the original idea of the inventors of this appellation for those boxes, or rather cages, in which six individuals come to be shut up every evening, it must be allowed that the peaceable inhabit ants of the pit never had a more ter rible neighbourhood. A friend of mine, who seldom goes to the theatre, hearing that I was going to the Vaudeville, where I have not been for a long time, said to me, "If you go, take care not to be in the centre of the pit; you will get into the midst of a filthy set, with out hats, without shirts, covered with grease and dirt,-in short, they call them les claqueurs; beware of them." I went and installed myself at the extremity of the pit, near the baignoires, Good heavens! what a noise! what a chattering! two scenes were already acted, and I had positively heard nothing but the noise of locks opening and shutting, the going and coming of the ouvreuses, the cracking of chairs, and the rustling of silks. "Are you well there?-you had better come here:you will see much better:-do you know what the play is?-is not my hat in your way? No, belle dame, not in the least.-I'm sure it is- -stop, I'll take it off-I can assure you I see perfectly well. It does not signifySee if you can hang it up on that nail." At this moment every head in the pit turned round, and a lengthened sht came from every mouth, but the conversation went on all the same. 66 "Ah! mon dieu, I have forgot my lorgnetteWill you take mine?-I wish you would get me a tabouret." The pit turns round again, sht, sht. But the prattle goes on. "We did not see you yesterday, M. Le Comte. That's true, an indispensable affair.(Chut! donc) -Oh, what a beautiful seal you have got there!-(chut! donc)-Where did you buy it? (chut! à la porte, turn them out.)-I'll get one like it-(Silence, donc Mesdames!) for my husband (à la porte l'insolente!")—and the curtain dropped.

After all, I had the patience to remain where I was, hoping that a good half hour between the acts would give the ladies time to exhaust their conversation. Vain hope! a terrible whis pering went on during the whole of the entertainment. The only words I could hear were gloire and victoire, laurier and guerrier, which the actors are in the habit of pronouncing as loud as they can.

Any other man perhaps would have

turned round and given a pretty smart rebuke to these indiscreet baigneuses; and I should have done it myself, I believe, only a philosophical idea came into my head, that perhaps the most interesting part of the play for me, after all, would be that which was going on behind my back. I lis tened, therefore, attentively, and before the play was over, I had got a deal of the history of more than twenty ladies who were figuring away in the first rows. I put down their names in my album, with the little scandalous chronicle opposite, determined to make a delightful use of the precious information I had thus got for nothing.

At every step almost one takes in Paris one meets with one of those merveilleux, whose only talent consists in shewing himself off in a thousand different forms. His memory always enriched with the song of the day, and with some adventure of yesterday evening, the cameleon of the boudoir, and eagerly looked for in all the salons à la mode; he might almost pass, in some peoples' eyes, for a really clever fellow. But an observer, accustomed to "shoot folly as it flies," does not let himself be dazzled by the brilliant jargon of these well-taught parrots; and notwithstanding the high eulogiums which he hears thrown out on all sides, on this borrowed fluency, he knows how to catch and unmask these contraband troubadours.

The young and dashing S**** C****, for example, whom I met the other day, and who is merely a clerk in a great office, enjoys among the beau monde quite a colossal reputation. Qu'il est aimable! exclaim the petitesmaitresses of the Chaussée d'Antin. Qu'il est gai! cries out the wife of a négociant of the Rue Saint-Denis. Qu il est spirituel! says the chaste moitié of a notary in the Isle Saint-Louis. Comme il pense bien! repeats an old marquise of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. My dear ladies, you are all sadly mistaken: S**** C**** is neither aimable, nor gai, nor spirituel, nor bien pensant; c'est un sot, buthe is complaisant. In fact, watch him at a bal in the Chaussée d'Antin, you will see him fluttering round the body of the house, and dividing his time be tween the bets of a table d'écarté, the ironical insipidities of a cavalier gal lantry, and the stormy discussion of a projet de loi.

Do you meet him at the réunion

of

a riche marchand? oh! here's quite another man. He charms the lively bourgeoises with comical recitals of intrigues among the ministers and their ladies; he parodies the speeches of the principal speakers in the Chamber of Deputies, or taking up a flute or fla geolet that is lying about, he gives them a favourite overture of Rossini, or the eternal duet of Lucile.

With the notary of the Isle SaintLouis, seated between an avoué de première instance and a receveur de rentes, he decides with a doctoral tone on the literary merit of the Lampe merveil leuse, and of the Chien de Montargis. At the earnest request of the maitresse du logis, he will perhaps condescend to inscribe one of his brightest thoughts on the album of her eldest daughter, and finishes the soirée by murdering on a guitar some well-known tune accompanied with a Spanish song.

