Pamphlétaire" fell worse than flat at the Vaudeville, "Les Chevaliers du Brouillard"-as the French, who identify London with a fog as we do a comet with its coma, have designated their rendering of that reckless sprite Jack Sheppard-was being enacted night after night at the Porte Saint-Martin with a success quite unparalleled.

M. Emile Augier celebrated his admission into the Academy with the aid of a "collaborateur," M. Emile Foussier, by placing his finger on a great sore in the Parisian social system. He proposed to himself to solve no less a problem than how so many young and pretty women, married to fellows without a sou, manage to wear so much lace, ribbons, and jewellery, embroidered jupons, new bonnets, and dresses at one hundred crowns. Well, the said problem has been solved in the play called "Les Lionnes Pauvres," and which is proclaimed to be "a terrible and highly dramatic comedy," in the only way that it could be solved, by holding forth that such young, poor, and pretty wives must have "friends" who are better off or more generous than their husbands. Having thus placed their fingers on the great social wound, the collaborateurs set to work to probe, expose, and sear it with a coolness which partakes too much of the charnel-house. Jules Janin declaims, and justly so, upon this modern aspect of the drama in the present day, that it cannot laugh, it is always in a passion. "Why so much furious indignation," exclaims the critic, "when there is irony at your service? Did our fathers get red with anger at the little marquises' without money and the 'lionnes pauvres' of olden times? No, they laughed with that glad laugh so replete with irony and sage admonition which at once sufficed to chastise crime and to recommend virtue."

M. Augier has been more successful in a little comedy in verse called "La Jeunesse." Nothing can be more unassuming. It is the old story: Philippe, a poor young man, is in love with his cousin Cyprienne; Madame Huguet, the young man's mother, is naturally averse to the marriage. The trials are somewhat conventually Parisian, but the triumph is that of the World-youth against age and prudence. The comedy, which begins as a love story, and is worked out as a satire, ends like a pastoral poem-an eclogue after Theocritus:

Phil.

Soyez témoins pour elle,

Bois pleins d'ombre et de mousse ou rit la tourterelle !
Cypr. Soyez témoins pour lui, vous qui portez conseil,
O champs laborieux sous le poids du soleil !

Phil.

Qu'ainsi soit notre vie à la fois rude et douce;
Je serai la moisson, toi l'ombrage et la mousse.

We give a specimen, for comedies in verse are rare things now-a-days in the capital of the civilised world.

Gavarni has familiarised us with those types of mischief, "Les Enfans Terribles;" the drama introduced to us this year, "Les Femmes Terribles!" The piece was successful, but it contains many most reprehensible things. Imagine at a dinner-party, in a mixed company, a Madame de Ris eulogising the youth and beauty of the Countess of Aranda, but adding how much it is to be regretted that she walks in the loneliest parts of the Bois de Boulogne with a young gentleman. And then such an interruption as Madame, I am the husband of the Countess of

"I

Aranda. Tell me the name of her lover, madame!" Then again a young man, M. Fauvel, meets a lady in the Bois de Boulogne-a lady who is more loving than wise. To his horror he is confronted by a real husband. "Never dreamt of such a thing!" exclaims M. Fauvel. to go and deprive a respectable person like M. de Pommerol of his wife! Never dreamt of such a thing! What a femme terrible! A woman in love with me! a liaison! Never contemplated anything of the kind. It was the love of a moment-a love of the Bois de Boulogne!" M. Fauvel thereupon renounces Madame de Pommerol, and asks M. de Pommerol the hand of his niece, and M. de Pommerol-the "mari facile" of existing times-actually grants the impudent demand!

The really best-written play of the year was M. Mallefille's "Les Mères Repenties;" but it will not bear analysis. It is positively repulsive-the struggle between a poor and a wealthy Cyprian as to the marriage of their son and daughter! The "Rose Bernard" at the AmbiguComique has, for centre of interest, the same disagreeable phases of society-so incessantly, and it would appear so unnecessarily, pushed forward on the modern French stage—a woman abandoned by her lover, and sacrificed, with her child, to a wealthy match.

The "Martyr du Cœur" was another of the class known as "terrible dramas," but it had an even greater fault-it was not successful. The revolt in India was duly introduced to the French theatrical public-and their name is legion-by "Les Fugitifs;" and M. Ch. Edmond actually introduced, and that successfully, "Les Mers Polaires" to a French audience!

A work worthy of the author of "La Juive"-M. Halévy-was brought out at the Opera during the past year. But there are complaints made that "La Magicienne" was neither well cast nor effectively brought out. Two new ballets were composed: "Marco Spada" for Madame Rosati, and "Sacountala" for the light and bounding Madame Ferraris. "Quentin Durward," the "Carnaval de Venise," "Chaises à Porteurs," and the "Valet de Chambre," have been the successful repertory of the Opéra-Comique.

