afterwards a distinct society was formed
with express reference to this subject; and
those statistical and personal examinations
were instituted which have since formed such
a striking feature in connection with the
condition of the humbler classes. Some of the
poor little sweepers were found to be less
than five years old, some apprenticed by
parishes, some actually sold by their parents
for four or five guineas, and some kidnapped.
The Society tried to carry a reformatory bill
through Parliament, but failed. They next
offered premiums for the invention of chimney-
sweeping machines, and rendered a large
amount of service thereby. In 1817 a
Committee of the House of Commons strongly
recommended the prohibition of chimney
sweeping by other than mechanical aid; but
a long series of years elapsed before the
realisation of this plan. In 1834 a step was made
in this direction, by passing an Act which
greatly lessened the power of the masters to
ill-use the boys, and in 1840 another Act,
coming into operation in 1842, settled the
matter by prohibiting, under heavy penalties,
the employment of human beings in this
exploratory journey up a sooty chimney.
Then came the days of ramoneurs and sweeping
machines. We may remark, en passant,
that the chimney-sweepers of Paris are said
to be almost entirely Savoyards or
Piedmontese, chiefly from Domo d'Ossola. Since
1842 our house-tops have reformed
themselves; little black boys do not rattle the
chimney-pots and cry " Sweep—sweeip!"

HOLIDAY TIMES.

WE have hardly a real holiday in England;
executions and races make the nearest
approach to one, but they are both too much in
the way of business. A Sunday's holiday is
looked upon as a heinous sin by so many
worthy and respectable people, that it cannot
be indulged in with impunity. Good Friday,
leaving its religious aspect unconsidered, is to
thousands upon thousands, a welcome day of
rest; and moreover as, unlike Christmas Day,
it never falls upon a Sunday—not even in an
Irish calendar—the worn-out trafficker may
calculate upon stealing one twelve hours'
bodily and mental repose in the midst of the
hard-working, unpausing twelvemonth. But
a mere day of rest is not what is understood
by a genuine holiday. A real good holiday
is anything but rest; on the contrary, it is a
pretty sharp exercise of the faculties and
feelings in an utterly unwonted and out-of-
the-common-way mode. Christmas Day is a
private solemnity, rather than a holiday. It
is consecrated as strictly, though in a different
way, to family affection and to the household
gods, as if we made it a duty on that anniversary
to visit the graves of our dead relations.
And who does not know that the successive
vacant seats around the dinner-table on
Christmas Day, are perhaps the most
impressive memento mori of all that we meet
with? Fairs, as holidays, are nothing now
to the inhabitants of cities. In the country,
their amusements mostly commence with
horse-chaunting and pig-jobbing, to terminate
in much that is still less to be boasted of.
There is little to cheer, and nothing to elevate,
but quite as much cause for melancholy as
for mirth. Assize Balls, Musical Festivals,
and Horticultural Shows, are well enough
for the rich; but some rich people stand in
greater need of a workday than a holiday.
After all, I think, it may be safely asserted
that we have no real holidays in England.
This deficiency, indeed, is not our fault,
because it is the consequence of our inborn
national disposition. We are what we are—
worthy folks at bottom—a little too careful
about committing ourselves by gaiety. We
are rather too fond of the dark side of things;
and you can't get flour out of a coalsack.
But I must, nevertheless, take the liberty of
believing the absence of holidays to be a
national misfortune. For it acts as a sort of
mental bath—a pleasant refreshment to the
spirits—to see an entire people indulging in
a general smiling carelessness, and throwing
off everyday anxieties, if it only be for a few
short hours. To-morrow will come afterwards,
quite fast and sure enough, to hold
each weary toiler's nose to the wear and tear
of his own private grindstone.

Sunday, in France, is more or less observed
as a holiday, even when hard work is done
in the morning. Shops, it is true, are kept
open all day long, but not so much (except
in Paris, perhaps,) for the sake of sale,
as to avoid the dull and death-like look
of a house-front mourning behind closed
shutters. But Ascension Day, throughout the
Empire, is regarded as a real holiday. It is
more of a fête-day, more determinedly seized
upon as an opportunity of enjoyment than
even Sunday itself in general. During the
forenoon, both in town and country, less work
is going on; and in the afternoon, people are
universally endimanchés, smartly dressed, and
taking their pleasure. In everybody's face,
and on everybody's back, you read plainly
written, " To-day is fête-day." Amongst the
latter symptoms of the time, you are compelled
to admire the taste and fancifulness with
which the children are bedecked in their
Sunday's best. Girls and boys flutter with
delight, as they display for the first time some
whimsical costume, which is as becoming
to them as it would be absurd on an
older wearer; while here and there more
demurely walks, under the protection of her
mamma or her aunt, a staid and white-robed
little lady, whose ample lace or muslin veil, as
well as all the rest of her attire, denotes that
she has lately attended her first communion.

Religious duties are first performed, and
then the day is devoted to pleasure, music
entering largely into the programme. I was
present at Calais one Holy Thursday at a