been tried and found guilty for a plot against the government, the Peers were divided as to the nature of the punishment to be inflicted on him; and the minority signed a protest against the decision of the majority, which they laid upon the table of the Chamber. This is the first time that such a circumstance has occurred in the Chamber of Peers in France; and I mention it to you as an additional proof of the necessity which the Chamber finds itself under of copying more and more the forms of our House of Lords. The debates of the Chamber of Peers are always secret, no stranger ever being admitted to them; but when it is formed into a court of judicature, it is open to the public, like every other tribunal. An analysis, or sketch of the debates, however, generally appears in the newspapers, and a peer may publish his own speech if he likes.

The events which took place in the Chamber of Deputies were more remarkable. An address, in answer to the King's speech, was adopted unanimously, it is said, in a secret committee of the Chamber, in which was this passage: "We congratulate you, Sire, on your constantly amicable relations with foreign powers, in the just confidence that a peace so desirable has not been purchased by sacrifices incompatible with the honour of the nation, and the dignity of your crown." The King was so indignant at the insinua tion contained in this passage, that he refused to receive the deputation of the members of the Chamber to present their address to him on the throne, according to custom. He would only admit the President and two secretaries into his closet, and even then would not allow the address to be read, but made them a speech, in which he said, " In exile and persecution, I maintained my rights, the honour of my race, and that of the French name. Upon the throne, surrounded by my people, I am filled with indignation at the very idea, that I could ever sacrifice the honour of the nation, and the dignity of my crown."

The unanimity which is said to have prevailed in the Chamber of Deputies, on the occasion of this address, is most remarkable, as the three parties of which it is composed, have hitherto been so violent, and have kept so widely distant from cach other.

These three parties are known by the names of the Coté droit, or the royalists, the Coté gauche, or the liberals, and the Centre, or the moderate men, and the constitutionalists. How could men of such opposite opinions come to be unanimous, or how could they agree in throwing out such a serious imputation against the King's government? I have heard it explained in the following manner. In the first place, the French in general are much hurt at the insignificance into which they say they have fallen in the balance of power in Europe; and secondly, they say this is become still more glaring by the late revolutionary movements in Naples and Piedmont, which were put down by the sole power of Austria, backed by Russia, without any consultation whatever with the French government. By this proceeding, they declare that not only the honour of the nation, as a great power, has been sacrificed, but the dignity of the crown also; because the royal family of Naples is a branch of the House of Bourbon, and the royal family of France is very nearly related to the King of Sardinia. This is the explanation I have heard of these proceedings, which now occupy the attention of every society in Paris; but as I know you are not very partial to politics, I shall here quit the subject, and merely inform you that the first act of the ministers, since the opening of the Chambers, has been to propose new and still more rigorous restrictions on the liberty of the press; and in particular, to continue the censorship on the newspapers, and on all periodical publications, for five years longer. The debates of this Session are expected to be very stormy.

In

On the first of this month, a new tragedy, in five acts, called the "Paria," by Mr Delavigne, author of the "Sicilian Vespers," was produced at the Second Theatre Française. speaking of this tragedy, the first question every body asks is, what is a Paria? Bernardin de Saint Pierre has made a Paria the hero of a little philosophical tale, entitled the Chaumière Indienne; and, under the pen of that ingenious novelist, this Paria comes out the model of sages, of hermits, of lovers, and of spouses. Such is the Paria of romance; but history, in the words of the Abbé Raynal, gives us a different picture. "Besides the four first tribes," says that author, "of the

Bramins, the warriors, the farmers, and the artisans, there is a fifth, which is the refuse of all the others. Those who compose it are employed in the vilest occupations of society; they bury the dead, carry away filth, and eat the flesh of animals that have died a natural death. They are so much abhorred, that if one of them dared to touch a man of another class, the latter has a right to kill him on the spot. These unfortunate beings are called Parias." I will now give you an analyis of this new tragedy.

Idamore, son of the Paria Zares, had left for three years his aged father, of whom he was the only support, in the desert. Impelled by a vague sentiment of curiosity, and an irresistible instinct of ambition, he went into the neighbourhood of Benares; and, disguising his servile origin under the spoils of a tiger which he had killed, he enlisted among the troops then attacked by the Portuguese. His talents and courage raised him from rank to rank to the supreme command, which was conferred upon him in consequence of a victory he had just gained over the Christians, and in which he took prisoner with his own hands the young Alvar, whose life he saved, and who became his confidant and friend.

Certain of his attachment and prudence, Idamore reveals to Alvar the secret of his birth; and Alvar in his turn reveals to him, that, on account of some mistake which he does not explain, he himself had been excommunicated at Lisbon, and that it was to escape the horrors of the Inquisition, that he had fled to the banks of the Ganges. As this circumstance is of no use in the sequel of the piece, it would certainly be better to suppress

it.

