of dyspepsia; while the abuse of coffee disordered the action of the heart to a distressing degree. The friends and biographers of M. Jules Noriac are unanimous as to the fact that he was inveterate in the use of tobacco. He was wont to smoke to the butt-end, one after the other, the huge cigars sold by the French "Regie," and known as "Imperiales," and a cynic might opine that if the deceased gentleman had smoked fragrant Havanas in lieu of the abominable stuff vended by the "Regie" he would not have been afflicted with the "cancer des fumeurs," nor with any kindred ailment He kept fearfully late hours, he worked only at night and he smoked "all the time." If towards morning he felt somewhat faint he would refresh himself with crusts of bread soaked in cold water, thus imitating to a certain extent our William Ptynne, who would from time to time momentarily suspend his interminable scribble to recruit exhausted nature with a moistened crust; only the verbose author of "Histriomastix" used to dip his crusts in Strong ale. And the bitter old pamphleteer, for all that his ears had been cropped and his cheeks branded by the Star Chamber, lived to be nearly seventy. Jules Noriac was never to be seen abroad until noon. His breakfast, like that of most Frenchmen, was inordinately prolonged; and afterwards rehearsals, business interviews, dinner, and the play would occupy him until nearly midnight. His delight was to accompany some friend home, and then walk the friend, arm-in-arm, backwards and forwards in front of his, the friend's, door, discoursing of things sublunary and otherwise until two in the morning. Then he would enter his own house and sit down, pipe in mouth, to the hard labour of literature until six or seven in the morning. What kind of slumber could a man, leading such a life as this, be expected to enjoy? On the whole, it would appear that M. Jules Noriac's habits were diametrically opposed to the preservation of health and the prolongation of life, and that he died quite as much from too much Boulevard and too much night work, as from too much smoking. There are vast numbers of French journalists and men of letters who, without being necessarily "Bohemians," consume their health and shorten their lives by this continuous and feverish race against time. Their days are spent chiefly on the Boulevards or in the cafes, and it is only at the dead of night that they devote themselves to serious work. The French "savant," On the other hand, is rarely seen on the Boulevards. It is by day that he works, and he spends his evening in some tranquil "salon," and lives, as a rule, till eighty. The painter, again, must be a day worker, if he wishes to excel as a colourist. He is but a holiday "flaneur" on the Boulevards. They are but a part of his life; but of the "chroniqueur" and the "feuilletonniste" out of the small hours devoted to fagging at the production of "copy," those Boulevards are