shawl of our dear tasteless old England. I notice too, for the first time this year, that all Frenchwomen of a certain elegance, were born with auburn hair, which it is whispered argues a world of passion in the possessor; sequins or steel spangles are in favour, too, worn on the head. A tendency to wear bonnets like elaborated handkerchiefs tied round the top of the head, is perhaps attributable to the fact, that the chignon has been promoted so far towards the crown that no room has been left for a back to the bonnet; and the traditions of the first Empire bear fruits (literally) on the heads and sometimes on the breasts of the fair leaders of popular fashionable opinion. Then there are the excentriques, at the head of whom stands the Princesse de Metternich, whom I see driving up like a whirlwind with her yellow postilions. These ladies carry bouquets of roses, and nodding diamonds fixed on the end of long wires, wear birds' nests on their alabaster shoulders, or cover themselves, as her Christian Majesty of Spain has just done, with little dogs. They are all dressed by the genius of Monsieur Worth, a gentleman of Swedish origin, formerly assistant in a well-known West-end haberdasher's, but whom native genius has now raised to be Pontifex Maximus over the rites of dressing. Happy Worth! The lovely Madame de Pomponne, whom to see in striped cotton and highlows would render me sleepless for a fortnight, goes to him dressed within an inch of her life, and with that inch Worth deals in the spirit of an artist. He walks round her, he makes her advance towards him (the dog), and suggests the place of a flower; he seats her in an armchair, and cavils at one fold of the skirt; on a sofa, and condemns another; he considers her from different points of view, and decides whether her shoulders will bear another half a centimètre scooped out behind; he etherealizes her waist and dignifies her train; he has visions; he retires within himself, and throws off hurried and hardy sketches upon paper; and when

Madame de Pomponne retires, she is clothed no longer in a dress, but in a poem. And to think that such is Worth's life all day long!

The spirit of the French nation is essentially feminine. Fineness of perception, delicacy of touch, and a belief in ideas are their virtues. The men are even more feminine than the women, and the only reason the Frenchman doesn't dress well is, that he has not manliness to enable him to wear his clothes creditably. Even the finest of gandins dressed, as he generally is, from London by Mr. Poole, is a failure. There is a shocking insincerity in the varied colours of his waistcoat; a want of courage in the length of his coat; an insipidity about his hat; and withal so much effeminacy in his cloth gaiters, and childishness in the floating ends of his necktie, that the admirer of the manly virtues turns away saddened and sorrowing. For, indeed, the object of male dress should be, not colour and adornment, but a simplicity and frankness such as are proper

To give the world assurance of a man.'

But how can one expect a human creature to dress properly, whose idea of amusement is a ride to the Bois in a huit-ressorts, who wears a cache-nez in winter, and who washes his face with milk (and no scap) in summer, to preserve his complexion?

The idea of a man amusing himself by working hard, and making himself hot, is unintelligible to the gandin. And yet Paris is not deficient in means for taking manly exercise. There is a splendid tennis-court in the Champs Elysées, but it is supported almost entirely by the English Embassy and visitors. There is Triat's gymnasium too, a perfect wilderness of scientific ropes, poles, bars, and trapèzes; but the frequenters of the place are nine out of ten, men who have been ordered

a

course of gymnastics by the doctor-the exception being Englishmen, who alone think of doing such things for pleasure. Poor Alphonse has used himself up in precocious. debauches, of various descriptions,

much too soon to have that superabundant energy that takes pleasure in feats of strength and courage; and he looks with wonder on the savage Islander who delights in the daily hard work of the gymnase, and loves to risk his neck in the 'saut perilleux,' merely for the pleasure of conquering a difficulty. I am afraid that the whole course of Alphonse's life, with its early scenes of heartless intrigue, its feverish craving for ever fresh excitement, its prodigality and luxury, and its after scenes of costly and fictitious passions, mercenary cocottes, ruinous baccarat, and an old age beginning at thirty, lonely and unloved -I say I fear all this is not very wholesome. Not perhaps so wholesome even as our own duller prosaic tea-drinking life in England. It is the old inevitable law-' Ce n'est pas tous les jours fête et le lendemain dimanche.'

