be
remembered, he had given up in early manhood. Leaning heavily forward in
his chair, his easel before him, he painted with an enthusiasm which was
the last of his life. But that diversion could not be kept up long, and
he was soon compelled to sit motionless, awaiting his release.

On the morning of the 8th of June, 1846, consoled by the hopes of the
Christian, he expired. On the 14th he was followed to his final
resting-place by the whole city, among whom were those who in him had
lost their friend, their colleague, and their master. His remains sleep
in the cemetery of Plain-palais, which he has so graphically described
in "La Peur"; but his memory and his works still live in the minds of
his countrymen, and his fame is daily widening, wherever the good, the
true, and the beautiful are appreciated.

THE CHIMNEY-CORNER.

X.

THE WOMAN QUESTION: OR, WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH HER?

"Well, what will you do with her?" said I to my wife.

My wife had just come down from an interview with a pale, faded-looking
young woman in rusty black attire, who had called upon me on the very
common supposition that I was an editor of the "Atlantic Monthly."

By the bye, this is a mistake that brings me, Christopher Crowfield,
many letters that do not belong to me, and which might with equal
pertinency be addressed, "To the Man in the Moon." Yet these letters
often make my heart ache,--they speak so of people who strive and sorrow
and want help; and it is hard to be called on in plaintive tones for
help which you know it is perfectly impossible for you to give.

For instance, you get a letter in a delicate hand, setting forth the old
distress,--She is poor, and she has looking to her for support those
that are poorer and more helpless than herself: she has tried sewing,
but can make little at it; tried teaching, but cannot now get a
school,--all places being filled, and more than filled; at last has
tried literature, and written some little things, of which she sends you
a modest specimen, and wants your opinion whether she can gain her
living by writing. You run over the articles, and perceive at a glance
that there is no kind of hope or use in her trying to do anything at
literature; and then you ask yourself, mentally, "What is to be done
with her? What can she do?"

Such was the application that had come to me this morning,--only,
instead of by note, it came, as I have said, in the person of the
applicant, a thin, de