most heartless, when one wants things not to be had, and expects to hear instant promises of having it down by next train. Still life of this sort is the life in which things get done. I think we are sometimes too busy to be able to set to anything. However, as 'London Society 'is said to be met with everywhere, perhaps these small hints of work may penetrate where there is time for them, and where people can feel acute pleasure in the thought of a new occupation; where society is not cut and dried, as ours is quietly becoming.

There really is, in a way, more simplicity about French than English life. People do not, in the former, seem to be half afraid of doing what is convenient, and of wishing to make the best of all things about them. It is simply an acknowledged and legitimate desideratum. I think it is very harmless for people to show what they feel. If they are ashamed of a thing, one fancies that it should be the root, and not the mere branches they stifle.

And then, as every one goes with the intention of pleasing and being pleased, things are apt to go on with very much more entrain. Exceptions, no doubt, prove all rules, and there may be exceptions to this; but, as a rule, in France people very much take their own way. Those who like going out, go; and those who wish to stay at home, stay.

There is no law so universal that every one is drawn into it. The infinite variety is one of the charms of French life. The toilettes are made for the wearers. No two persons are quite alike—in consequence, no two toilettes. The sort of parties vary with the houses. There is no sudden outbreak of one sort of amusement, that one sort being worked to death.

Last night I was at a party-one of the most amusing and well gotup that I have seen. There is such a habit abroad of taking things as you find them. I could not help thinking last night what Englishwoman would ever dream of asking even a dozen intimate friends to tea, under the same circumstances

as those under which this charming affair was got up. The rooms were those of a furnished lodging. They were small and exceedingly low; the drawing-room crossed with beams; the furniture downright shabby. The dining-room was upstairs, over the drawing-room, and a small sort of lobby was the only place for the cloaks. And yet, in this house, they receive regularly several times a week; the guests received and the toilettes would grace London or Paris courts; and there is an entrain, an absence of formality, a consciousness that the people, and not the rooms make the soirée, which really must be seen to be at all appreciated.

The entertainment last night was in the form of charades. Charades, which played with French wit, were in themselves the most charming and piquant little dramas. There had been no rehearsals, 'people can't make the same hits twicerehearsals spoil all the life of things, so some of the actors told me. The first word played last night was Basse-cour. For the first of these words a much enduring, but by no means long-suffering leader, was anxiously endeavouring to organize a concert. The basso's self was forthcoming-he had heard the demand for such a thing, and appeared with excellent testimonials; but when his organ was talked of he had to go and fetch it. And the big violoncello emitted astounding growls. The cour was a German princedom. The reigning duke was magnificent. He opened negotiations, and sought the co-operation of France with most happy sense of royalty and equality. The neighbouring power offusqueing' him must forthwith be crushed. The general in chief of the armies was called into the council. The uniform was brilliant, and so was the conversation. The courteous French ambassador with the savoir faire of great courts had to listen with interest to the report of a standing army,-' cavalry, and infantry, and artillery,' being described as mountingin the aggregate' to 'a force of twenty-five men.' The characters here were the grand duke, who

appeared in a red uniform; the duchess who sat by quietly and asked now and then pertinent questions (not to say impertinent ones); the minister of foreign affairs, who prompted his ducal master; the grande maitresse, and the general; and lastly, the poor French ambassador.

Here comes the whole word Bassecour. Awful gruntings are heard in the distance-surely they grow nearer; it can't be on the stairs. Alas! a pig is in peril, and after sounding snorts-a scuffle-a bolt, and squeals numerous-in enters to the company a very nicely-dressed pig, combed and washed to perfection, and looking quite pinky and white. Piggy in a few moments attains some equanimity, and is, I suspect, more composed than the party who has the charge of him! However, his small eyes peep with wonderment over the scene, and the footlights especially perplex the porkish mind greatly. Poor piggy is held too safely by the orthodox string, and as I always shall protest, the chamberlain and ex-deputy who conducts the pig don't know his business, and so he is awkward, and catches his own leg in poor piggy's string-an insult and a tug which any pig would resent as this piggy does, emphatically. Then there are ducks and fowls too, it becomes a downright farmyard; and that, by the bye, is only saying how well they did Basse-cour.

