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Imperial Government, which are now becoming somewhat remote. should like to see him satirize the missionaries and their sermons.


Church-going and preaching, you must know, have almost exclusively engaged the attention of the young world for the last few weeks. The beau tiful church of St. Thomas d'Aquin, has become a place of fashionable resort; and during the time of service, it presents the appearance of a crowded drawing-room. The ladies find abundant entertainment in displaying their own dresses, and criticising those of their acquaintance, while the gentlemen seem to want nothing but a table d'ecarté, to complete their amusement. Ladies who attend church for the sake of seeing and being seen by their admirers, have only to seat themselves in a convenient situation, and for the space of two hours they may enjoy the pleasure of discoursing in the language of the eyes, which, like music, is of all languages best calculated for the expression of tender sentiments. If a gentleman interested in this exchange of glances should happen to be a military officer, he enjoys a twofold advantage. Nothing is more favourable to the advancement of a young lieutenant, than regular attendance at St. Thomas d'Aquin, St. Sulpice, or any other fashionable church. These meetings at church have proved so very agreeable, that many of our ladies of rank have conceived the idea of giving morning routs. This is a great step towards the return of those agreeable conversation parties, of which the revolution deprived us. Several attempts have also been made to revive suppers; but to these our six and seven o'clock dinners present an insuperable obstacle. Before the revolution, dinner was merely a sort of breakfast; and the essential repast for the nutriment both of body and mind, was the supper, which usually took place about ten o'clock. These experiments for the revival of suppers and morning parties, have been made by those who may be termed persons of quality in the strictest sense of the term, that is to say, ladies whose ancestors fought in the crusades, and who enjoy about one hundred thousand francs of income. Such parties were exceedingly agreeable, as far as the ladies were concerned, but the male part of the company proved very dull and insipid. The fact is, that men of rank are afraid of the ridicule which many of our ladies now have courage to brave. A man who inherits nobility and wealth will always find parasites ready to flatter him; he has, therefore, no interest in acquiring information. Hunting, which presents so many attractions to the skilful sportsman, is a diversion which can only be enjoyed after a long and difficult apprenticeship, which is usually served by young men after they quit college, and while they are between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. Now, few young men, from seventeen to twenty-five, apply themselves seriously to study. An exception may be made, to be sure, in favour of those who are sent to the " Ecole Polytechnique," that admirable institution for which we have to thank the Republic, and which was respected even by the despotism of Napoleon, though he never thought proper to visit it until after his return from Elba. Several of our young peers have been educated at the "Ecole Polytechnique," and though they may not have acquired any vast stock of information, stiil they must have learned something. What young man of twenty, possessing pleasure-horses and cabriolets, does not prefer riding or driving in the Bois de Boulogne to reading even the works of Courier. At that age a man must be poor before he can resolve to apply himself to study. The higher ranks are afraid of roturier talent. They laugh at Chainfort, and a hundred others less celebrated. Men of talent, who cannot boast of nobility, are regarded merely as merry-andrews, for the amusement of persons of quality. Contempt and hatred are continually seen lurking beneath the cloak of cold ceremonious politeness. These are the causes of the insipidity of the male portion of the company in most fashionable parties. Talent is only to be met with among a few old noblemen, who were accounted agreeable before 1789, and who, it must be confessed, still continue so, though they unfortunately find nobody

able to play up to them. Roturiers beaux esprits are looked upon as a set of poor devils who fill up the lower ranks of literature, and who are accustomed to receive all sorts of affronts. It is said, that a certain duchess tried the experiment of dividing her circle of acquaintance into two distinct sets. On Mondays her drawing-rooms were thrown open to the nobility, and Fridays were reserved for commoners. Every individual of the latter class, having any pretension to talent, stayed away. On the other haud, the company on the Monday evenings began to get very dull, and the consequence was, the parties were given up. This appears to me an insurmountable obstacle. An untitled man of talent will never condescend to render himself agreeable to people, who employ insolence for the support of imbecility.

This is the class of fools who have been most alarmed at the vigorous denouement of M. de Montlosier. They share all places and pensions among themselves. They are perfectly satisfied with the restoration as it is; and they are not willing that the priests should subvert the present order of things under the pretence of making matters better. M. de la Mennais' reply to M. de Montlosier has served only to augment the alarm of the upper classes. This rhapsody, which might be supposed to have been written in the time of the League, is entitled, "De la religion considerée dans ses rapports avec l'ordre politique et civil."