The drama of life is that which is enacted out of doors. The revolt in India, the Berbers of the Desert (Tuariks), increased intercourse with Japan, the progress of Singapore as a free port, Pierre Puget, the artist of Marseilles, and his house-a little gem of street architecture-the improvements in Paris from boulevards to sewers, the ever-recurring fires of Constantinople, Indian antiquities, the old châteaux of France, country sports and scenes, objects of natural history, specimens of the animal kingdom and a few of art, with the ever-varying types of social life, always repeating themselves, however varied they may be in their phases, are absolutely all the resources of the Almanacks for 1859. Cherbourg, Brest, and the imperial promenades came, we suppose, too late; or are the progresses of the head of the state tabooed as political subjects?

As for the trifles light as air by which the current in which popular thought moves can sometimes be guessed at, they are lighter, less defined, more shadowy than ever. There is the perpetual theme of "étrennes" -the ever-recurring bugbear of the Parisians; there is carnival and the bœuf gras; there is the canon-méridien of the Palais Royal; there are the

" canotiers of Asnières, with their "petits Leviathans;" there is the "chasseur" of the plain of Saint-Denis, shooting springboks with a telescope and bears from a balloon; there is the nuisance of Europe-the organ-grinder-in full play; but there are only the hats and crinolines of 1858-legitimate subjects for ridicule-in which we have been able to detect novelty.

Marcelin has one page in the "Almanach d'Illustrations Modernes " devoted to a new phase in Parisian fashions, that of villa life, and strangely, too, is it illustrated! "On ne vient pas à la campagne pour s'amuser," says a lady, chiding a playful boy and girl. "You must not walk on the grass, you must not dirty yourselves, you must not heat yourselves, you must not run, you must not scream. It is always what must not be done, never what may be done, except "take one another by the hand and walk up and down." Then there is the enthusiastic angler. “It is true," says the French Walton, "that there are neither trees, nor flowers, nor fruit near my villa, nor even slopes or views; but I have the water!" And lastly, there is Scotch hospitality. "I should, with pleasure, ask you to put up at my house," says the Caledonian villa resident to a carriage party, "but I have no stables, and my house is too small. Besides, there is an excellent inn in the village, where you will be quite comfortable.” The illustration to this latter subject has a decided Punch look about it.

For essentially French types we must go to the courts of correctional police. There, as with ourselves, the perfection of national quintessence is to be met with:

Fanard cannot certainly be accused of entertaining prejudices; he is the first to declare that when he made Clara Patissier his wife, she had few claims to the orange-blossoms; so we must believe him to be sincere when he comes before the magistrate to affirm that Madame Fanard has once more committed herself, and that, worse than all, with a friend of the house-one M. Polonais.

And it is further to be noted that this is not the first time that such a thing has happened; Fanard openly avows the fact; he is not romantic, he had passed it over; he had suffered in his vanity and in his best affections, but

"Il n'est point de douleur que le temps n'affaiblisse;

L'amour reprit ses droits et l'hymen son service."

This time, however, the cup of bitterness has overflowed, like Arnal in “Un de Plus," the last has been too much; he has flooded over with indignation, and has resolved to grapple with the evil at its root.

"Yes, gentlemen," he said, "I found the Sieur Polonais in criminal conversa. tion with my wife."

Polonais."Monsieur Fanard, you have deceived yourself. I have nothing wherewith to reproach myself."

Fanard." Reproach yourself, that is possible, but I have much to reproach you with."

Polonais. "It is true that I vaguely embraced your wife."

Fanard.-"Vaguely! thanks, indeed, for such vagueness! Luckily, I have a witness, who was passing by on the fortifications, and who saw my dishonour as I did myself. What makes it worse, gentlemen, is, that the Sieur Polonais was my friend; that he partook that very day of my wine and my own charcuterie,' and that he did so every day; and I left him in all confidence with my wife, so it must have been after I had gone away that they went to humiliate me on the fortifications."

Polonais. "Gentlemen, I do not deny that I offered my arm to Madame Fanard for a little walk, but it was with the most honest intentions-nothing could

be more so; and it is M. Fanard, whom drink had rendered as jealous and as furious as a roaring lion, who saw what was nothing more than butter in the frying-pan!"

Fanard.-"I tipsy? I had only eaten a bit of bread, not being hungry, as you know full well."

Polonais.-"True, you only eat a bit of bread, but you forgot to say you dipped it in brandy."

The President.-"Well, we will hear the witness."

The witness thereupon raised his arm as if he was about to catch a fly on the ceiling, but it was simply to give solemnity to his oath, that he would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. This accomplished, he declared that he knew nothing of the matter whatsoever.

Fanard.-"What, did you not pass by the fortifications?"

Witness." I do not say that; so truly did I pass by, that I found you there in an incomparable state of inebriety, and that you told me so many foolish things that your conversation made me sea-sick ?"

The President.-" You did not see the accused ?"

Witness.-"I beg pardon, they were quarrelling with monsieur."
The President.-"In what attitude were they ?"

