may be construed into her accepting him as a
suitor; while, if after accepting these gifts, she
in turn sends a present to the godfather, it is
looked upon as the indication of a marriage
engagement.

"The godmother is expected to present the
mother of the child with an elegant box of
babylinen.

"The godfather must be the great distributor
of sugar-plums; of these he must provide himself
with at least twenty boxes.

"Those sugar-plums must never be presented
in a paper bag, but in decorated boxes, or at the
very least in elegant and gilt cornucopias.

"The sugar-plums given to the servants may
be in cornucopias.

"The monthly nurse and the child's nurse are
each to receive a box of sugar-plums.

"When the ceremony is over, the godfather
gives to the priest a box of sugar-plums, containing,
besides, certain gold or five-franc pieces.
After which he puts his hand into his pocket
and furnishes with donations—First, the beadle;
secondly, the sexton; thirdly, the chorister
boys; fourthly, for the support of the church;
fifthly, the poor who are in waiting outside the
church.

"After the whole of which," continues our
author, whose stinginess makes him almost
humorous when it is a question of parting
with money—"after which, you will be provided
with a godson to whom you will convey a New
Year's gift every year till he gets to be old
enough to come himself and ask you for one."

We in England groan, and with some cause,
over that inevitable knife, fork, and spoon, in a
morocco case, which, hovers before the mind's
eye of the godfather from the moment he has
consented to "accept office;" but what is that
single compact donation, once made and over,
to the endless demands which the French
godparent has to meet? There is no more remarkable
instance of foreign greed than is shown in
this rapacity for gratuities. It might, indeed,
seem at first that there was some show of
liberality in all this making of presents, and that no
one individual can be a gainer by it, because
he in turn will have to "come down, handsome"
at some time or other; but this is hardly the
case. The people who have made the laws are
the heads of families, and they get the benefit of
them, and, holding the keys of social life, may
exclude from "society" all those who will not pay
the imposts which society demands.

The "exigencies" connected with marriage
seem less expensive than those we have just
considered. They press, however, somewhat heavily
on the liberty of the young couple. The honeymoon
is by no means to be passed in retirement.
Society has its hold upon them, and will not
relax it.

"The newly-married pair owe a visit in the
course of the fortnight to their relations, and to
the guests who were invited to the wedding.

"The other friends and acquaintances will
receive letters of acknowledgment.

"The wedding guests will, in the course of
the week following the visit of the married
couple, return their call."

The other directions as to the conduct of the
wedding ceremonial are very meagre, and as to
what takes place at church and at the "mairie"
there are none at all. The author is rather
morose on this matter. "These wedding
ceremonies," he says, "are the ruin of the poor, and
the triumphs of vanity with the rich."

Professor Bon Ton has more to say on the
subject of morning calls, the view he takes of
such visits being, however, formidable in the
last degree. There are few people, even in our
own less ceremonious country, who look upon
morning calls with much, complacency. Those
who pretend that they don't mind them are
not to be trusted. There is no better way
of forming an opinion as to the real effect of an
anticipated call on the human mind than to take
a walk during "the season of the year" down
Harley-street, or along any of the fashionable
streets in other parts of the town, and study the
appearance and bearing of any gentleman whom
you may catch in the act of making a call.
Observe him on the door-step after he has
knocked and before the door is flung open. Is
that man at ease? Certainly not. There is no
ordinary man (unless he is over fifty and very
fat, but not always even then) who can keep
still at such a time. He will turn rapidly
about after knocking, and, grasping his chin,
will look up at the sky, as if profoundly
interested in the weather. He will look down
and dust an imaginary speck off his waistcoat.
He will revolve once or twice, and glance
nervously down the outside seam of his trousers,
straightening the limb as he does so. Depend
on it, when you see a man conducting himself
thus, he is not at his ease. I have even seen
(but this was in Dorset-square only) a miserable
wretch in this predicament, who so far lost
himself as to take aim from the door-step at a
certain sparrow with his umbrella, used gunwise.
It was but the action of a moment—the desperate
action of one trying to appear at ease—
but it spoke volumes to a reflective mind. Of
those gentlemen who, when they have knocked,
stand with their backs to the door, poising
themselves on their heels on the remotest verge
of the step, it is not necessary to speak; they
are without control over their actions, and may
be consigned to oblivion in company with the
gentleman who occupies himself, while waiting
for admission, in chipping away with the point
of his umbrella the loose bit of stucco which
has begun to peel off by the side of the servants'
bell.

Mark our man again when the door is at
length answered. Mark the sudden way in
which he turns round, and the unnatural key in
which he inquires whether Mrs. Tangleweb is
in her lair? If your eyes were bandaged do you
think you would recognise in that sharp cry of
agony the voice of your friend Twitcher? Surely
not.

Observe, again, the almost inexplicable appearance
of relief with which Twitcher learns that