have lived to see the remnants of St. Stephen's carted away, and a mammoth caravanserai take the place of Northum berland House, the last link of modern Charing Cross with the Charing Cross before the Commonwealth; we who have seen the tavern dear to Shakespeare and Ben Jonson disappear, and the houses of Milton go and leave not a wrack behind; who have seen the "Tabard" and the George" disappear, and the Savoy and the Watergate swallowed up in the torrent—we must brace ourselves up for the rest. Villas will soon cover the site of Holland House. The Temple will be wanted for a new restaurant. The Underground Railway will pull down the Abbey to make some new "blow-holes," and a limited company will start a new Hotel de la Tour de Londres" on the site of the Tower. It is melancholy to

think that the stones which eight centuries of national history have raised, that the roofs which have rung with the mirth of Shakespeare and the organ of Milton, on which such beauty has been lavished, and where so much genius has been reared, are to be swept away in a few years.

It is eighty-two years since our great poet of nature cried as he looked from Westminster Bridge in the dawn"Earth has not anything to show more fair; Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty." No poet could say it now; no poet will ever say it again. But they cannot rob us of memory. And let us who care for our national glory at least cherish the story of these sites when the very stones are gone. That will always be most touching in its majesty."—Macmillan's · Magazine.

our

IN English it is difficult to find a word that shall adequately connote all those ideas of sociability which a Frenchwoman has in mind when she claims a friend as an habitué of her salon. We do not frequent the drawing-rooms of friends in England in the sense in which various persons become the habitués of certain salons in Paris; and the fact that in English society the habitué is such a rarissima avis (if not a biped altogether unknown) may be said to mark the wide difference of national character so striking to any one who mixes alternately in the society of the two countries separated by but one score miles of shallow sea. The only place of which the Englishman can be called an habitué is his Club. The London man certainly does frequent his pet Club with an assiduity and a faithfulness that is in marked contrast to his erratic movements and uncertain presence at the social entertainments of his friends.

In France le Club is socially speaking of little import. It is even now after years of acclimatization but an exotic, fostered by the tender care of those who love to make a display of their Anglomania, and the cafés have no cause to complain of any diminution in their

"

customers since the institution of the Cercles. To obtain information, to rest his brain, to find companionship, the Londoner goes to his Club; while with the like purpose, the Parisian takes his hat and cane, and with the same latitude in the matter of dress which is the privilege of Club-life with us, he will betake himself to some private house and form one among the circle of friends, gathered together without special invitation on certain afternoons or evenings, in the drawing-room of some lady who has the art de faire salon. Here he will find, should he want it, the person from whom he may acquire his information; he may discuss the current news; or he may simply listen, for listening is much cultivated even among the most witty of the French. Of French society the elementary unit is without doubt the habitué, and, it will be noted, the habi tués of a salon, though they may not be come intimate friends, are assuredly not to be placed in the category of mere acquaintances. So and so, it will be said, can hardly be your intimate friend, since you still call him Monsieur after having met him regularly at a certain house for the last quarter of a century; but, though you may know nothing of

his private affairs, or of his relatives, you are intimately acquainted with his views and his ideas on men and things; and although you may in point of fact have but little in common with him, you would miss him from his place were he gone, and sincerely deplore his absence, for his presence has contributed an item to form the very agreeable whole presented by the drawing-room of your friend.

To have a recognized salon is the ambition of every Frenchwoman who aims at social success, and dinners across the Channel are not the indispensable_rite that they are in society with us. It is still possible to get people to meet and talk in Paris without supplying them with food, and a cup of weak tea is more often than not the sole stimulant of much excellent conversation. To become more intimate with their acquaintances it is customary for French ladies to receive one day in the week during the afternoon, and on this day every one must call, at least once, who wishes to profit by the evening gatherings, and continue the acquaintance made at some chance meeting.

