teachers are somewhat better paid than in
the church-schools.

Thus far we have discussed only a few
points that concern health and education.
We have yet to pick from the tables crumbs
of knowledge about the apparent course
through three successive .years of British
Industry and Poverty and Crime. But with
these topics we find a natural association in
some recent reports of the progress of one or
two colonies. It is well, therefore, to secure
space enough by getting some fresh paper for
our notes.

              GOING FOR A SONG.

THE Théâtre Impérial, Toulouse, does not
rank any degree higher than its fellow
provincial places of entertainment. It is not
managed with the same brilliancy as the
Opéra Comiqne or French Opera House at
Paris. Its staff of talent does not make those
metropolitan houses pale their ineffectual
fires, or hide their diminished heads. It has
that dingy, woful, out-of-season aspect
unhappily too common with many of its
brethren: its own shabbiness mating with
the seedy aspect of its sons and daughters
hanging about the door. It is of the province,
provincial; its gilding is dull; its paint
discoloured; its scenery old; its atmosphere
damp, and its audience sparse. To such a
place might Saint Ignatius have repaired
conveniently when composing his sad spiritual
exercises, with a certain loneliness and
worldly abstraction.

To this unpromising temple of the
Theatre Impérial, Toulouse, was attached
Mademoiselle Amélie Piquette, first woman
and leading voice whenever the light operas of:
Auber Adolphe Adam were played. Towards
her, several young persons of the town,
associated with leading trading interests,
nourished hopeless great passions, and were
consumed and wasted thereby to the prejudice
of their healths and callings. It went,
however, to no greater lengths than bouquet
offerings and some poetic scribbling; for
Mademoiselle was under safeguard of her
husband, a man jealous and angry, and moreover
bearded fiercely. Piquette, the husband,
hung craftily about the side-scenes, holding the
opera cloak and the eau de cologne, waiting
till his wife should come off the stage. His fierce
eyes measured every unprofessional visitor
as though doubtful of his business. But outside
(or perhaps inside) of these cerberine
qualities he was unmatched for his devotion.
For never was professional husband so
unwearied in pushing his wife's fame.  On her
benefit nights you would say that Mademoiselle
Piquette had fifty husbands at the least.
For, when she was fairly launched in her
grand horse-of-battle song or bring-the-house-down
aria, that fierce pard face of Piquette
would be ubiquitous in galleries, side-boxes,
front-boxes, orchestra, and pit. The occupant
of the front box would hear a hoarse voice
behind him utter a deep bravo, and just
catch a glimpse of the pard face enveloped
in a cloak disappearing at the door. In
an instant of time almost inappreciable it
is seen in the amphitheatre, whispering such
words as "divine!"  "ravishing!"  With a
bound it is in the galleries, shrieking
desperately for an encore.

But empires grow old and kingdoms decay.
All first women have not that strange
voice-longevity given to great Italian Divas.
Chanteuses even of first provincial force have
not brazen throats; and so, one night when it
was rumoured behind the scenes that there
was a Parisian manager listening, Mademoiselle
Piquette lashed herself into a perfect
dramatic fury. In this abnormal temperament,
towards the last scene of the last act,
her voice unhappily cracked. Cracked
flagrantly. What a wretched night followed on
that catastrophe may be conceived. Poor
distracted Piquette went nigh to being shut
up in an asylum for life: he did such foolish
things.  But what was to be thought of for
future sustenance? Many an anxious hour
was consumed in laying out plans. The stage
was no more to be thought of: that was
clear. Had she been in Paris, not even
the manoeuvre of the claque known as "the
cover " could have helped. That desperate
resource, whose significance rested in this:
that when the singer is about touching on
the failing note, the band of applauding hands
comes pouring in, and drowns utterly the
abortive tone.

There is a walk still open to voices that
have met with this peculiar form of accident;
and, on this walk, it was resolved that
Madame should strive to enter. If the stage
was forbidden her, there was the drawing-
room. If the aria d'assolto, the soaring
storming tragedy- queen's song, was denied
to her, there was still left the gentle, plaintive
romance. The encouraging roar of the
parterre was gone for ever; but there was
in exchange the subdued approbation of
the salon. In that new scene you might
speak if you could not sing. Ancient tenors,
whose voices have fled away years ago, have
been known to sit at the piano and enunciate
with perfect elocution the most successful
little ditties. And, if it be an established
fact that love is nothing without sentiment:
in music the sentiment can stand itself
without voice and without tone; needing only
a feeling heart and a well of sensibility.
It was decided. Madame shall be a
drawing-room chanteuse.

Luckily, Piquette had once served a person
of distinction—now very high in the diplomatic
circles at Paris— as courier: and this
noble official was good enough to say he
would mention Madame Piquette's name, if
he could only recollect it, to certain small
people of his acquaintance.

In course of time the small people of