French balls, too, are very amusing. It is so unlike England. In the part of the country where I was staying circumstances were favourable, and I had such introductions as threw me at once into the real society of a pleasant and bright French circle, where the old noblesse fought rather shy of the Orleanists, and where the present régime seemed tolerated by all parties-as to my mind it well might be. These little French country balls seem to me uncommonly to resemble those of our own real country neighbourhoods; though these, I believe, are getting quite spoiled in the last few years, and were in their last days when I knew them, now ten years ago. The French rural neigh

bourhoods' are much more rural than ours; and if that has disadvantages it has also its compensations. However, a French ball is a very amusing thing to see. From the first moment when some of the stewards rush eagerly to meet and conduct to the ball-room any visitors they wish to honour (said stewards incessantly being called out all the evening to perform this duty; and being heard surreptitiously inquiring who it is, and caught in betraying most evident partiality)— from the moment you are placed safely upon those red-covered sofas

through the amusing advance of all your acquaintance one by one, who marching right up in front of you and bowing profoundly, say with startling gravity, Mademoiselle, j'ai l'honneur de vous saluer,' turning round immediately

to

repeat the same phrase to your neighbour-through the graceful dances where French knowledge of drapery shines, even to the extent of hiding ungraceful movementthrough all the horror you cause if you talk and forget yourself, for dancing amongst the unmarried set is meant to be solid dancing, and does not include much conversation; from one end to the other I call one French ball great fun.

The scene, too, is so much gayer than our English ball-rooms often are. There never are any black dresses, not only among the dancers, but even among the chaperones. It is not etiquette to go to a ball in black: if you are really in mourning you ought not to go to balls. Then how French women do dress. They are often such ugly women, and yet they look so pretty! You never see them wear a dress which gravitates to dulness-the colours are all so clear-so tending to pure light always. Their greys are silver, not drab. Their blues are clear, not purple. Their pinks are rosecoloured, not bricky. And their hair is arranged so charmingly, with such an absence of uniformity, that horrible night-mare which last year possessed English women with chignons! The flowers, too, are so suitable. No heavy wreaths worn to be worn. There is not a French

lady's maid who would not, in a moment, destroy one of the most charming, or most expensive wreaths to pull one flower out of it. Madame looks best with that one flower alone. Is the wreath or Madame the object to be considered? 'Va! Madame est coiffée à merveille!' and I must confess the maid seems to have the best of it. Of course, one sees ugly headsgirls of eighteen plastered and powdered; but it is very rare that after their first season the women are not dressed well. It is the same idea running through everything-

that of suitability. I don't say that there are not a thousand ridiculous things done, as when all Paris shines out at once in gold-coloured hair. But, as a general rule, people build their houses and arrange their furniture chiefly to meet their wants. Their parties are got up in accordance with the spirit and means of the moment, and are meant for amusement rather than dire necessity, and the dress is chosen with some regard to the wearer. And all these several things I wish we might see in England.

Corner?

that of Tattenham is not unknown to us; with the Corner where the settling' takes place, we have a slight acquaintance. Is it Hyde Park Corner? Not exactly; and yet it is. For Flirtation Corner is, in good sooth, your real Hyde Park Corner; not Hyde Park Corner proper: though far be it from us to suggest the contrary of this appended epithet.

Flirtation Corner, which is by this time an established London nook, lies between the Row and the drive, and is occupied entirely by pedestrians. Hither comes light-o'-glove, bright-o'-boot swelldom-its custom always of an afternoon; and hither come the fairies of the elegant bonnet and neat boot.

