You wrote the last day of the year and did not give me a wish for the New! Did you forget? Or do you think the custom puerile? I think I like it most heartily, even with its limitations, as are set forth in some simple lines I came across, and which you must read to make your conscience tender:

I hardly think you deserve to know what kind of time I had. You should not, only I want to tell so much I can’t keep from it! I was invited to a friend’s Christmas Eve tree party. She has a lovely, cozy little apartment. The tree was “a thing of beauty,” and we guests made a jam that occupied every available square inch of standing room. The elders proved to be more childish than the children themselves, clutching their presents as generous “Old Chris.” called their names, and screaming and laughing with glee at and with each other. Not the tree, nor the presents, nor the toilets, nor “the goodies” overcame me; but one superb, inexpressible specimen of the genus homo—an Apollo in silver locks, the frosty though kindly glow of at least seventy years. One sweeping glance sufficed for all the rest of that hilarious throng. Then I settled myself in the roomiest, deepest, sinkiest of spring-cushioned “arm-chairs,” and fastened my gaze on him, to wander no more while he stayed. His wife did not come. How I did wish she had, so I could see what manner of woman had dared to mate with that grand creature.

We, my hostess and myself, had a New Year’s Eve gathering. Nothing so commonplace as a tree, though. We put our heads together to devise something unique, and with that complacency characteristic of the “salt of the earth,” we feel assured we were a success. Here’s the program. See if you like it.

Salutatory, an impromptu poem, most carefully written out beforehand and read by me. This elicited great applause. Some amusing little characterizations by other ladies of our household. A metrical version of one of the many legends of that half-saint, half-angel of a woman—no, I don’t know where the woman came in—Elizabeth of Hungary, by my hostess, who is a woman of much culture and many gifts. This was received, as it should have been, with the hush and silence of deep feeling. Music and games. Then a fishing frolic; a big pond in which every guest was invited to fish, as he or she had a bite, which meant a present. You can believe the fun waxed “uproarious.” I was in the pond to do the biting and put the fishes on the hook; but didn’t I make them tug! Some of them got so many bites they sang out, “Fishes, you needn’t bite any more if you don’t want to.” Just on the stroke of midnight, madame recited a moan of farewell to the passing year, and in the next breath hallelujahed into the New. We all joined in at the top of our lungs, and immediately turned to each other with hearty hand-shakings, warm wishes and some kisses. Enjoying thus with much merry and kindly talk that held us together till 2 a. m. Then I spoke the lines I have copied for you and we broke up. We had our salon ornamented with American and French flags and evergreens from Fountainbleau.

They have a custom here of keeping “Twelfth Night.” I never heard of it elsewhere. The shops are full of cakes baked expressly, each one containing “a charm,” as tiny as possible. A nice china pig, or “baby” most frequently; at least I saw nothing else. If a gentleman gets the charm, he names some lady for his “queen” throughout the year; if a lady, she names her “king.” I got the “baby,” the weest of manikins in china. For the rest, the days come and go as swiftly as so many rays of light, scarcely here till they are gone. I have grown to begrudge the hours I have to give to sleep. I never go to bed till midnight, oftenest later, recklessly sacrificing my “beauty sleep!”—and then with the utmost reluctance, and in the main feeling as if just risen from refreshing slumber. It takes, I can tell you, all my awe of the laws of physiology to force me to that.

I am not writing a book, painting a picture, composing an opera, inventing a new fangled bit of machinery, or even devising a new fashion in woman’s gear! No, nor am I planning any extra wickedness; have not committed such sins as banish sleep, and yet I shun sleep. What’s the trouble then? Of the most serious kind, because beyond remedy. Not all the narcotics known to science can lull me to that acceptance of “tired nature’s sweet restorer” that should come as naturally as breathing and loving; it is this, it is this:

To think of sparing five or six hours out of twenty-four for oblivion! Would it could be otherwise. For you see “of the making of books there is no end,” and readers must be found for them. None more eager or indefatigable than I. If only the days had more hours, the years more months, and sleep did not claim!

I have “Characteristics.” I am your debtor for all the years to come for having written such a book. “‘T would be but little could I say how much.” I thank you for your publisher’s promptness in sending me the book itself. It is one to have and to hold as a possession forever; to pick up and pore over, lay down and meditate on, and it has this quality of every genuine work: you cannot take much at a time; it forces you to pause and ponder, and once begun you cannot put it away for long; it claims you like a cluster of luscious grapes, one at a time, and, indeed, with pauses between, but no cessation till the bunch is finished. I shall not tell you yet which I like best, but I will tell you which I had already read and read first before your letter came, with its suggestion of what I would most probably prefer, and which you evidently prefer yourself—the last two! I am lending the book around. “The old beauty” has it now, and she quotes from it and uses its anecdotes, by way of illustration, always with due acknowledgment of their source. “That book I am reading of Mrs. Collins’ friend.” I think I never showed such unselfishness. My reward is great, though; she is charmed, and intends to get both it and “Library Notes” as soon as she goes home. I had a letter from Miss B—— since she received her copy, and she is so enthusiastic: “It is a capital book. The article on Burns I like best so far. I can’t tell what re-reading may do for the others. I like the drift of his mind exceedingly, and his Essays—themes, whatever they are—are unique, and the flavor is sharp and wholesome. There is nothing better I have read—that is modern—that reads in his direction.” There! Are those not good words, indeed? May it have half the success it so richly merits!

Well, I must hurry to the finis. But first, such is the vanity of a wise woman, I am going to give you an excerpt from a love-letter that came in the same budget with yours: “I must write to you to-night, because I have been thinking and thinking of you, and wishing with all my heart I was with you, if only for these holidays; for I am sure you are like myself, and feel loneliest at this time, when all are rejoicing; but if we were together, there would be such a glow of affection that the proverbial yule log would fade by comparison, and it would take several families to supply an amount of devotion equal to ours. But let us hope we shall spend many Christmases together. I must and will have you, for I don’t believe there is any one cares half so much for me, and I am sure your place in my affection is simply unapproachable to the rest of woman or mankind either.”

Isn’t she a darling of darlings who wrote that? And it was not Miss B——.

L. G. C.

Paris, January 1, 1884.