The present state of our fashionable drawing-rooms is well calculated to promote the prosperity of the theatres. M. M. Lemontey, Lourdouen, Auger, and the rest of the censors, prohibit at the Theatre Français all comic scenes descriptive of contemporary manners. The amiable Duchess de Berry patronises the Theatre du Gymnase, to which she gave her name, without asking permission of the late king, who took offence at this want of respect. The censors, who are doubtless well bribed by the managers of the Theatre de Madame, dare not venture to be too rigidly severe with the little pieces produced for the entertainment of Her Royal Highness. M. Scribe imports from Italy, Spain, and Germany, every dramatic piece possessing the recommendation of originality. He condenses them into one act, and has the happy tact of rendering them all successful. M. Scribe derives 48,000 francs a year from his dramatic productions.

This fact, and the 550,000 francs which four Paris booksellers have agreed to pay Viscount Chateaubriand for the complete collection of his works, have given a degree of importance to literature in the eyes of some of our wealthy commercial men, who hitherto could never understand why people should write, except with the view of gaining money. The writings of M. de Chateaubriand are too strongly tinged with hypocrisy to be much read at the present day. The astonishing discovery that liberal opinions exist even in the Russian army, has caused a terrible contre-coup in the Faubourg St. Germain. The empty and bombastic arguments which characterize the political writings of M. de Chateaubriand, will appear ridiculous a year hence, even in our aristocratic saloons. Now it will require at least two years to enable the booksellers to print and circulate twenty-six octavo volumes; for such is the bulk of the collected works of the author of René and Atala. These two little romances will, after all, continue to be his masterpieces, together with their pendant, "La rencontre à Grenade."

On the 2d of February, I was present at the first representation of "Les Manteaux,” a vaudeville in two acts, which was brought out at the Theatre de Madame. We have an actor here, named Legrand, who is a clever representative of that kind of character in which your late comic performer Knight used to excel. Legrand's fort, however, consists in the delineation of vulgar awkwardness, combined with affected elegante. In the piece to which I have just alluded, he personates a tailor in the capital of some petty German prince. A stranger, who accosts him in the street, supplies him with a quantity of cloth, out of which he directs him to make twelve cloaks. You shall be well paid," says the stranger; "but until the job is completed you must not quit your workshop." The tailor, in the true spirit of his trade,

makes thirteen cloaks, instead of twelve, out of the cloth with which he has been furnished. He appropriates this thirteenth cloak to himself, and puts it on to pay a visit to his mistress; having in his pocket twelve gold Fredericks which he has received from the stranger.

Thus far all goes well with the tailor, but it is not long ere this thirteenth cloak brings poor Bloum into a serious scrape. Three noblemen attached to the court of the German Prince have laid a plot for seizing the prime minister, whom they intend to bury in a cave, or cast into a river. The noblemen have induced twelve persons to join them in their conspiracy, and on the eve of the execution of the plot, they present a cloak to each of the men. The twelve conspirators are all strangers to one another; all that each of them knows is, that he is to be assisted in the plan of seizing the prime minister, by eleven men, wearing cloaks similar to his own.

Bloum, who sallies forth in the evening, wrapt in his cloak, is met by a stranger, who presents him with 800 florins, and invites him to accompany him. The stranger conducts him to a meeting of the conspirators. One of them is the guardian of a young girl, whom he is anxious to save from the dangers in which he is himself likely to be involved. He places the girl under the care of Bloum, who conveys her to his house for security. Bloum's mistress, whom he has promised to marry that very morning with the 800 florins, now enters, and an amusing scene of jealousy ensues. A soldier, one of Bloum's friends, next arrives, and recognizes, as his intended bride, the girl who has been placed under Bloum's care. The soldier challenges the tailor, whose embarrassment is most whimsically pourtrayed by Legrand. Bloum, in the expectation of going to church to get married, had taken the liberty of wearing a new coat, which he ought to have carried home to the prime minister. A servant comes to fetch the coat, and Bloum hastily sends it home, forgetting that he has slipped into the pocket a paper containing instructions respecting the execution of the plot, which had been given him at the meeting of conspirators, but which he has not yet had time to read.

Meanwhile the whole conspiracy is discovered, and Bloum's friend, the soldier, charitably comes to inform him, that every man who has been seen wearing a cloak like his, is to be hanged. Poor Bloum is reduced to despair. This distress is, however, speedily relieved by the entrance of a messenger, who comes to inform him that he has been the means of disclosing the plot, and saving the life of the prime minister, and that the Grand Duke has raised him to the important post of Court Tailor.

This piece, which is no doubt borrowed from the German, would, I think, with some alterations, answer very well in an English dress.

La jeune fille, ou la premiere entrevue, is the title of another piece, which has been successfully produced at the Theatre de Madame; but I have not space to describe it. It is a pretty little pendant to Le plus beau jour de la Vie. Nothing can better represent your present mode of contracting marriages.I have the honour to be, &c.


WHY is thy bark upon the sea

Thy sail spread for the wind?

That vessel may go on her way,

'But thou must stay behind.

I've seen thee stand knee-deep in blood,

In battle by my side;

And both thy faith and loyalty

Are like thy good sword tried.