A sad sight that of the Morgue! There on the stone slab lay the swollen body of a young man, with the long curling fair hair and blonde moustache matted and clogged with the mud of the Seine, the eyes closed, the mouth clenched together as with the last resolute look into the water, the long white arms lying straight and stiff by his side. There was a helpless, pitiful look in those arms, that struck me to the heart; they seemed silently to appeal to the crowd as it came and went, for the loved one who once had felt their embrace. People of all sorts passed in and out careless, but it remained there mute and appealing. He had been in life what is called a gentleman, his clothes hanging over his head showed that, so did his hands and feet, small and delicate. There he was, helpless, and no one knew him. Suddenly I heard a scream; a lady had fainted. She was young, beautiful, had come alone, and on entering, had fallen senseless before the glass. The officials came and took her into another room quietly, for they were used to such scenes. Poor girl! It was the often-told, but ever-new story. She loved him; he loved her not. He had ruined himself for one who was not

worthy so much as to wipe the dust from her shoes. He had played, had lost, and had cut short all further history by this desperate remedy.

Such is Parisian life! alternating, as my thoughts do, between deep agonizing tragedy and sidesplitting comedy. Let us change the scene.

The broad difference I find between the theatres in London and in Paris is this: that in Paris I go to be amused by the actors, in London to amuse myself with them. Naturally there are bad pieces in Paris; 'La Biche au bois,' for instance, relies as much upon scenery, and as little upon the author, as the pantomime at Drury Lane, and the dresses have diminished in covering-power and increased in ornamentation to an extent even beyond the example of Astley's Mazeppa. But it is a pregnant and sufficient illustration of the general difference of principle upon which things theatrical are conducted in the two capitals, to say that all the more important carpentering and machinery for the unparalleled effects are procured by the Parisian managers from London, while for authors and pieces the London manager has to send to Paris. How proud it should make us to think that we excel in carpentering!

But come with me to the Gymnase, and the doubt you have brought from home, whether men of intellect ever do write plays, or actors of intelligence play them, shall be resolved. Victorien Sardoa has written Les Vieux Garçons,' and the gentlemen and ladies whose habits and speech he so faithfully presents are played by Lafont, Lesueur, Clairmont, and Dela

porte, like ladies and gentlemen, and not like the flippant counterjumpers and dressed-up ladiesmaids, who figure for such in England. They can even sit and talk sparkling dialogue through a whole scene without ever a blunderbuss being fired, or even a funny groom being introduced into the drawing-room (in boots and corduroys) to keep up the flagging interest of the audience; and Lafont

no more strains to make points,' than you and I do when we are saying our clever things to be agreeable in polite society. The main plot consists simply of a bachelor being crossed in his unprincipled attempts at intrigue, partly by the innocence of one of his intended victims, and partly by the discovery that his more honourable rival is his own son; but the different phases through which the action passes are so strong in touching situations, the treatment of the whole so delicate, and the acting of Lafont and Mademoiselle Delaporte, especially in the scene in which she meets his libertine insolence with her naïveté and ignorance of evil, so full of fine touches and artistic feeling, that to the London playgoer it comes like a new sensation.

Then there is 'La Belle Hélène,' an Opéra-bouffe, which has already become classical; whence it must be supposed that there are still to be found (in Paris at least), audiences who prefer a cleverly-constructed and well-written piece, with original music, even to a burlesque overlaid with the most aged and respectable collection of puns, and fitted with the most hacknied and vulgar airs of the music-halls. Is there no English Offenbach? Have we not, too, a Meilhac and a Halévy? Surely Mr. Burnand and Mr. Frederic Clay might take our destitute case into their consideration-if it were only to relieve us from the necessity of serving an apprenticeship at the Canterbury Hall and the Christy Minstrels, in order to appreciate the songs of 'Ixion.' When, the morning after going to the Variétés, one finds the 'Ronde des Reis,' and the Jugement de Pâris' running in one's head (as all Offenbach's airs do), one is not humiliated by finding that they are songs of six months ago to all the butcher-boys of the town, who by that time have some other favourite air, which in six months more one will hear in some other burlesque. And Madame Schneider, too, has such unexpected touches of comic acting, taking one, as it were, by assault of impudence; and though she labours under the imputation