Witness." Why, they were standing, disputing with monsieur."
Polonais.-"You see, Monsieur Fanard, that you deceived yourself."
Fanard.-"Well, really I cannot understand the matter."

Polonais." What, a good fellow like you to go and prosecute me without rhythm or reason ?"

Fanard.-"Ah! it is all that scandalising portress, who came to me and said, 'Père Fanard, there's your wife and your friend Polonais gone out together,' and that led me to follow you."

Polonais.-"But, my good Fanard, you see that the old hag took advantage of your credulity, for you are credulous."

Fanard.-"I know I am, but it is because it is not the first time that my wife has played me tricks."

Polonais having said a few more soothing words to Fanard, who is as open to flattery as the aged Nestor himself, the latter declared himself satisfied, that he withdrew the charge, and the two friends departed together to consume M. Fanard's wine and charcuterie, and perchance to indulge in an occasional vague compliment to Madame Fanard.

An hypercritical correspondent to the almanacks writes to the following effect:

SIR,-I read in a work on Statistics, which has been recently published, that there are in France 1,700,843 medical men and only 1,400,651 sick persons in the year, and that there are 1,900,405 barristers and only 998,000 cases to plead.

I am ready to grant the number of doctors, lawyers, and trials-statistics can easily procure the numbers necessary to a basis for such a calculation; but as to the sick, that is another thing.

Who can say how many there are ailing in France? Is it the custom the moment a person feels himself or herself unwell, to run to the statician of his parish and say:

"Sir, I have a colic ?"

'Sir, I have a cold in my head?"

If this was the case, the statician would inscribe the nature of your complaint in his register; he would then send in his reports to the central statistical office, and nothing would be easier than to know, not only how many sick there are, but also what diseases prevail every year in France.

But every one knows that nothing of the kind is done; and that when statistics number the sick of the eighty-six departments, it manifestly commits itself to statements of the most fanciful description.

It is by the same process that statistics were enabled to count within a few hundred how many sparrows there are in France. There are in round numbers, it is said, five millions. They have also reckoned the May-bugs that destroy our trees in spring-time.

O statistics! how did you arrive at these conclusions? Did you hold these sparrows and cockchafers in your hands?

And yet they come and tell us that statistics are a cold, dry, positive science, enemy of poetry and imagination!

I believe myself that on this occasion it was simply wished to spite the doctors by endeavouring to make them believe that they are more numerous than patients.

The unusually hot summer has suggested certain researches in chronicles of old, which are more amusing than trustworthy. In the year 900, we are told, for example, that the heat was so great, that hydrophobia broke out among the poultry. The Abbé Eudes, bit by a hen, was stifled between his mattresses. It was on the occasion of the hot summer of 1100, that Jehan Chaffaroux, of the parish of Croix du Trahoir, seeing the Parisians as thirsty as crocodiles, invented coco for their comfort. In 1200, several quails fell in the city. They were found to be roasted. In 1300, ibises were seen in the Seine, and an alligator was captured sleeping on the Island of Croisy. In 1600 several persons were turned to negroes by the great heat. In the century following, Madame de Maintenon used the first umbrella, and Louis XIV. appeared before his courtiers without a wig. In 1812, the MS. plays at the Théâtre-Français took fire, and to prevent a similar catastrophe from spontaneous combustion, the Odéon had all its manuscripts daily watered. Hence the flatness with which the pieces produced at that theatre have ever since gone off.

The demolition of houses, and the creation of new streets, squares, and boulevards, has given origin to recriminations on the part of two old friends in the Quartier Latin-the Rue Mouffetard and the Place Maubert.

There are some Parisians who rejoice to think that the Rue Mouffetard is to be enlarged, and will have its name changed.

Let the Rue Mouffetard be widened, that is desirable, but as to the other change, I by no means participate in the satisfaction of certain Parisians.

It is in vain that they tell me that the name of Mouffetard reminds one of nothing. Have you ever heard of a battle of Mouffetard, of a Marshal de Mouffetard, of a learned man, a poet, an orator, a lawyer-of any great man whomsoever, who was called Mouffetard?

The name comes from Mons Cetardus, the monticule on which the Rue Mouffetard sprang up; now, if Mouffetard represents Mons Cetardus, it is going back as far as possible. There is therefore no necessity for preserving the Rue Mouffetard; neither history, nor science, nor philosophy, nor literature, are interested in its preservation.

Whereupon the papers of the day have exhausted their ingenuity in suggesting a new name for the Rue Mouffetard. One would have it Rue Fontainebleau; another, Rue d'Italie; another, Rue de Rome; and another, Rue du Midi.

I prefer Rue Mouffetard just as it stands. Mouffetard pleases me. Mouffetard has something in it sui generis special and peculiarly Parisian, that imparts to it a charm.

There is already a Barrière Fontainebleau at Paris,-that is sufficient. There are no end of Rues du Midi. As to Places de Rome, Places d'Italie, and