sorts of light and airy fabrics. It is a time, too,
when, by reason of the short days and the chilliness
of the atmosphere, there is a greater use
of candle-light and a greater consumption of
coal than at other periods of the year. The
danger of accidents by fire to the wearers of
these thin and gauzy materials is more imminent
than usual.

But, coupled with the remembrance that
Christmas has now arrived, comes another
thought intimately connected with the matter
in hand. The Pantomimes are just now in
active operation at all the theatres in London.
A powder-magazine hardly contains more
inflammable matter than is to be found at such
times "behind the scenes." It positively makes
one wince to think of the flaring gas, and of
its near neighbourhood to the yards upon yards
of muslin which are required for the clothing of
even half a dozen of the sylphs and fairies who
are brought into existence at this time of year.
Muslin everywhere, and gas everywhere, but
carbonate of lime and sulphate of ammonia
—the mediators to keep the peace between these
two implacable foes—nowhere!

Surely this would be a good time for our
managers of theatres to exert all their influence
and all their authority in enforcing the use of
some one of these non-inflammable chemicals in
the preparation of all light materials worn by
the different members of their respective corps.
The cost is little, the advantage enormous. The
accident, when once it happens, is of so terrible
a kind, why should we wait for another before
acting in this matter? Why not do all we can
to avert that accident, which is almost sure to
come, sooner or later, instead of letting it occur
and then wringing our hands in vain regret? Is
there not ground for saying that this disaster
will surely come, unless we do all we can to
avert it. Have we forgotten the dreadful death
of Miss Clara Webster? Have there been no
similar accidents since? Are not the screams
of those six dancers of the American theatre,
whose dresses seemed almost to make but one
sheet of flame—are they not yet ringing in our
ears?

With what words shall we urge the importance
of the cause we are now pleading? Are
any words needed? Does not the cause rather
speak strongly enough for itself? There is
nothing against the adoption of this discovery,
everything in its favour. The fabric subjected
to the influence of these chemicals loses nothing
of its beauty either of colour or texture. The
cost is next to nothing. One of the authorities
from whom we quote, estimates it at one-tenth
of a farthing per dress. Will no one move in
this matter? And if no one will, is it altogether
an unfit subject for legislation? Why should
not all laundresses be compelled to use one of
the ingredients mentioned above in getting up
all dresses of light and inflammable material?
Alas! it is to no one's interest to push this
discovery. Could it be made directly and at once
profitable, ve should have some one taking out a
patent in connexion with it, and haply at a stall
in the new Exhibition, a ball-dress, perfectly
"got up" with the non-inflammable starch
would be exhibited, and experiments made upon
it every day to prove how incombustible it was.

FOREIGN AFFAIRS.

IT is a stock theme with our newspapers in
the dull season, when "the House" is up and
town empty, to descant on the facility with
which foreign swindlers succeed in entrapping
English victims, especially if they be women.
Our law courts have on the average four or five
such suits each term, with a wonderful similarity
in all the details. The betrayed one is a single
lady—no longer young—but with those attractions
which compensate for youth departed; her
social station is respectable, and her income
satisfactory. The betrayer is a refugee count, the
especial object of hate of the Russian or
Austrian Emperor. He has escaped from the mines
of Siberia or the dungeons of Spielberg, not
improbably bearing the marks of manacles on
his wrist. Occasionally he is, or rather he was,
a Neapolitan, of noble family, banished and
disinherited for his love of liberty; and sometimes,
again, he is a musician, or a painter, or a
language-master; but not the less a scion of some
distinguished house—a Hapsburg, with a guitar
under his arm, or a Castel-Gandolfo, with a box
of colours.

It is a very easy thing—nothing easier, indeed
—for a smart essayist, in the columns of a popular
paper, to ridicule those who are the victims
of this class. They are held up as objects of derision
and absurdity, so facile of deception, so ready
to be ensnared, as really to exclude all claim to
sympathy for their sorrows. The world is assured
that it required an almost idiotic trustfulness
—an insane credulity—on the part of the
"unfortunate Miss Bailey," to have been deceived
by Signor Castramucci—the man was suddenly
this, that, and t'other—that any one at all
conversant with his country and his countrymen
would have immediately perceived this and
detected that. The writer, by turns indignant and
facetious, now scolds his countrywomen, now
sneers at the foreigner, and the reader, carried
away by a case of which he has only heard
one side throws down the paper with a
muttered "Serve her right!"—a something not
exactly a benediction on all races born beyond the
seas.

Now, I am not about to plead for the Count
von Strogonitz or the Duke of Ischiabella. I
have no peculiar liking for the class they pertain
to; but I wish to protest, and protest strongly,
against the rash judgments constantly
pronounced upon those who are the victims of these
people, and to declare that in the folly imputed
to them there is often exaggeration, and
occasionally great unfairness. No reasonably
well-taught English man or woman has much
difficulty in deciding to what rank of life to ascribe
one of his own countrymen, when brought
passingly into contact. There are innumerable
marks and signs to guide the decision, and the