EVERY woman who visits the French exposition of domestic manufactures, whether she be young or old, brunette or blonde, stops involuntarily before the beautiful shawls exhibited, the exquisite designs of which draw from her a half suppressed sigh of loving desire; but in passing away from them she only laments that her limited means do not equal her longings for possession, without giving a thought to the artist who has labored by day and meditated by night to produce an article of dress worthy of her charms. The designer of a beautiful fabric, however, merits not only a thought, but deep sympathy, particular interest. Banished between Apollo and Mercury to a domain where the laurel does not flourish, he at once cultivates the fine arts and commerce, the ideal and the real. Up to a certain point he possesses the inspiration of the improvisatore, the conception of the painter, and the sentiment of the colorist. But if this industrial centaur does not join to these qualities a little of the management of the merchant, then comes a sad result, for probably he will at last be brought to the door of a hospital, broken down with useless labor, without one ray of glory having touched his brow or warmed his heart. I could cite a remarkable but sad instance of one possessing fine talents, united to an excellent and lovely character, to illustrate this mournful fancy, but I should only cause melancholy thoughts, from which I should preserve my reader. I will, on the contrary, recall a more fresh and joyous reminiscence apropos to this pleasant season. Among the designers who have distinguished themselves this year, there is one whose name has been omitted; which is to be regretted, for Louis Salaville has contributed greatly to the creation of that new style of designs of which the shawl manufacturers are now so proud. In 1829 we were apprenticed to a shawl-weaving establishment, where, like machines, or a species of spider, we were expected to weave from five in the morning until nine at night. Showing but little aptitude for this part of the business, we were placed with a designer to learn that branch. At the school of design was a youth of fifteen or sixteen; he was pale as a daisy, simple as a child, and light as a butterfly; but with the grace of this flying insect he possessed unfortunately also its wandering propensities. He absented himself so frequently that the principals of the establishments grew impatient. Sometimes, after an absence of eight or ten days, he would enter just as the clock was sounding the hour of dismissal. He was vague and dreamy in his talk, would ask if it was April when it was December, and commenced a thousand things without ever finishing one. Notwithstanding he designed figures and flowers with wonderful rapidity and cleverness, we never dreamed of his being one day a rival.