On this point the social law is very strict, and it will be noted that throughout society in France, and on the Continent in general, though there is little ceremony, etiquette is strictly observed, and any breach of its regulations is seldom condoned--even in an (ignorant) foreigner. In English society, until the precincts of the palace be reached, the rules of etiquette are almost unknown, or if known, are more honored in the breach than in the observance. But across the water this is by no means the case, and that English people with difficulty comprehend this, is perhaps one reason for their finding French society somewhat exclusive. Furthermore, as with the rule of the road, customs in England and France generally go by contraries. For instance, the last arrivals call first, and further instances might easily be adduced; but these are elementary rules that an Englishman does easily learn. It is in the drawing-room, however, that he is most apt to sin through ignorance. For who shall tell him that during an afternoon call he must leave his great coat and umbrella in the anteroom, that into the drawing-room, he is

expected to bring his hat, and that at the beginning of the visit, in any case, he should keep on his gloves? These are matters which we in England hold to be optional or indifferent, but on which French bienséance is inflexible. To call on a Parisian lady in an overcoat and carrying an umbrella is deemed almost as insulting as to go into her drawing-room with your hat on; and were her husband your candid friend he would probably inform you that his wife's rooms were warmed and that the rain did not come through.

But it is in her talent for combining the various elements of her society that the genius of a French hostess shows its highest development. Heine, if we are not mistaken, was wont to say in characterizing the society of London and Paris, that the English were gregarious but not sociable, while the French were sociable but not gregarious. The innumerable balls where the majority do not dance, drums where people will not talk but where there is abundant food and drink for those who have already dined, entertainments, in short, such as we are perpetually going on to" during a London season, are of rare occurrence in Paris. We give ourselves endless trouble in the lighting up of our houses, the providing of victuals, and the getting together of more people than our rooms will conveniently hold; but, when the guests are assembled, the part of the hostess too often ends with their reception. She does not regard it as incumbent on her to try to elicit the conversational powers of her friends and make them give of their best by, so to speak, fathoming their minds and drawing up that which is valuable in them. To be introduced is considered a bore, if not an absolute insult. French hostess on the contrary, is perhaps a little oblivious of the creaturecomforts of her guests; but then she gives herself an infinity of trouble in the management of her salon; and, al· though she herself may talk but little, she is the prime mover in the conversation, keeping up the ball by an occasional word thrown in adroitly from time to time.. Since crowds are, as a rule, avoided, the conversation is kept more general in France than with us, téte-àtêtes in a low voice not being encour

The

aged; each one talks, but not all at once; for it will be observed that from the earliest age a talent for narration is much cultivated, and that a Frenchman knows how to put his ideas into the compact form fitted for their comprehension by an audience of several persons. On the avoidance of téte-à-tétes it may be related how, at certain little dinners of eight or a dozen at most, at a house in the Faubourg St.-Germain, all private conversation with one's neighbor is absolutely prohibited; each guest must address his or her conversation to the whole table in general; and, should any offend the rule, a call to order is immediately made by the tingling of a little bell at the right hand of the hostess's plate. This is, perhaps, carrying matters to an extreme; still it clearly marks the general tendency.

In a salon such as we have now in mind we must admit that young ladies are but of little account. In France they neither rule the roast socially, as is the case in America, nor do they monopolize the attention of the less ornamental portion of humanity and throw the dowagers into the shade, as is the case with us. From her education and the early age at which girls in France. generally marry (or are married) the conversation of young ladies is but little appreciated by men who are already in the world engaged in the battle of life. And in further explanation of the insignificant position occupied by the Parisian "girl of the period," it must be borne in mind that our British method of courtship by flirtation is little practised over the water, also that what men there seek in the society of women is just that companionship and sympathy which the unmarried woman is least capable of giving. A matter of continual surprise to an Englishman who has the luck to gain admittance to a French salon is the truly catholic range of the matters that will come under discussion. There is no subject that a Frenchman will not discuss seriously, and think it is to his profit to do so, with a Frenchwoman. It might almost be said that there is no serious subject that in London a man will discuss thoroughly with a lady; for, as a rule, he does not hold that he will increase his stock of ideas by giving

himself the trouble. In Paris men, whether from vanity or from other reasons, talk their best when ladies are their auditors, and they assuredly seek the society of women far more from sympathy with their minds than from admiration for their outward attractions. Esprit, which is not wit, but which has been defined as that "quick perception which seizes the ideas of others easily and returns ready change for them," is in truth what men most prize in women, it being a quality independent of beauty, and, while the mind lasts, not lessened by age. It has been frequently remarked how, in their old age French men and women preserved not only their good-humor, but their gayety to the last. This is of course in part dependent on good health, for with them gout and dyspepsia are not common maladies. But for the cheerfulness of his declining years a Frenchman will look to the salons of his friends, and, since it has been the custom for intimate society in France to assemble in the evening, he, after dinner, not being a Club man, will take his hat and cane to go out and pay his visits. In some dimly-lighted salon au zième he will find

a

welcome from the circle gathered round the fireside, where all are habitués, and where each, eschewing the weather and the discussion of his personal health, brings forth his remarks on passing events, and contributes some new observation to the common stock.