The recreations of this charming spot are chiefly games, which are played here every afternoon by everybody, with much zest and spirit. Fool in the middle' may here be seen in all its glory; and 'puss in the corner' is far from unfashionable. A new amusement, invented by gentlemen who are old enough to know better, is also much patronised in this same corner; it is called 'Chase the Balmoral,' and takes its origin from 'Hunt the slipper' of our childhood. This game generally results in 'Follow my leader,' which, classical authorities inform us, was the 'little

game' indulged in by the King of gods and men, yclept great Jupiter, when he went out swan-hopping in the mythic times of the mighty gods of old.

They are not all idlers who frequent this place; far from it: we can tell you of their manufactures, their bargains, their profits and losses. Of the first of these, the Making of Eyes is an extensive business with most of them. Men and women find employment in this department. It is a pity that the legislature does not interfere to prevent certain people 'past mark of mouth' from working at this trade. It is injurious even to the young: but when old Squaretoes tells them so, will they believe him? I trow not, seeing their creed is that old Squaretoes, when a youth, did the same thing himself. Old hands at a business can work admirably without any interest in their own operations. A competent witness has informed me of printers who will set up the type for a daily paper while fast asleep, roosting as it were on two legs; and I myself have seen a practised professional musician argue an abstruse political question, while playing those exquisite variations entitled the Skyrocket. Not otherwise is it with your middleaged manufacturer of eyes, who will make them mechanically. Talas vanitatum! all is vanity! The

beginning and end of flirtation, whether in the Corner or out of it, is Self. Are we not fascinating creatures?' cry the eye-makers to one another.

Of late, the Corner has extended its borders, and includes equestrians and riders in carriages, who are drawn up just within and just without the enclosure of The Row.

Is this crowd a fortuitous concourse of atoms? No such thing: the nucleus of the gathering consists of those who, with provident care and accurate topographical observation, have fixed upon the time and place for a rendezvous.

At one of the three balls at which Miss Lovell has assisted overnight, she has been asked by young Symper the matter-of-fact question, Do you drive in the Park every day?' To which she has returned the seemingly straightforward answer, 'Not every day. We were there this afternoon.' Which elicits the inquiry, 'Will you be there to-morrow? Miss Lovell thinks it uncertain: but is sure that if mamma does go out in the carriage at all in the afternoon, it will be with a view to the Park, where they will take up their station near the entrance of Rotten Row, opposite the clock over the lodge. 'Very useful clock that,' hints Symper, slily; it saves such a deal of anxiety.' Miss Lovell smiles, but says nothing. Symper says that when he patronizes the Park it is about the hour of half-past five. Miss Lovell is of opinion that most people go there about that time; mamma does, for instance. 'Oh! half-past five,' says Symper; and is it wonderful that, precisely at that hour, Miss Lovell, sitting to all appearance listless and unobservant in the maternal carriage, which has drawn up on the exact spot above described, raises her large eyes up to the clock over the lodge, and languidly makes a calculation. If she had taken out her pretty little miniature watch, maternal suspicions might have been aroused. The clock's open face informs her that it is just half-past five; and this piece of intelligence it conveys in unmistakeable language to some

hundred others who are noticing the progress of its hands. Divide this hundred into so many pedestrians, so many equestrians, so many riders in carriages, and we have the elements of the crowd to our hand. 'Punch' once showed us a couple of helpless swells, drawn as only poor John Leech could draw them, parting from one another on a fine afternoon in the season. 'Ta-ta, Gus,' says one exquisite to the other. "I shall go and show myself in the park.' The title of the picture was— A boon to the public.' These two feeble creatures represent a class, who come to see, and that they themselves may be seen,' which is our old familiar friend veniunt spectatum of the Latin Grammar; and in these you have another large item in the component parts of the crowd at and about Flirtation Corner.

Symper, not without misgivings on the score of the cordiality of Mamma Lovell's reception, approaches the carriage. Of course Miss Lovell is surprised; and her mamma actually does not see Mr. Symper-in fact she is looking in the opposite direction-until informed of his presence by her daughter; whereupon she inclines. her head, as if she were troubled with incipient lumbago. The carriage cannot advance or back,' being in a block; and when they are able to make a move, Miss Lovell is severely lectured, and, in consequence, makes up her mind to repeat the performance on the first opportunity; so that despite mamma's precautions, at Lady Mufti's ball, on the very same evening, the name of Symper occurs very frequently on her daughter's card.

