neither tore the passion to rags, nor fell into
a dead and spiritless calm. But complete
presence of mind in the midst of the excitement
of art, and the attentive gaze of an
audience, is one characteristic of a great
artist. He flies upon the wings of inspiration
without ever losing the control of his flight.
And the exercise of this command of his
powers gives vivid pleasure to the artist
himself, independent of either the plaudits, or
the payment, which are the after-consequences
of his efforts.

A one-act concert of two hours' duration is
a pleasant thing in holiday time: this was
the last performance of the season. In the
evening the church of Nôtre Dame was again
made vocal by the Philharmonics, who had
played and sung for the poor in the morning.
As a local journal justly observes, " Our
Society could not finish in better style; it
will ensure them good fortune for coming
years."

Another French holiday, although occurring
at a cooler season than Ascension-tide,
is attended with a much greater amount of
feverishness. On and before the sixth of
December, the whole child population of the
country do nothing but teaze and worry poor
Saint Nicholas, who, in an unguarded hour,
undertook the responsibility of being
considered as the Friend of Babes. In return
for which complaisance, he has the pleasure
of hearing thousands of little voices, melodious
with autumnal colds and coughs, repeating
over and over again,

"Saint Nicholas, my good patron,
Send me something very bon!"

The incantation is generally effective in the
end. But besides sending something bon, he
now and then forwards something utterly the
reverse of bon. It is rare indeed that he risks
his popularity so far as to present his petitioners
with nothing at all. It might lead to
scepticism in the infant mind. On the eve of his
day, expectant children hang up their stockings
in the chimney corner, and then retire to rest,
if rest is possible. If children have been
good and sage, more or less, during the
previous year, toys and bonbons are found to
have been miraculously concealed within the
stocking; but if naughtiness has been the
ruling star, nothing is to be discovered therein
but a rod and a cane. In general, however,
the pleasant things are accompanied by an
emblematic rod—half-a-dozen little birch
twigs tied together with an end of pink
ribbon—to be kept and looked at from time
to time, as a hint that St. Nicholas has his
eyes open upon what is going on in nurseries
and schools. It would not be at all a bad
thing, if he could administer the rod to some
of the masters and mistresses.

This Saint is always represented in episcopal
robes, with mitre and crosier and a long black
beard. At his feet there stands a tub, in
which three naked children are sitting
upright;—though sometimes one child is
made to do duty for three. In country
churches you will often find a grotesquely
painted wooden statue of this canonised
worthy, with the three attendant tub-
imprisoned babies beside him. If memory does
not deceive me, one of his numerous miracles
was this: Some cruel Jews in Italy had slain
three Christian children, and salted their
divided members in a tub. Application being
made to St. N., he kindly restored them to
life again; upon which agreeable
improvement in their prospects, they sat up in
their pickle, without getting out of their
tub, and returned him thanks as they were
bound to do. If any one ventures to doubt
the story, all I can say is that I have seen it
beautifully painted in the Vatican itself. In
consequence, St. Nicholas's day is the grand
fête-day of children in general; and as he is
also the patron of fishermen and sailors, he
must have a considerable amount of business
upon his hands. On the eve of St. Nicholas,
every toy-shop bursts out suddenly into full
bloom. A toy-shop, which I avoid passing
more frequently than I am compelled to,
used to have, and may have still, a wooden
St. Nicholas the size of life, exactly like a
tobacconist's Highlander. He figures in the
shop for a few days in the year, to listen to
the sincere devotions of his votaries, and then
retires, or is laid up in lavender, till another
December comes round again.

Of course there is great anxiety in the
morning to inspect the stockings, and ascertain
whether St. Nicholas has brought anything or
not. Before it is light, you may hear scores
of little boys in the streets shouting out
"St. Nicholas! " One young lady, come to
search the chimney corner, beheld a box
slowly descending. She stopped in astonishment;
the box stopped too, and then began
to mount up the chimney again. She remembered
that she had been rude and disobedient
on various occasions, and resolved, that if the
box would but come down, she never would
do so any more again. The casket of treasure
did reach the ground by a string held by
invisible hands; and it is to be presumed that
she kept her word, and never was naughty
afterwards. As a proof how liberal St. Nicholas
is, he last year filled a young friend's stockings
with oranges, liquorice, and preserved fruits;
a donkey and a cow were next discovered,
besides a shepherdess and her flock, consisting
of a couple of sheep; not the least esteemed
token of regard being a striking likeness of
himself, in gingerbread.

Our third holiday is a Dunkerquian freak,
full of Flemish whim and childish absurdity.
A curious old local legend is practically
translated into a piece of utter and bare-faced
folly. Saint Martin, afterwards Bishop of
Tours, was born in 316, in Pannonia. His
early career was a military one, which did
not prove in accordance with his taste. One
of the best known anecdotes of his life is his