still wish that it had received its last touches, and appeared before us as polished and complete as "Transformation" or "The Scarlet Letter." Hawthorne may be pronounced with little hesitation to have been by far the finest literary artist whom America has yet produced. His books, popular as they are, scarcely enjoy, or are likely to enjoy, a popularity proportionate to their merits. The rare and exquisite charm which they possess is scarcely to be appreciated by the ordinary mass of mankind; and, indeed, it is chiefly for that reason that we should decline to place him amongst the greatest masters of his art. The very highest class of imaginative work is that which appeals to the vulgar at the same time that it is appreciated by connoisseurs. Hawthorne's delicate perceptions, his graceful style, and his singular power of blending the romantic with every-day life, are likely to be deeply felt only by those who have reached a certain level of cultivation. The atmosphere which he delighted to breath is too thin for ordinary lungs: the profane are not at their ease when straying in that dim twilight between the real and the supernatural where his power was most conspicuously exhibited. Hawthorne was a born lover of romance in the