Two daughters, uniting their forces, can be exactly one too many for any mother. Ellen fancies that she'd like to sit down on one of those seats, or to walk just ever such a little way. Mamma acquiesces; and when the carriage stops at one of the openings, proposes that Laura the elder, Ellen the younger, and herself, should, all three, join the pedestrians for a few minutes.

Laura prefers remaining seated in the carriage: let Ellen and mamma go together.

Mamma reluctantly assents to this proposition; and, in company with her elder daughter, is soon lost in the mazy crowd. Captain Sparkes happens to be quite close to the carriage when this change is made. What a curious coincidence!-quite a coincidence. Laura informs him that if he'd been a little sooner, he'd have seen mamma and Ellen. Indeed! how unfortunate! The Captain is, of course, disconsolate at the loss he has sustained. He must make up for it at once: and forthwith commences the business of Flirtation Corner.

Look at that brilliant equipage! Silver and blue! a pair of the sweetest, showiest ponies, guided by such snowy reins, and tickled into pace with such an elegant parasolwhip! A defiant beauty sits in the trap-in this man-trap, marvellously well baited. Not many hats are raised in honour of such brighthued Ephemeridæ as these.

Alas! they're a long way past Flirtation Corner. Drive on, lonely withered hearts! Flatter yourselves that you are not worse than your neighbours. Captain Sparkes is talking to Miss Laura now, and cuts you.

Scorn for scorn! But he shall pay for it. How? By the loss of your smiles? No; by gaining them. Look to yourself, Captain!

The male habitués of the Corner are divided into three classes-the Lounger, the Dawdler, and the Dangler; and each of these has his own peculiar physiology.

The Lounger is a professional lounger. Wherever he may be, he loungeth. He hath no great amount of conversation, albeit he is an excellent listener. In the Park, he prefereth leaning against, or lolling over the railings, to a seat in the most comfortable chair. Not being a flirt himself, he wondereth much at the activity of men who indulge in this thankless occupation. He hath always lounged, as a boy, as a youth, as a man. Haply he hath lounged in long clothes. He can ride; but doeth it not. He can row; but doth not. He hath ability to play at several games; yet doth he not employ it. How he hath become acquainted with any of these accom

plishments affordeth a [puzzle to many. He affecteth small canes with elegant handles, from which, while leaning against the rails, he apparently deriveth sustenance by suction. The canes must be inexhaustible sugar-canes. Silver, gold, or ivory he sucketh, and is therewith content. May-be he hath never forgotten the coral of his infancy. Peradventure, his mind may still be in the coral and bells period? In one respect, let us hope it is so. Nothing in particular distracteth the Lounger's attention from everything generally. Streams of carriages, varied colours, noise and bustle do not bewilder him. He consorteth with others of his own kidney; yet speaketh not to them when at the rails, where each loungeth side by side his fellow in silent sympathy. He recognizeth some one in a brougham with the feeblest intimation. He troubleth not himself with remembering names, being satisfied that the face he hath saluted is not altogether unknown to him. He changeth the form of his lounging occasionally, leaning on one or other arm alternately; but he hath an ability for lounging a couple of hours at a time, yet showeth he not any signs of weariness; this, likewise, repeateth he every day during the season, and every season during his life, as long as there existeth a park, a rail, and a fashion of lounging.

The Dawdler is a man of conversation. He taketh you by the button-hole, and telleth you a good thing. He seldom trieth the rails, but expendeth a goodly store of halfpence on the chair-proprietor. Like noble landed gentry, he hath, for the time being, a fine seat in a splendid park. He starteth for the Park in the afternoon, intending, he saith, to stop there five minutes. He remaineth there two hours. He is always leaving; yet doth he never depart, until the movement becometh general. He never hath any particular engagement or employment, and accepteth every invitation offered him. The Dawdler's day passeth away, and is gone, before he hath made up his mind, definitely, upon any one course of action.