But his triumph is in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The old Marquise de **** loves le wiste, Pyrame, and la Quotidienne. Here S**** C**** is admirable; he becomes the partenaire of the Marquise at a rubber,-extols Pyrame to the skies,-reads two whole columns aloud of the blessed Quoti dienne-what heroism!-what devo tion!

Go on, happy S**** C****, with such an agreeable, such a dissipated career. La complaisance leads the way to every thing add only to this vir tue, which you possess in such a high degree, a few grains of flattery, and your fortune is made for ever.

All nations like to have a good opinion of themselves, and as one does not even like to be woke out of a pleasant dream, so the illusions of national superiority are often indulged without any real foundation in truth. Thus, the French, for a long time past, have been firmly convinced that their opera is le premier de l'Europe, though their own senses, their judgment, and the declarations of some not over-flatter ing strangers, have repeatedly told them the contrary. Far from me the idea of throwing away ridicule on an establishment so grand and beautiful; and, in a capital like this, so neces sary as the opera. There is, indeed, every reason to think that no other opera in Europe surpasses, or even equals, that of Paris, in the beauty of the scenery, the regularity of the drama, the precision of all the manoeuvres,

the richness, and even the exactness of the decorations and costumes, notwithstanding some slightanachronisms and local faults that are occasionally committed. No where is there so numerous an assemblage of dancers of the first order, or corps de ballet so complete and so well disciplined: nothing is really defective in the French opera, nothing but one single important part: the SINGING.

I am not one of those who think that it is absolutely impossible to have good singing in France, and with French words: the example of some performers at the Faydeau, and even at the great opera, might prove the contrary. At the same time, it must be universally allowed, that the French language, not being so melodious nor so sonorous as the Italian, can never hope to rival it in musical effect; but still one would think that the distance is sufficiently great between the softly-sweet warblings of the Italian bravura, and the deafening screams of an ordinary French singer, for the establishment of some reasonable medium.

Though the greater number of the singers at the Opera in Paris, agree in singing in general like the joyous roarers of a cabaret, the result of which is a fatiguing uniformity, still they are far from having a unity of method, which they only know by name. Their only object is, by violent commotions, to bring forth the applauses of the pit, seven-eighths of which know nothing of music, but, however, are very sure to exclaim after each such exertion of the throat-quelle voix ! This is the aureola of glory to which the Parisian singer aspires: but it is, at the same time, this very thing which disgusts strangers, and keeps away from the opera all men of taste, who like to hear pure, rational singing, without all this violent agitation of the lungs and throat. How can one distinguish the melody of a composition, or enjoy its beauties, when the street-cries are substituted in place of the work of the composer?

This rage for screaming, in order to make a parade of an extraordinary power of voice, not only deprives the hearers of the charms of music, but, moreover, ruins all the young débutans, who have not courage or experience enough to resist the fatal ascendancy of their companions; and in fact every

the original idea of the inventors of this appellation for those boxes, or rather cages, in which six individuals come to be shut up every evening, it must be allowed that the peaceable inhabit ants of the pit never had a more ter rible neighbourhood. A friend of mine, who seldom goes to the theatre, hearing that I was going to the Vaudeville, where I have not been for a long time, said to me, "If you go, take care not to be in the centre of the pit; you will get into the midst of a filthy set, with out hats, without shirts, covered with grease and dirt,-in short, they call them les claqueurs; beware of them." I went and installed myself at the extremity of the pit, near the baignoires. Good heavens! what a noise! what a chattering! two scenes were already acted, and I had positively heard nothing but the noise of locks opening and shutting, the going and coming of the ouvreuses, the cracking of chairs, and the rustling of silks. "Are you well there?-you had better come here:you will see much better:-do you know what the play is?-is not my hat in your way? No, belle dame, not in the least.-I'm sure it is-stop, I'll take it off-I can assure you I see perfectly well. It does not signifysee if you can hang it up on that nail." At this moment every head in the pit turned round, and a lengthened sht came from every mouth, but the conversation went on all the same. "Ah! mon dieu, I have forgot my lorgnetteWill you take mine?-I wish you would get me a tabouret.”—The pit turns round again, sht, sht. But the prattle goes on." We did not see you yesterday, M. Le Comte.-That's true, an indispensable affair.-(Chut! donc) -Oh, what a beautiful seal you have got there!-(chut! donc)-Where did you buy it? (chut! à la porte, turn them out.)-I'll get one like it-(Silence, donc Mesdames!) for my husband (à la porte l'insolente !")—and the curtain dropped.

After all, I had the patience to remain where I was, hoping that a good half hour between the acts would give the ladies time to exhaust their conversation. Vain hope! a terrible whispering went on during the whole of the entertainment. The only words I could hear were gloire and victoire, laurier and guerrier, which the actors are in the habit of pronouncing as loud as they can.

