hereby hangs a moral. People who are seriously at work have not time to dawdle away in dreams of Utopia. Put Kansas to work, - at reasonably profitable work, - and the Populist statesmen will be in search of an employment bureau.


HITEING, RICHARD, an English journalist

and novelist; born at London, July 27, 1840.

He was educated privately and began his career in journalism in 1866 on the London Morning Star. Later he joined the staff of the Daily News, resigning in 1899. His works include The Democracy (1876); The Island (1888); No. 5 John St. (1899); The Life of Paris (1900); The Yellow Van (1903).


London was now quite out of the question: Paris compelled me to be so busy with itself. I had not seen it for years, and had never gone below the surface. The tomb of Napoleon, and the view from the Arch (see Guide) were about the measure of my experience. This time I found a guide of another kind, and he gave me a glimpse of the real show.

He put me down at the Flute, a delightful club, where they try to amuse themselves all the year round. When they are not fiddling, at select evening concerts, they are showing their pictures; and when they are not showing their pictures, they are holding an assault-at-arms

the Flute is a great school of fence — or reviewing the year in a fancy piece, written, mounted, and played by their own men, in their own theatre. My Mentor gave me a month

as he facetiously put it at another club, the choicest thing here. Through an acquaintance at the Jockey, I found a boxseat on a coach for the private race meeting at La Marche — very pretty, very select; no coming in your thousands, as at the Grand Prix, but just a snug thing between you and me, and a few others, of entirely the right sort. The women looked sweet and fresh as a bed of primroses; the course was like a tennis lawn; we lunched al fresco, and no one threw bones on the grass. Far, far away the yell of the bookmaker, and the smell of town. I never joyed anything more.

I was presented all round, and was engaged for a reception that nicht, at the house of one of the chaper



“ You will see the best salon in Paris,” said A.

And what is a salon?"Well, I don't know; they say nobody knows but themselves. Perhaps a crowd of clever people trying to kill the worm of ennui. Nothing like that at home, where the beast is as sacred as the cow at Benares.”

It was grand monde tinctured with literature that was the social blend. We went to a delightfully oldfashioned house, one of the few left, and saluted a delightfully old-fashioned person - a Marquise, I believe, to complete the harmony of association — who looked like an original of some Moreau le Jeune. Her hair was silver — perfect Louis XV., without the powder puff; she had quick piercing eyes, black amid all this whiteness, and there was a suspicion of hoop in her skirts. She was the queen of a little court, and very condescending. The courtiers acted up to their part by elegant flatteries. They told little stories at her to exemplify her wit and spirit, and capped quotations from her last book, in stage asides. The book was just out, and we had learned it by heart that morning, as the inevitable topic of the small hours. It was a dainty article de Paris; all her ripe experiences of life distilled in maxim, after the manner of M. de la Rochefoucauld. Every other maxim was about love; they are sometimes too young, but never too old for that vital theme. There was a certain disinterested grandeur in the attitude of the Marquise. “I too have played the grand game," she seemed to say, " and now I umpire the match."

"One of the consolations of old age for a woman,'

66 6


said a quoting courtier to his neighbours, is to dare follow her inclinations without peril of love, and show herself a devoted friend, without encouraging dangerous hopes.' Is it possible to speak with more finesse?

“I overheard you," said the Marquise gaily, “but you weaken the compliment by talking so loud. I am not old enough to be deaf."

“For my part," said the other, “I want to know how the Marquise found you all out so well, vous autres. Listen to this: 'Habit has as much power over the nature of men as the unknown over the mind of women.' That is my pearl from the chaplet. It is so true.” “And so finely said!”

Ah, all you care about is the workmanship,” said our hostess. “But I tell you, I have lived all that.” A General came by, with a charming woman on his

He was, in some sort, a counterpart of the elderly muse -- silvery hair, a raven brow, and sparkling eyes.

The butcher of the Commune," whispered A. to me. “ His column made the fewest prisoners.”

" They are beginning to be troublesome again, General," I heard the lady say. That dreadful meeting yesterday! Did you see the account?”

“We are ready for them, Madame; and with the old argument, mitraille; I assure you they only pretend to like it: it hurts."