Satiated with glory, and disgusted with the parade of cities, Idamore had wished to return to his father Zares, but was irresistibly detained at Benares by a violent passion which he had conceived for the young and beautiful Neala, daughter of the Highpriest Akebar, and who felt an equal affection for him. There seems, however, to be an invincible obstacle to their union. Neala is devoted by her father to the god of the Ganges, and this religious marriage consecrates her in a state of perpetual virginity. Moreover, Akebar is the enemy of Idamore, who would never bend his knee before his sacred power.

At length, Akebar, entirely subdued by his desire to make the proud Idamore bend before him, after many struggles, determines to give him his daughter. An oracle pronounces the sacred engagements of Neala to be dissolved, and Akebar proposes the marriage to Idamore as a means of putting an end to all their resentments. Idamore, transported with joy, falls at the feet of Akebar, and swears submission and respect to him. The designs of the High-priest are now accomplished, and he goes out to order the preparations for the nuptials.

Neala remains with the bridegroom, who, seized with a generous scruple of conscience, feels that he cannot let his bride be ignorant that she is to marry a Paria. He makes the terrible confession, and Neala, overpowered with horror, starts back, and takes refuge under the statue of Brama.

This is the finest and most affecting situation in the tragedy. Idamore, in a very eloquent and melodious strain of verse, makes the apology of the tribe of the Parias. He convinces his bride that the Parias are men like others, children of the same God, lighted by the same sun, borne on the same earth, and called to the same destiny. The author in this passage has evidently copied Shakespeare, who, in his Merchant of Venice, gives the same ideas to the Jew Shylock.

All of a sudden an old man is announced, who proves to be Zares, the father of Idamore, who could no longer bear the absence of his son. But as soon as he learns that Idamore is going to marry the daughter of a Bramin, he overwhelms him with reproaches, insists on his giving up Neala, reminds him of the scenes of his infancy, and of the tomb of his mother, and conjures him to accompany him back to his retreat. Idamore promises to obey his father after he has had an interview with Neala, and Zares disappears.

Idamore persuades Neala to accompany him to the house of his father, and the marriage ceremony now takes place on the scene. But Zares, who was watching, and now fancies himself betrayed by his son, rushes on the stage, repeatedly crying out that he is a Paria. The high-priest, indignant that a creature so impure should dare to profane the holy inclosure, orders Zares to be put to death. Idamore throws himself before his father, and

declares himself his son. Horror, consternation, and universal tumult succeed; Neala faints, and is carried off the stage. The army and the people abandon Idamore, who is immediately stoned to death with the faithful Alvar, who would not abandon him. Neala appears again, but her husband is no more. "What do you want here?" says Akebar; "My father!" she replies, and rushes into the arms of Zares; who, before he goes off with her into the desert, overwhelms Akebar with maledictions, and denounces the vengeance of heaven against him, with these words, "Pontife, il est des Dieux," which concludes the piece.

The plan of this tragedy is not the most brilliant part of it, and still, notwithstanding some striking improbabilities, it is more judicious and regular than that of the Sicilian Vespers. The versification is brilliant; there are too many descriptions perhaps, but they sparkle with poetical beauties of the first order. The thoughts are often dressed in the colours of the imagination, and there is much to expect from the productions of a muse to whom no fault can be imputed but that of youth, and which would perhaps give less promise if it shewed more judgment and maturity.

The success of the tragedy was not in the least doubtful; the applauses were frequent, and sometimes unanimous. The young author's name was proclaimed, and he was even requested by the audience to come forth on the stage. He spared himself, however, this humiliating ceremony; but the noise and tumult in the pit rose to such a pitch, that it was a full hour before the actors could begin the entertain

ment.

Twenty minutes after the representation of the Paria, the bookseller, Barbou, was already possessor of the manuscript of the tragedy for the sum of 5000 francs, about 200 guineas.