Any other man perhaps would have

turned round and given a pretty smart rebuke to these indiscreet baigneuses; and I should have done it myself, Í believe, only a philosophical idea came into my head, that perhaps the most interesting part of the play for me, after all, would be that which was going on behind my back. I lis tened, therefore, attentively, and before the play was over, I had got a deal of the history of more than twenty ladies who were figuring away in the first rows. I put down their names in my album, with the little scandalous chronicle opposite, determined to make a delightful use of the precious information I had thus got for nothing.

At every step almost one takes in Paris one meets with one of those merveilleux, whose only talent consists in shewing himself off in a thousand different forms. His memory always enriched with the song of the day, and with some adventure of yesterday evening, the cameleon of the boudoir, and eagerly looked for in all the salons à la mode; he might almost pass, in some peoples' eyes, for a really clever fellow. But an observer, accustomed to "shoot folly as it flies," does not let himself be dazzled by the bril liant jargon of these well-taught parrots; and notwithstanding the high eulogiums which he hears thrown out on all sides, on this borrowed fluency, he knows how to catch and unmask these contraband troubadours.

The young and dashing S**** C****, for example, whom I met the other day, and who is merely a clerk in a great office, enjoys among the beau monde quite a colossal reputation. Qu'il est aimable! exclaim the petitesmaitresses of the Chaussée d'Antin. Qu'il est gai! cries out the wife of a négociant of the Rue Saint-Denis. Qu' il est spirituel! says the chaste moitié of a notary in the Isle Saint-Louis. Comme il pense bien! repeats an old marquise of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. My dear ladies, you are all sadly mistaken: S**** C**** is neither aimable, nor gai, nor spirituel, nor bien pensant; c'est un sot, buthe is complaisant. In fact, watch him at a bal in the Chaussée d'Antin, you will see him fluttering round the body of the house, and dividing his time be tween the bets of a tuble d'écarté, the ironical insipidities of a cavalier gallantry, and the stormy discussion of a projet de loi.

Do you meet him at the réunion of

a riche marchand? oh! here's quite another man. He charms the lively bourgeoises with comical recitals of intrigues among the ministers and their ladies; he parodies the speeches of the principal speakers in the Chamber of Deputies, or taking up a flute or flageolet that is lying about, he gives them a favourite overture of Rossini, or the eternal duet of Lucile.

With the notary of the Isle SaintLouis, seated between an avoué de première instance and a receveur de rentes, he decides with a doctoral tone on the literary merit of the Lampe merveil leuse, and of the Chien de Montargis. At the earnest request of the maitresse du logis, he will perhaps condescend to inscribe one of his brightest thoughts on the album of her eldest daughter, and finishes the soirée by murdering on a guitar some well-known tune accompanied with a Spanish song.

But his triumph is in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The old Marquise de **** loves le_wiste, Pyrame, and la Quotidienne. Here S**** C**** is admirable; he becomes the partenaire of the Marquise at a rubber,-extols Pyrame to the skies, reads two whole columns aloud of the blessed Quoti dienne-what heroism!-what devo tion!

Go on, happy S**** C****, with such an agreeable, such a dissipated career. La complaisance leads the way to every thing; add only to this vir tue, which you possess in such a high degree, a few grains of flattery, and your fortune is made for ever.

All nations like to have a good opinion of themselves, and as one does not even like to be woke out of a pleasant dream, so the illusions of national superiority are often indulged without any real foundation in truth. Thus, the French, for a long time past, have been firmly convinced that their opera is le premier de l'Europe, though their own senses, their judgment, and the declarations of some not over-flatter ing strangers, have repeatedly told them the contrary. Far from me the idea of throwing away ridicule on an establishment so grand and beautiful; and, in a capital like this, so neces sary as the opera. There is, indeed, every reason to think that no other opera in Europe surpasses, or even equals, that of Paris, in the beauty of the scenery, the regularity of the drama, the precision of all the manoeuvres,

the richness, and even the exactness of the decorations and costumes, notwithstanding some slightanachronisms and local faults that are occasionally committed. No where is there so numerous an assemblage of dancers of the first order, or corps de ballet so complete and so well disciplined: nothing is really defective in the French opera, nothing but one single important part: the SINGING.

I am not one of those who think that it is absolutely impossible to have good singing in France, and with French words: the example of some performers at the Faydeau, and even at the great opera, might prove the contrary. At the same time, it must be universally allowed, that the French language, not being so melodious nor so sonorous as the Italian, can never hope to rival it in musical effect; but still one would think that the distance is sufficiently great between the softly-sweet warblings of the Italian bravura, and the deafening screams of an ordinary French singer, for the establishment of some reasonable medium.

