Editor's Table [pp. 280-285]

EDITOR'S TABLE.
erary men, like Carlyle, Ruskin, and Charles Reade, are
hermit-like, and are rarely seen outside their own houses.
There is, perhaps, less jealousy and hostility among
great English writers nowadays than in the era of pugnacious Dick Steele and the ferocious Dean of St. Patrick's; but there is also far less social intimacy. The
modern "coffee-stall," which one meets everywhere in
London, forms a wretched comparison with the famous
old-time resorts. "Its proprietor," says the paper to
which we have referred, "commences business between
one and two in the morning, and concludes at or about
six, when the public-houses are open. His stock-in-trade
is a barrow, covered with a sort of pent-house, by way of
protection against bad weather." It is, in short, a streetcorner affair, for the refreshment of unfortunates whose
necessities oblige them to be abroad in the small hours.
Yet, while the lament of the London journal as to coffeehouses is true, it is still possible to find, in odd London
nooks, snug inns which have the air, and whose good
cheer has the flavor, of the olden time. One does not
meet with Drydens or Addisons in them, but he does
see English character en ddshabillZ, with its brusqueness,
frankness, and hearty good-humor; while in the country you may still find hostelries a century or two old,
perfectly preserved, and holding stoutly to all their traditional customs and comforts,
ELEVATED railways being new facts in our metropolitan civilization, they have necessarily brought with
them a number of new experiences, not all of which are
wholly agreeable. Among other surprising things they
have developed is an unprecedented sensitiveness to
noise on the part of those citizens who live near them.
Were we accustomed in this turbulent city to suppress
all noises in our comings and goings not absolutely necessary, then the denunciations of the concussions that
salute us from the elevated track would not be a matter
of wonder. But our people have always shown themselves indifferent to any clang or clamor that anybody at
his pleasure has seen fit to make. They endure with stolid
unconcern the hideous discords of an army of organgrinders; they permit ten thousand itinerant venders to
utter their trade-calls in discordant and rasping cries that
pierce to the marrow of every sensitive ear; they tolerate
pavements over the irregularities of which every vehicle
rattles with a distracting clatter; they utter no complaints at the bells that all day long jingle on the necks
of the car-horses; and they permit junk-men to perambulate the streets with hand-carts garnished with every
variety of cow-bell which a perverse industry can bring together. Concert of action might abate some of the noises
to which all are subjected, if anybody really cared whether they are abated or not-as, for instances: every sleeper
in a given square must listen each morning to the distinct
cries of thirty lusty-throated milkmen, whereas it would
be entirely practicable to have all the milk for the houses
of a square supplied by the same dealer; then, a tired
sleeper, who longs for his morning nap, and the invalid
tossing on his feverish bed, must be stunned with the
deafening thunder of thirty or more ponderous ice-carts,
when all the time it is entirely practicable to limit one of
these elephantine vehicles to each square. These are but
a part of the noises that have no good excuse for their
being. It is perhaps impossible to escape the persecution
of badly-played pianos, or to suppress amateur singers
whose quavers ascend to an astonished heaven, or to
wipe out of existence caterwauling cats, and dogs who
"bay deep-mouthed" discord the night long, or
to extinguish small boys with ear-piercing trumpets, or
to compel generally among the thoughtless multitude
a regard for the nerves and rights of other people. But
at least there are some noises that can be suppressed;
and we heartily wish some philanthropic Bergh Would
organize a "Society for the Suppression of Unnecessary
Noises," the duty of which should be to drive the organgrinders into the sea; to compel venders to imitate French
example, and utter their calls with a musical intonation,
if ii be necessary to tolerate the class at all; which would
make it a penal offense to blow a small trumpet, a big
trumpet, or any trumpet; which would fine every one who
rang a bell out of time; which would insist that our streets
shall be smoothly paved, as a health measure-quiet, or
an approach to quiet, being impossible so long as every
vehicle must bounce in and out of cavities and over bowlders. There would be many wholly idle and some
vicious noises to suppress; and, after the society had adequately put down all unnecessary commotion, then it
would be time to see how far that which is necessary
could be modified, and the elevated railways taken in
hand.
A NOTABLE scene was enacted a few weeks ago in that
ancient and odd-looking edifice, in Paris, which is still
occasionally spoken of by elderly Frenchmen as the
"Palais Mazarin," but which the unreminiscent mass
know only as the "Institut." A brilliant gathering of
the intellect and beauty of the capital had assembled in
the principal hall to witness the formal reception of two
newly-chosen Academic "Immortals." One of these was
the most eminent of living French historians, M. Henri
Martin, who had been very happily elected to fill the
vacant chair of a still greater historian, Thiers; the
other was the French writer who has produced a deeper
literary impression on his age and country than any
other, Victor Hugo alone excepted. That the author of
the "Vie de Jesus" should sit in the Academy beside
Bishop Dupanloup would have seemed, ten years ago,
impossible; but even the bitterest opponents of M. Ernest Renan must now be agreed that the matchless style
and force of his pen entitle him to the highest formal
distinction that can be attained by a literary Frenchman.
The most striking fact regarding the French Academy is
not so much its astonishing vitality as its growth in tolerance and breadth of view. Proud of calling itself a" Republic of Letters," it has passed unscathed, and almost
uninterrupted, through the many convulsions, the eleven
different dynasties and forms of government which have
succeeded each other in France during the past century;
renewing its youth by the constant acquisition of fresh
blood, pursuing steadily the collaboration of a clossal *,.
dictionary even through the din of cops d'64t,:birii-. *
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