of being tant soit peu canaille, plays her somewhat hazardous scenes with Paris with such abandon and such irresistible entrain (I wish I could find two English words to express myself with), that there is not a man in the house who does not wish that he himself were the 'berger naif.' The characters are all strongly marked, from the grasping Calchas, great augur of Jupiter, who complains that there are too many flowers' among the offerings of the people, to Ajax Premier, whose ill-timed remarks are ever the occasion of his being 'sat upon' by all the other personages of the piece. And though there is no ballet, blue fire, or transformation-scene, not only does one see the piece with delight, and remember it with pleasure, but one can even read it alone in one's room with enjoyment. Try to do that with a British burlesque, and mark the consequence.

The most really moral piece (under the most apparently immoral form) I have seen this year in Paris, is the Jocrisses de l'Amour,' at the Palais Royal; for it shows vice to be ridiculous, and so fastens upon it a shame it never feels from being only shown to be odious. And to all those fast young men who are so foolish as to despise the old respectable ways of their own society, for the blandishments of the demimonde, I would recommend the attentive study of a piece which will show them what dupes they are made: but if they learn wisdom from it I shall be astonished. Even more popular than all these, is Mademoiselle Thérésa, a singer at the Alcazar café chantant. Why there is such a rage for her I could never imagine, except it be that she has a voice like a coachman, hands like a porter, and features certainly not remarkable for beauty. But she is eminently Parisian-began life by singing about the Boulevarts for a chance sou; has a good heart: and so the Parisians adore her, name cigarette-papers after her, and read her 'Mémoires,' which, after the present fashion of great minds, she has written herself, in order to take the bread out of the mouth of the pro

་

fessional biographer, who only embalms his subject when it is dead. Not only that, but she has been made a play of-twice; and offering, as she does, very salient points for imitation, was probably well put upon the stage." Finally, the grand monde has taken her up, and has her to its soirées to sing the Sapeur' and the Gardeuse d'Ours,' at the rate of 1000 francs each: and that extraordinary society, the Jockey Club, was supposed to have invented the most graceful tribute of praise, when they invited her to sing during one of their gambling orgies, and at the end presented her with all the winnings; by which ingenious device the losers took their revenge, and Thérésa was adequately gratified. But how pleased the winners must have been, who paid for all!

'L'Africaine' is a success, in spite of the third act, and Don Pedro's real gun-brig of the period, which will neither wear nor stay, and takes three quarters of an hour to get under weigh. But the fourth act contains the gem of the operaa lovely duet between Vasco da Gama and Sélika (admirably sung by Naudin and Marie Saxe), and proves, besides, that the dusky Queen of Madagascar had adopted free-trade, at any rate, in balletdancers, a troupe of which, pink and white and lovely, and in remparts de gaze, execute a ballet as unmistakeably imported from Paris as the fair creatures who dance it. Vasco di Gama must have been struck by it; and Mr. Darwin is strengthened in his views as to the common origin' theory as applied to dancing. The fatal Mancenillier, or Upas-tree of the fifth act, bears fruit, too, in the death of Sélika; and the ritournelle there sung is said to be one of the very finest efforts of Meyerbeer's genius.

C'est de l'ancienne histoire,' says the reader. True; but now let me whisper an historic doubt or twowhether, for instance, some of the cutting in the third act (for it has been cut, although the opera lasts five hours) would not have been more judiciously done by the great master himself than by M. Fétis.