Though the greater number of the singers at the Opera in Paris, agree in singing in general like the joyous roarers of a cabaret, the result of which is a fatiguing uniformity, still they are far from having a unity of method, which they only know by name. Their only object is, by violent commotions, to bring forth the applauses of the pit, seven-eighths of which know nothing of music, but, however, are very sure to exclaim after each such exertion of the throat-quelle voix ! This is the aureola of glory to which the Parisian singer aspires: but it is, at the same time, this very thing which disgusts strangers, and keeps away from the opera all men of taste, who like to hear pure, rational singing, without all this violent agitation of the lungs and throat. How can one distinguish the melody of a composition, or enjoy its beauties, when the street-cries are substituted in place of the work of the composer?

This rage for screaming, in order to make a parade of an extraordinary power of voice, not only deprives the hearers of the charms of music, but, moreover, ruins all the young débutans, who have not courage or experience enough to resist the fatal ascendancy of their companions; and in fact every

new singer who comes to the opera with a fine voice and a good method, is sure to lose them. On this account the government is at a very useless expence of enormous sums in getting up the master-pieces of the French opera. Incredible pains are taken to procure fine singers, who become more scarce every day, because the moment they appear at the opera their talent is ruined; so that both government and the musical art lose all the fruit that might be reasonably expected from such exertions and such sacrifices, merely because some silly singers get a posse of barbarians and simpletons to exclaim every moment,-quelle voix ! quelle voix !

I dined yesterday in a house in the Chaussée d'Antin, from which opulence does not exclude gaiety. A young poet had just sung a new song on the vieille gloire des braves; the men were grouping round a député, who had just come from the Chamber, while at the other extremity of the salon, two young ladies were preparing to execute a duet of the brilliant Rossini. All of a sudden I recollected that I had a rendezvous on particular business at ten o'clock, with a cidevant jolie femme of the faubourg Saint Germain, who has made herself a romantique, in order that she may still be something.

I stole away with regret, flew and arrived. A femme-de-chambre, who informed me that Madame was not yet come back from a meeting of the Société des Bonnes Lettres, introduced me into her study, shut the door and left me alone. A lamp with a transparency shed an uncertain and reddish glimmer on the violet draperies of the window. A guitar, flowers, and papers in disorder, covered the table and writingdesk. A corps de bibliotheque terminated with a pointed arch, presented a suite of elegant volumes, embellished outside by the tasteful art of the celebrated Thouverin. I went near to read the titles, and I perceived in golden letters, on a binding of black morocco-Jean Shogar! Intimidated, 1 cast my eyes lower down; they fell on the Corsaire de Byron; higher up was the Solitaire, and in an empty place which I remarked near it, is no doubt destined for the Renégat. A romance was on the piano, it was the Brigands de Schiller.

I confess it, melancholy is not my

element. I took a turn or two in the room, a good deal out of humour; I felt myself déplacé-for to my shame I must declare it-in this fanciful asylum of the superstitions du cœur et du vague indéfini de l'existence. However, I must wait, so I sat down before me, on a rich reading-desk, was a book not yet cut; I opened it, it was Vertu et Scélératesse, or La Fatalité. I ran rapidly over the pages, and in a very short time made acquaintance with Don Ramire, chivalric, loyal and faithful; Zoraime, a haughty and passionate woman; Muley, a feeble and suspicious prince; Barbarossa, a pirate and conqueror; and Donna Isabella, a tender and constant mistress, who, nevertheless, espouses not her lover, but another man, because he was too late by an hour to the term of two years and three days, which had been fixed by an inexorable father. With a view to the general interests of society, I could not help applauding this salutary example, which will undoubtedly have the effect of making young men more exact at rendezvous in future. But at length came the véritable heros: a man stained with crimes, harrowed with remorse, a horrible, execrable monster-in short a renegado!!! Absorbed in this character, I was following with horror the projects and adventures of this être inconcevable, when I felt a hand pressing on my shoulder. I screamed out and turned round-it was the mistress of the house laughing at my fright. "By heavens, Madame," said I, "the brigandage which reigns in French literature at this moment really alarmed me. You, who know so well that the terrible Jean Sbogar had a petite main blanche, cannot be surprised that you frightened me."

We sat down and proceeded to the business for which I had come. I thought I perceived in the course of the conversation that the worship of the romantic muses does not entirely exclude a taste for the realities of life; and that when you talk to a romantique of the main chance, she does not look altogether like a being of another world.

The following acrostic on Casimir Delavigne, the successful author of two new tragedies, Les Vepres Siciliennes, and the Paria, have lately been published by J. B. Claray, professor of French and Latin literature, and member of the Athénée des Arts :—