make a fly into an elephant; and whether
from novelty or simplicity, it seems to hit
the target with a much neater arrow. A
cursed cur must be tied short, we do not
hear now, though it is close kin to Give a
dog a bad name and you may as well hang
him; Mechant chien, court lien, does the
whole thing in a twinkling across the
Channel. Daub yourself with honey, you'll
never want flies, obsolete also with us,
remains still, Qui se fait brébis le loup le
mange, and is prettily varied in the French
fable, where the bee scolds Chloe for having
lips so like a rose, he stung her because he
couldn't help it. A stitch in time saves
nine, is rendered, Un point sauve cent;
and perhaps this immense proverbial
percentage has had its proper effect on French
women, and accounts for their charming
toilettes and nattiness. To sow one's wild
oats, is, oddly and inexplicably enough,
Rotêr le balai—to roast the broom.
Anything for a shift, becomes Faire de tout
bois flèche—Make an arrow of any wood,
an illustration as old as the battles of
Agincourt and Crécy certainly, if not
still older. Lightly come lightly go, has
in France a pretty martial wording, that
calls up a whole scene, Ce qui vient par
la flûte s'en retourne par le tambour. He
has gone to his long home is, in French, S'en
aller au pays des taupes, the mole country
being oblique for "in the earth," or "under
the sod." They cannot set their horses'
heads together, is, musically again, Ils ne
sauraient accorder leurs flûtes. There is
more in that than meets the eye, is, II y a
quelque anguille sous roche. For setting
our arms a-kimbo, our neighbours say they
make themselves into pots with two handles.
For, I am ruined, I am undone, they say I
am hit in the wing; such a calamity to the
Cock of Gaul being, of course, irremediable.
For the "ducking " given to a
new voyager in crossing the line, they say,
Give such an one baptême. For a
garment fitting badly in wrinkles, they say,
This coat makes grimaces, and they surely
hit the fact so hard there, it will be harder
still not to think of it when, henceforth, the
ugliness is brought to our notice. For the old
maid's piece, as we sometimes call it now,
or, Manners in the dish, as it was formerly,
they say, Le morceau honteux. They call
spare time, Heures perdues; a donkey is,
with them, not a Jerusalem pony, but an
Arcadian nightingale; to stand trifling,
they say is (triflingly enough!) to amuse
oneself with the mustard; and they bring
mustard again into requisition, when, to
put sugar into it, means to take off the
sharp edge of what we say.

This is nothing like a complete catalogue
of these strange likenesses. It is scarcely
a beginning. But we must not overtax
the reader's patience, and for the present,
at least, these examples are all that
considerations of space permit us to present.

        THE VISION OF TOM CHUFF.

AT the edge of melancholy Catstean
Moor, in the north of England, with half a
dozen ancient poplar-trees with rugged
and hoary stems around, one smashed
across the middle by a flash of lightning
thirty summers before, and all by their
great height dwarfing the abode near which
they stand, there squats a rude stone house,
with a thick chimney, a kitchen and bed-
room on the ground-floor, and a loft,
accessible by a ladder, under the shingle roof,
divided into two rooms.

Its owner was a man of ill repute. Tom
Chuff was his name. A shock-headed,
broad-shouldered, powerful man, though
somewhat short, with lowering brows and
a sullen eye. He was a poacher, and hardly
made an ostensible pretence of earning his
bread by any honest industry. He was a
drunkard. He beat his wife, and led his
children a life of terror and lamentation,
when he was at home. It was a blessing to
his frightened little family when he
absented himself, as he sometimes did, for a
week or more together.

On the night I speak of he knocked at
the door with his cudgel at about eight
o'clock. It was winter, and the night was
very dark. Had the summons been that
of a bogie from the moor, the inmates of
this small house could hardly have heard it
with greater terror.

His wife unbarred the door in fear and
haste. Her hunchbacked sister stood by
the hearth, staring toward the threshold.
The children cowered behind.

Tom Chuff entered with his cudgel in
his hand, without speaking, and threw
himself into a chair opposite the fire. He had
been away two or three days. He looked
haggard, and his eyes were bloodshot.
They knew he had been drinking.

Tom raked and knocked the peat fire
with his stick, and thrust his feet close to
it. He signed toward the little dresser,
and nodded at his wife, and she knew he
wanted a cup, which in silence she gave
him. He pulled a bottle of gin from his