Paris has still many things in points of material comfort that she might copy with advantage from London; we admit that her hackney carriages are vile, the coachmen demanding pourboires, and driving abominably; that her postal service is dear, and uncertain; that her theatres are uncomfortable, tawdry, and, as Mr. Matthew Arnold might say, lubricitous. But society is understood better there than it is with us. Although all human beings are social, women more so than men, and in their taste for analyzing sentiments, and in the delight they take in seeing into the minds of others, have created, in France especially, the great art of conversation which has long since become the favorite excitement of the French nation.-Saturday Review.

are

looked about, and settled on the now famous house in Oxford Street.

In old days the Bludyers and Pendennises of the period ran many a tilt against Mr. Mudie and his "select" library. Who are you," they cried with Carlyle, "to sift the sheep from the goats?" But these strenuous,critics were beaten in the end by the shrewd and acute Mr. Mudie whom long experience and both natural and acquired judgment had taught how to appraise the commercial value of a book to a nicety. I judge, of course, by the imprint in some measure, and the reputation of the author. It is seldom indeed that a book is sent to me on probation.' His influence with author and publisher is great, and it is good news to the author to hear that Mudie's" have taken a large number of his work. Thackeray, for instance, was greatly delighted when he heard that the library had taken a large number of Esmond." Indeed, he made a small mot when the news reached him : Mudie has taken all those copies. Oh! 'evans!" To understand this, one must know that Messrs. Bradbury & Evans were his publishers in those days, and Mr. Evans was sometimes not happy in his aspirates.

It

Livingstone was well known to Mr. Mudie, and consulted him frequently about the publication of his famous volume of travels. "Print thousands, said he, much to Livingstone's astonishment. But the advice was followed, and the large sale of the Travels in Central Africa, soon proved how accurately its value had been gauged. On another occasion much doubt was felt by Kingsley and his publishers as to the fate of Alton Locke.' was thought that its socialistic tendencies might prove prejudicial to its success. In spite of this Mudie's bought largely, and at once put a large number into reading. I asked whether the fact of the Poet Laureate being raised to the peerage would cause any run on books by his clientèle. said Mr. No," said Mr. Mudie; "the fact is Tennyson' is generally bought outright. Most people prefer to have copies of their own. In the same way Carlyle is seldom asked for except by the smaller libraries which we feed, and no library would naturally be complete without a

set of his books. You ask me about runs on books. Well, anything about Gordon-(did you ever hear, by the way, that Gordon is the only Christian who is prayed for in the mosques of Mecca ?)— is just now read with avidity. But, then, everything has conspired to make him the idol of the moment. The publication of the Queen's book has caused a great demand for the first 'Leaves,' and we have many laters every day asking for both volumes.

Every subscriber has a card upon which are entered all the books issued to him. As each one is filled up it goes to the hidden depths below, there to sleep out its quiet existence. In an iron safe are kept the records of a nation's reading. Since its foundation Mudie's Library has purchased for the use of its subscribers some six million volumes. The number of volumes issued and reissued during the busy season exceeds a hundred thousand a week. Mr. Mudie, however, kindly gave me a few figures, which may prove interesting. In December, 1855, there were put into circulation 2500 of Macaulay's History

an

"Silas

-Vols. III. and IV.; over 3000 copies of Livingstone's "Travels in Africa" a thousand copies of "Idylls of the VoyKing" 3000 of M'Clintock's age in Search of Sir John Franklin.' Of another famous book, "Essays and Reviews," Mr. Mudie took no less 2000 copies. than There was, of course, enormous demand for George Eliot's novels, and of Marner" some 3000 copies were taken, and still more of The Mill on the Floss. There is always a demand for the best novels, such as those of Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray, each of whom is as popular as ever. Kingsley is another popular author, "Westward Ho !" being the work most asked for. Trollope, too, is much in demand, and of his Autobiography 1500 copies were in circulation at one time. Of Endymion' some 3000 copies were bought, and of "John Inglesant" 1600. Mudie took 2000 copies of the Queen's last book. Lady Brassey's" Voyage of the Sunbeam' was in great vogue, the numbers at the library reaching 2700.

Mr.

The great hall, with its handsome Ionic columns, its dome, its polished counters, its walls lined with the bright