and frogs, and flowers, little enamelled swallows,
and butterflies as gaudy as nature, are sure to
find purchasers among the lovers of quaintness
and gatherers of bric-a-brac; so are tiny ends of
cable, imitation screws with the broad cleft in
the middle for the screw-driver, Algerian sequins,
and Roman mosaics (imitated), huge bosses of
all colours, and black glass cut into facets,
or moulded into raspberries and blackberries,
purple with ripeness; these pearls will not
hang long on hand, though they are nothing
better than wax filming a thin glass shell;
nor those translucent agates, banded and starred;
those ornamented gold moulds will suit well
with Maria's velvet, and those deep green
jaspers, with the blood-drops on each, will look
unanswerable on Henry's vest; Matilda chooses
the opaline white; Laura the heavenly blue;
simpler Jane takes those silken acorns, with a
net-work cup; and that handsome young Israelite
unhesitatingly adopts yonder set of purple
enamel, starred with gold, which she thinks will
look divine down her royal robe of blue. The
only thing wanting is the money. Taste and
the wealth of choice are here in full profusion.

What else is there about buttons? There are
the buttons upon foils, which encourage skill and
prevent bloodshed; very useful things those
buttons upon foils, those railway buffers of life, that
stand between two opposing forces and
prevent unwholesome contact. I do not know how
the world would go on if there were no buttons
on the foils with which we constantly play.
What terrible mangling of the human face!
What long and earnest strife in the room of mere
playful harmless fencing! Yes, we cannot part
with the buttons on our foils, whatever else we
lose. Then there are buttony mushrooms—do
you know the flavour of buttony mushrooms
fried in butter and duly peppered? mushrooms
that you have gathered yourself out on the high
sea downs, before the dirty little boys have
had time to tramp across the close-cropped
dewy grass, or the sheep have shaken off the last
night's sea mist from their fleeces? Ah! those
buttony mushrooms are worth something to the
gatherer, and represent no little care and sorrow
lost out on the downs, or drowned for the day
beneath the waves. Then there are the bachelor's
buttons of our cottage gardens, a pretty
little flower with a fine flavour of rusticity
about it, very eloquent of the country parsonage,
and the trim gardens before the cottage
doors; a pretty little miniature dahlia, gold-
coloured and untidy, always shedding its leaves
and making a litter at its green feet. And
there is the man who is button-holed, or held,
poor wretch! and must listen to half an
hour's harangue about nothing interesting,
while his friends are waiting dinner, or his
wife is sitting in her diamonds and opera cloak,
sullenly expecting his escort. The man who
button-holes another is a ruffian, not fit for
civilised society, and ought to go out to the
long-winded savages who have not yet learnt that
brevity is the soul of wit. There is the close-fisted
curmudgeon who buttons up his pockets,
and the open-handed lord who wears none at
all on his; there are buttons on window-sashes,
and buttons on drawer handles, buttons on
Spanish bull-fighters, and those immortal
"buttons upon blankets" which the old Scotch
husband "saw never nane." And oh! there are
many buttons which sadly need button-holes!
Poor lone things standing unhooked and all
apart, desolate and unappropriated; buttons—
boutons or buds—living unfastened and
ungathered, holding together no garment over a
living heart, and doing no service in the world
of men. Poor unfastened buttons!

THE GREAT SHOE QUESTION.

THE Great Shoe Question is being agitated
in India. The Great Shoe Question has been
agitated in India before. Whenever it is
agitated, the agitation is a cheering sign. There
are certain luxuries in politics which are never
resorted to but when the necessaries have ceased
to cause anxiety. The Great Shoe Question is
one of these. It was never heard of during the
mutinies, when famine was pressing upon the
people, or when the financial ends of the country
were so shaped that they could not be made
to meet. Even during the Nil Darpan discussion
nobody troubled himself about the Great
Shoe Question. But happier days have come
upon us. Authority is restored; the people are
fed; "equilibrium" is no name for the
prosperous state of the balance-sheet; the Nil
Darpan delusion has exploded. India has no
longer need to trouble itself about important
questions. Our countrymen can dress, drive,
and dine, in peace, with nothing in particular to
do but to multiply the number of beer-bottles,
which satirists assure us are to be the only
enduring monuments of their rule. The Golden
Age is restored, and has nothing to trouble
itself about but the rate of exchange. At such
a time as this, active minds find that they can't
stand it any longer. They cast about for a
grievance, and happy is the community which
finds nothing more distressing than the Great
Shoe Question. It is to Indian politicians what
the ruffled rose-leaf was to the Sybarite. It is
a capital excuse, in short, for getting up a
disturbance. They are an easy indolent
community, the Anglo-Indians, spoiled children of
fortune; but before we begin to moralise let
us look at home. Are there no political Sybarites
in this country—no ruffled rose-leaves of
which we hear the discomforts daily discussed?
Never mind. Our present business is with
the Anglo-Indians. If we have any weaknesses
of our own we may safely leave them to make
the discovery.

In the mean time the reader may perhaps
desire to know something more concerning the
Great Shoe Question than is contained in the
above flippant remarks.

The Great Shoe Question had its origin at a
comparatively recent period, and arose out of the
conflict of European with Asiatic manners,
produced by the closer intercourse of the two races.