There was a story about everybody not always a good one; but their worst stories were told in their best way. With us, there is so much ingenuity of subterfuge in the other direction. We might do as well, if we dared. They dare, because the women insisť on it, and the sovereign obligation is to keep the women amused

the best women, and best is brightest here. It is a great assault of arms for the gallery, and, if you have a good place, it is pleasanter to be in the gallery than in the ring. The exertion is terrible; some of the mosť noted performers, I believe, lie abed all next day. You have to justify by gifts, as well as by graces; and the gifts are not always there. Beautiful statues are left on their pedestals: the word tells.


Still, I don't think they make the best of their wo

There is, perhaps, a finer use. They try to make the most of them, certainly. The women shape the whole civilisation, and they are just now labouring with much energy at the decline and fall. I have always wondered why they do not include a representation of this commanding interest in the government - Le Ministere de la Femme. It would soon rule the whole cabinet, for the incumbent would be sure to know the business of most of the other departments — War, Commerce, Interior, Foreign Affairs.

It is too good for every day — life on the top of a twelfth cake, and some of the figures no more to be visited by sun and rain and the winds of Heaven than if they were cast in sugar. I heard one of them taking the law from another, on the authority of a gazette of fashion, as to the right way of getting up on a winter's morning. There are two ways, it seems.

An hour before you turn out, ma chere, the maid is to light your fire, and put up the screen. Silver lined with pink silk is pretty; it throws a sort of rosy morning light into the room.

Mind you have your chocolate on a warmer ! And do you know how to warm your toast-rack? A little live charcoal sprinkled with vanilla; it makes the air so sweet. Raoul gave me such a love of a toastrack (un amour) the other day. They are making them in gold now. Don't jump up at once, mind snooze. What do you wear for a deshabille? I like satin lined with swansdown, and velvet fastenings; buttons are so horribly cold. Line your slippers with swansdown, too; I hate a cold slipper. B-r-r-r! Madame d'Argenson warms her bath-room with little gusts of rose vapour, pumped through a hole in the wall; it is an idea. Do you know how to geť warm? Never get cold. Floss silk for your stockings, if you please. I won't even see cold. I have my blinds embroidered with a rising sun, and the maid brings in fresh flowers with the chocolate. It makes summer in the room. Excusez du peu. Then, if you want to know how happy you are, just lift the blind, and peep out, and see the people dancing on the pavement to keep themselves warm. But you'll see

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enough of that when you drive, if you like to look at such things. I don't. They are making little things in enamel, for muff warmers, now; tiny apples filled with hot water — not big ones, or you'll spoil the shape of your hands. Besides, big sones would make your fingers red; you only want to make them rosy, pas trop n'en faut.

“What kind of gloves do you sleep in? I prefer a plush lining to the kid. Some say swansdown. I think it's too warm.

Remember there is the coverlet. Stick to plush, you can't do better, from head to foot. I have seen the nightcap fastened with a little cosy turtle dove, just under the left ear - if you lie on that side. And make her bring you a light creme de Sabaillon when you turn in. You know, two fresh eggs, and a small glass of Madeira. B-r-r-r! how I hate the cold.”

A padded person of the sterner sex, who was one of the council, propounded a still more original scheme.

Chere Comtesse, why all these precautions, when you might so easily get out of the way? I travel in search of perpetual summer, and find it. My man begins to move south, as soon as the cold threatens here, and the moment he finds settled sunshine, he telegraphs me to

I never go till Nature is ready, and, when I reach one place, he starts for another, so I always have sunshine in reserve. We keep steadily flying south till the turn of the weather, and tien we make north again for the Paris May. I was only caught twice by rain last year, and once by sleet, and then I threatened to discharge him if it happened again. Chere Comtesse, life is too precious: do not waste it in these trials. Will you have a cup of tea ?”

“He is very wretched, for all his make-believe," said Mentor, “he is going to marry; and he is in a torment of prospective jealousy. It is the funniest case in the world. The young person is faultless; all our young persons are, you know. He pays the proper visits, always in evening-dress it is our way — and talks to her about the picture-gallery of the Louvre, and the Advent sermons, for just three-quarters of an hour by the clock with her mother on guard all the time. This is court

come on.

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