Whether some of the more brutal part of the audience do not go away, on the whole, with the impression that they have experienced a somewhat laborious pleasure; and, finally, whether there is not here and there, among the more bilious critics, the shadow of a reaction against the vast enthusiasm with which the great work has been surrounded-but these must be those who cannot understand it. All I can say for myself is, that if we can get Mr. Gye to give it us in London, I shall be there for the first note of the overture, and shall go out and dine at Epitaux's during the evolutions of the gun-brig, to return in a proper frame of mind for the fourth and fifth acts.

We dine later in London than in Paris. In fact, I think we do everything later, which I attribute to the fact that we came later into society than the Parisians. We were dining at two and three o'clock in the afternoon, at the period when they were having their petits soupers under the Régence, ending at two or three o'clock in the morning; and we have both gradually got later since, through the influence of the unpunctual people who always go to everything half an hour behind the fixed time; the effect of which is, that, while we have only brought our dinner-hour down to eight o'clock in the evening, they have got through the night, and brought theirs down to six o'clock the next day. People' come in in the evening' at eight o'clock in Paris, or go to the Comédie Française at seven without an effort; while in London, to get to Covent Garden for more than the last act of any opera, not only makes dining out impossible, but upsets the life of the whole day, by pushing every operation, from lunch to dressing, back a couple of hours.

Parisians complain of the distances in London. I can only attribute that to the inexplicable mania they have for seeing such things as the Thames Tunnel and the London Docks. Practically, the distances in Paris are much greater; for as everybody, in every city, lives within a certain area, the question

resolves itself into that of the size of the area. My experience is, that eighteenpence and twenty minutes will take me to any place I ever want to go to in London; for of course I have never seen the Thames Tunnel-heaven preserve me from it! and Prince's Gate is the farthest point I ever reach-and never even that under an invitation to dinner; But in Paris, I find that the Bois is always three miles one way from me, and the Gymnase three miles another. Above all, the hansomthat one redeeming feature of the nineteenth century-does not exist there; and the system of payment of the fiacre is so ingenious, that it is to the interest of the driver to make the course' last as long as possible, in order to get his extra 25 centimes-a fact which, no doubt, lies at the bottom of most of the irreligion, and all of the bad language of Young France; and, in fact, it is very difficult to keep within the bounds of parliamentary speech with the cochers, who have no vestige of respect for the superior classes, for the simple reason that no French class believes in the existence of a superior to itself; and it is instructive to notice the difference of the form in which the cabman and the cocher show their discontent with what they consider inadequate remuneration. The cocher simply grumbles as man to man, and reasons thus:

'Ah ça! Mais il me faut encore dix sous.'

'Pourquoi ?'

'La course était longue.'

The passenger hints that it is exactly the length of the journey, and the slow rate of travelling, that he objects to.

On ne peut pas éventrer son cheval. Allez-vous-en la faire en moins de temps.'

But the final argument of the British cabby, although he sometimes begins in a strain of fine sarcasm, by asking, 'Here! wot d'ye call this 'ere?'- -or by disdainfully remarking that 'A shillin' ain't no good to me!'-is always this, 'Do you call yourself a gentleman?'

And if you could but convince him that you not only called yourself a gentleman, but were a marquis, he would go off contented with sixpence less than his fare; not, however, having the Peerage with you, you either pamper him with another shilling, or else go away crushed down into the class of snobs, whom he despises infinitely more than you do yourself.

Altogether, that which strikes an Englishman, is the strong republican tone of feeling which runs through all French society, and which has not only kept all its vitality under the Imperial form of government, but has given a novel -and sometimes almost a comic turn-to the form of government itself.

At the root of all lies that unflinching logic of the French mind that reasons on everything, questions everything, and, being never satisfied with anything, has in it the seeds of perpetual change of all things. Well, we stupid Islanders are very different with all our patched-up old institutions and monstrous 'anomalies;' but when I think over the woes, and the sin and suffering through which this lovely land of France has gone, in its single-minded and noble yearning after Reason and Truth, and then turn and see our own sleepy and pig-headed happiness, I come back to London with something like a feeling of thankfulness that the English are not a reasonable people.

T. G. B.

VOL. VII. NO. XLIII.

A