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. 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 Sicili ennes, and the Paria, have lately been published by J. B. Claray, professor of French and Latin literature, and member of the Athénée des Arts :—

The tragedy of Sylla, by Mr Jouy of the Institute, has had a very great run; which is not only to be attribued to its intrinsic merit; for as to that the critics differ; but to the very prevalent idea in Paris, that the characer of Sylla was intended as a representation of Bonaparte. The imperial obe, the attitudes and gestures, the ook, and even the wig of Talma, who acts Sylla, have all greatly contributed to strengthen this idea; and I ancy there is hardly any body in Paris who doubts that the author and Actor both intended to produce this

DEAR SIR,

effect. The tragedy has been printed, and has come to a second edition, with a portrait of Talma in the part of Sylla, which is as like the portrait of Bonaparte as possible. The au thor, however, in his preface to the tragedy, disclaims this intentional parallel of Sylla and Bonaparte altogether, but at the same time draws one of them in prose. In another Letter, I shall perhaps have the pleasure of sending you an analysis and a critical examination of this remarkable dramatic production.

SELDOM trouble you with politics, but the establishment of the new ministry in this country, about two nonths ago, is such a remarkable event, that it may be looked upon as new era in the history of the restoation of the French monarchy. Alow me, therefore, for once, to make some reflexions on the first acts of these ministers, and, in particular, on their project of a new law on the liberty of the press.

The project is announced in the Chamber of Deputies; immediately a most violent storm is raised; prophe cies of a revolution, threats against legitimacy, comparisons with foreign catastrophes, the fall of the Stuarts, &c., appeals to the energy of the peo ple; all is set at work, to terrify the government, and to make the ministers draw back. This law, then, surely is an invasion of all rights, a violation VOL. XI.

Yours, &c.

February 28, 1822. of all liberties! It is a law which abolishes the censorship on newspapers, and all other periodical publications! Whatever may be its details, the principle of it at least is generous. Might one not be induced to suspect the good faith of men who call themselves the partisans of a constitutional government, and who, notwithstanding, have been much more violent in their opinions against a law of liberty than ever they were against a law of censorship? No, they are quite sincere; but the truth is, the new law was nothing in all this business; for all this noise there was an ostensible pretext, and a secret reason.

In the first place, the able men of the opposite party are chagrined to see the royalists establishing the liberties of the nation, snatching this weapon from their enemies, and employing it in their own cause; a system which I

2 U

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 romuntique 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 mem. ber of the Athénée des Arts :—