Philippe Talon was born at Alais, near Nîmes; after having carried on his sweet trade of confectioner for some time in Paris, his want of success compelled him to expatriate himself. London, that _pays de Cocagne_, the perspective El Dorado, was close at hand; so our tradesman proceeded thither, and soon set up again in trade in the capital of the United Kingdom. The French confectioner had fair chance of success, for in addition to the English liking for sweet-stuff, French confectionary has ever enjoyed a reputation in that country, only comparable with that which _real_ English blacking has so long held in France. Still, despite these advantages, it seems that fresh difficulties arose; the fogs of the Thames, or, as some say, dangerous speculations, melted the fragile wares; the comfitures suffered a decided discomfiture. Talon packed up a second time and went to Aberdeen, to ask shelter from the Scotch mountaineers, to whom he offered in exchange his seductive cates. Unfortunately, the Scotch of Aberdeen, differing greatly from the mountaineers in _La Dame Blanche_, wear neither silk stockings nor patent leather shoes, and consume very few jujubes and tarts. Thus, the new shop would soon have undergone the fate of the other two, had not Talon’s inventive genius found an issue from this precarious position. The confectioner rightly thought that, in order to sell wares, they must be known; and in order for them to be known, they must be made known. Relying on this judicious reasoning, Talon soon compelled the Aberdonians to eat his sugar-plums, and, better still, to pay for them. At this period, there was a company of actors at Aberdeen much in the same condition as Talon’s “goodies;” they were neglected, and no one cared to try them. In vain had the manager prepared a pantomime full of tricks and blue-fire, the public remained deaf to his repeated appeals. One fine day, Talon called on the Scotch impresario: “I have a proposal to make to you, sir,” he said, without further preface, “which, if accepted, will fill your theatre, I am convinced.” “Pray explain yourself, sir,” the manager said, nibbling at the bait, but putting little faith in a promise which he had good reasons for believing difficult of realization. “It is simply,” Talon continued, “to join to the attraction of your performance a lottery, for which I will pay all the cost. This shall be the arrangement: each spectator, on entering, must pay, in addition, the sum of sixpence, giving him a claim-- “1. To a paper of mixed sugar-plums. “2. To a lottery-ticket, by which he may gain the first prize, of the value of five pounds.” Talon also promised a new performance, the secret of which he confided to the manager under the seal of discretion. These proposals being accepted, the bargain was soon completed, and the intelligent Talon had not deceived himself. The public attracted by the bonbons, the pantomime, and the promised surprise, filled the theatre.