defiance of the law in the tramp-wards, or about
the neglect of the sick and old, but has
carefully examined workhouse, infirmaries, and
arrangements, a few months since, found everything
in capital order, and would report "very
favourably" to the Poor Law Board; adding,
in a consistent postscript, that the ventilation
of one ward is "very defective," and that some
air-bricks should be put in.

In the face of these glowing statements, it
requires some courage to hint, in writing,
that, while the able-bodied and the children
are well cared for in this workhouse, the
arrangements for the aged and sick are
susceptible of improvement, and that the practice
of starving casual paupers is not in accordance
with the requirements of the day. Yet we make
bold to do this, in the name of All the Year
Round, on the master asking us "to write
something in the visitors' book." Whereupon that
worthy, obviously staggered at our audacity,
promptly changes the subject to "the new
'earse," which, to his mind, condones all
shortcomings, and upon the beauties of which he
dilates eloquently until we leave.

THE GREAT MAN-MILLINER.

THE freaks of the present French Empire will
fill many a page in the bitter and picturesque
history which some future Carlyle will unfold,
of the extravagances which led up to a revolution.
Gastronomy will always be one of a
Frenchman's ideas; but dress must be set down
as the pet craze of the Parisian. Common
creatures, in other cities, dress to live; but in Paris
people live to dress. The coming historian, the
man who is to write the new "Tableau de
Paris" in imitation of that wonderful diorama
of Mercier, will have to deal with the name of
a great man-milliner, a wizard of silks and tulle;
and while he paints the gambling, and the
orgies, and the jockey-clubs, and the duels,
and the amazing "coolness of the draperies"
on the stage, with the other extraordinary
incidents of the Empire, must give a chapter to
Worth, the Englishman milliner, who rules
fashionable Paris at this moment. His territory
is on the first floor, spreading over many spacious
rooms. Underneath, a lucky bonnet-maker is
allowed to reside, whom the incomparable artist
"mentions" when bonnets are wanting. At
every hour of the day the carriages of all the
highest in Paris are loitering up and down before
Worth's door. Their owners are inside, closeted
with Worth. Without him no one can be
said to be dressed. His touch is
everything; and a humble piece of galimatias may
be ventured in saying, that "Worth makes the
woman, and want of him the fellow." Worth
is certainly the prominent figure in the crowd of
Pierrots, who are always dancing the great Paris
fandango. Thérèse has had her day.

We can conceive a Frenchman rising to this
dizzy height in our country. Nay, it almost
follows as of course. In a French modiste,
lacemaker, boot-maker, flower-maker—the nationality
is a positive recommendation. But for a
Briton to rise to such eminence in the capital
of the elegant world, seems astounding. Mr.
Worth, it is said, was a humble tailor in some
English provincial town; found his way to Paris,
and was taken into a shop, on some supposed
skill in the "confection" of ladies' riding-habits.
For a genius this was an opening. A few clever
touches—speaking, of course, in the artistic
sense—in this department of confection led to
the confection of other things. And let it be
considered that this is a matter of minute delicacy;
for a habit always fitting close must either
make or mar. Other dresses are paintings; a
habit is a photograph. The success of the man
was astounding. He married a French woman.
He has the best staff of assistants that money can
procure—but he is the centre of all.

The process is this: Mrs. Jenkinwater, from
London, thinks, with a little flutter, she would
like a dress, but shrinks in awe from the great
attirer of noble people. He would not
condescend to take any trouble with so humble a
stranger. Perhaps her husband has told her of
the great English artist at home, who will not
measure any ordinary person unless properly
introduced by a customer of distinction. But
she is quite in error: the man-milliner
professes to know no distinction nor degree. He is
open to all, like the law. Mrs. Jenkinwater
will have her appointment, possibly, a long way
off, like the princess; and must come at a fixed
hour, as to a dentist. She is shown into a
drawing-room, and to her enters M. Worth,
watch in hand. He throws his eye over the
lady's figure, and at once "composes a dress."
He knows what will suit the face and height.
He has, in general, very judicious theories. With
some of the magnificent princesses who give him
carte blanche, he is daring and splendid in his
conception. He will build up fabrics which
recal the old days of the stage, when Barry and
Bellamy moved the tenants of the most gorgeous
edifices of brocade, lace, gold, and silver. Richness
and costliness characterise his style—
velvets embroidered in gold, and covered with
lace; sea-green silks loaded with frappant
borders of rich colours—a feast to the eye.

Milliners from every decent capital come to
wait on Worth. They go away bearing a dress
or a pattern, for which they pay fabulous prices.
It is not generally known that what are called
"peplums" sprang from Worth's brain. To him
we owe the tight-fitting jacket—à I'acrobat—
gorgeous in gold and coloured embroidery, and
without sleeves. Mark that touch of genius, for
there is as much talent in knowing what to abate
as in knowing what to add. A great man, my
masters! We may wonder why he shrinks from
bonnets, as we might fancy he might open
there a vast track of country. I do not think
it would be unworthy of his genius, for there is
a wild disorder in that department—a tendency
to run riot in the matter of hair and flowers.
We want a redistribution scheme. The bonnet
is being improved off the face of the head—if