* Founded on the answer given by a Norman knight to William the Conqueror

-Thierry's History of the Conquest, vol. i. p. 322.

Look round! is not this a fair land?
Are not its daughters fair?

Are not its castles stately ones?
Choose thou and have thy share.—

"No! Conqueror, no!" Sir Guilbert said,

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My portion is not here;

The air bears on 't the widow's curse,

The ground the orphan's tear,

I join'd thy banner as a knight,
And not as a brigand:

My soldier's duty done, I will
Away to mine own land.

I will not have your English ground,
Nor yet your English dame;

I came with but my sword and steed,
I will go as I came.

A little tower in Normandie
Was where I had my birth;
I will return to it,-no blood
Cries from my father's hearth.

Sir King, thou art as brave a knight

As e'er stemm'd battle wave;

But thy heart's temper'd as thy brand,
Thou art as stern as brave.

For ine, I am of softer mould,

I cannot bear the moan

That haunts me here;-whate'er my home,
At least it is mine own.

The breeze is rising on the sea,

I see the white sails swell;

My bark is waiting but for me,-
Sir King, farewell! farewell!"

L. E. L.


That we must not look a gift-horse in the mouth-nor a lady's age in the parish register. We hope we have more delicacy than to do either but some faces spare us the trouble of these dental enquiries. And what if the beast, which my friend would force upon my acceptance, prove, upon the face of it, a sorry Rozinante, a lean, ill-favoured jade, whom no gentleman could think of setting up in his stables? Must I, rather than not be obliged to my friend, make her a companion to Eclipse or Lightfoot? A horse-giver, no more than a horse-seller, has a right to palm his spavined article upon us for good ware. An equivalent is expected in either case; and, with my own good will, I would no more be cheated out of my thanks, than out of my money. Some people have a knack of putting upon you gifts of no real value, to engage you to substantial gratitude. We thank them for nothing. Our friend Mitis carries this humour of never refusing a present, to the very point of absurdity-if it were possible to couple the ridiculous with so much mistaken delicacy, and real good nature. Not an apartment in his fine house (and he has a true taste in household decorations), but is stuffed up with some preposterous print or mirror--the worst adapted to his pannels that may be the presents of his friends that know his weakness; while his noble Vandykes are displaced, to make

room for a set of daubs, the work of some wretched artist of his acquaintance, who, having had them returned upon his hands for bad likenesses, finds his account in bestowing them here gratis. The good creature has not the heart to mortify the painter at the expense of an honest refusal. It is pleasant (if it did not vex one at the same time) to see him sitting in his dining parlour, surrounded with obscure aunts and cousins to God knows whom, while the true Lady Marys and Lady Bettys of his own honourable family, in favour to these adopted frights, are consigned to the staircase and the lumber-room. In like manner his goodly shelves are one by one stript of his favourite old authors, to give place to a collection of presentation copies-the flower and bran of modern poetry. A presentation copy, reader-if haply you are yet innocent of such favours-is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning of it: for which, if a stranger, he only demands your friendship; if a brother author, he expects from you a book of yours which does sell, in return. We can speak to experience, having by us a tolerable assortment of these gift-horses. Not to ride a metaphor to death-we are willing to acknowledge, that in some gifts there is sense. A duplicate out of a friend's library (where he has more than one copy of a rare author) is intelligible. There are favours, short of the pecuniary--a thing not fit to be hinted at among gentlemen-which confer as much grace upon the acceptor as the offerer: the kind, we confess, which is most to our palate, is of those little conciliatory missives, which for their vehicle generally choose a hamper-little odd presents of game, fruit, perhaps wine-though it is essential to the delicacy of the latter that it be home-made. We love to have our friend in the country sitting thus at our table by proxy; to apprehend his presence (though a hundred miles may be between us) by a turkey, whose goodly aspect reflects to us his "plump corpusculum;" to taste him in grouse or woodcock; to feel him gliding down in the toast peculiar to the latter; to concorporate him in a slice of Canterbury brawn. This is indeed to have him within ourselves; to know him intimately such participation is methinks unitive; as the old theologians phrase it. For these considerations we should be sorry if certain restrictive regulations, which are thought to bear hard upon the peasantry of this country, were entirely done away with. A hare, as the law now stands, makes many friends. Caius conciliates Titius (knowing his goût) with a leash of partridges. Titius (suspecting his partiality for them) passes them to Lucius; who in his turn, preferring his friend's relish to his own, makes them over to Marcius; till in their ever widening progress, and round of unconscious circum-migration, they distribute the seeds of harmony over half a parish. We are well disposed to this kind of sensible remembrances; and are the less apt to be taken by those little airy tokens-impalpable to the palate— which, under the names of rings, lockets, keep-sakes, amuse some people's fancy mightily. We could never away with these indigestible trifles. They are the very kickshaws and foppery of friendship.


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