A few days ago I went to hear a trial at the Court of Assizes, which had excited the greatest interest in this lively capital. It was an action brought by the Attorney-general against a Mr Beranger, for having published a volume of immoral, irreligious, and seditious songs. The audience of the court never presented such an extraordinary influx of amateurs in the memory of man. Some delay having taken place in the transmission of the necessary orders for obtaining a rein

forcement of the gendarmes, it became very difficult to preserve the peace outside the doors. By eight o'clock in the morning, the most private passages, commonly reserved for the bearers of tickets, were already obstructed by the crowd. A small number of the privileged could hardly get into the court, which was soon filled by persons of the first distinction, among whom were many ladies. During this time, the crowd, always increasing, had forced away all the sentinels, and had arrived, in the midst of an inconceiva➡ ble disorder, into the glazed gallery, which serves as a vestibule to the court. There was no passage left for the judges or the jury, or even the defendant, who was near an hour getting through the crowd, before he could seat himself by the side of his counsel,

It was impossible to begin the pleadings before the glazed gallery, and the stair-case which leads to it, were completely evacuated. Four or five persons, whose presence was absolutely necessary in the court, had already been drawn through the windows; but now the panes of glass began to fly in all directions; it was impossible to make such a multitude go back, and it was therefore thought better to open the doors of the court, when two or three hundred persons, breaking the windows, tearing their clothes, or rubbing them against the newly whitewashed, or newly painted walls, rushed one upon another into the court, which already seemed too full. Never did I see such a scene of confusion.

The jury were obliged to make a long circuit to get into the council-chamber; but at length having been sworn, and the Attorney-general and the defendant having taken their respective places, the Judges entered. The President addressed the court, and said: "The cause cannot be opened till perfect order, such as is worthy of a court of justice, be established. I see a crowd of persons standing behind the jury, and some young lawyers seated in front of them. This state of things cannot be; the jury must be absolutely insulated. It is astonishing that I should be obliged to give such admonitions to members of the bar." At this time, the gendarmes and other soldiers, who were placed to keep order at the bottom of the court, had their bayonets fixed at the end of their muskets. The President perceived it, and with a loud voice, ordered them

to be taken off. This measure of prudence, and at the same time of respect for the freedom of the court, was loudly applauded.

The President then said: "It gives me pleasure to think that it is unne cessary for me to say that the law commands silence and respect. I am persuaded it will be religiously observed. I should consider it as a very painful duty to be obliged to take the measures which the law points out, that of having the court cleared, and hearing the cause with the doors closed."

Silence and order being now established, the cause began, and I think it will amuse you, as it did me, to hear some parts of the speech of the Attorney-general. He began as follows: "Gentlemen of the jury, songs have a sort of privilege in France; of all the species of poetry it is the one whose licenses are the most readily excused; the genius of the nation protects it, and its gaiety absolves it. The companions of mirth and pleasure like it; one would never suppose that these frivolous rhymes were calculated to nourish the sombre discontent of the malevolent; and, in fact, from the time of Julius Cæsar down to the Cardinal Mazarin, our statesmen were never afraid of those who sung songs. Such are our songs; or rather, gentlemen, such were the songs of our fathers; for after so many ages that we have now been laughing in France, this spoiled child of Parnassus has strangely thrown off all restraint. Taking advantage of the indulgence shown him, more than once, during our political revolutions, did he go to school, to the disturbers of public peace; they spirited him up with their violence, and made him the auxiliary of the most libellous and the most audacious invectives. It was then that impious sarcasms were substituted for natural effusions, and murderous hostility succeeded to playful raillery; insulting stanzas were thrown out with derision on every object of our homage: even all the excesses of anarchy were stimulated by them, and the muse of popular songs became one of the furies of evil discord.

"When songs thus depart from their true character, have they still any claim to the favour which they formerly inspired? Shall the title of

songs be sufficient to allow them to diffuse scandal with impunity, and screen them from the pursuit of justice? If such was their dangerous prerogative, prose would soon be obliged to give up its office of corruption, and every body would sing what no one would dare to say."

The Attorney-general concluded a very remarkable and eloquent speech, in the following manner: "Ah! if the French character has lost its native gaie ty, let it seek for the cause in the deceptions and systems of which this songwriter has made himself the interpreter; in the bitterness of political discussions, in the agitation of so many interests, without measure and without an object in that continued fever, that uneasiness of the heart, which, discontented with society, nature, and life, finds in them neither tranquillity nor happiness."

The counsel for the defendant made a long speech, in which he observed, that it was a common saying in France before the Revolution, that the government of that country was a monarchie absolue tempéré des chansons. His client, however, was found guilty by a majority of the jury, after a deliberation of two hours, and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment, and a fine of 500 francs, besides the expences of the trial, in which is included the printing of his sentence, to the number of 1000 copies.

The discussions which took place in the Chamber of Deputies at the opening of the session, about six weeks ago, and which I noticed in the beginning of this letter, have at length induced the King to make a complete change in the ministry; and as the new men are individuals of character, of principle, and of moderate opinions, as well as talent, it is thought they are likely to retain their places, and to give general satisfaction. This is the first time since the restoration of the monarchy, that the ministry has been composed of any but revolutionary characters."

With respect to literary matters, the most remarkable undertaking for a long time past, is that of the bookseller Ladvocat, entitled Chefs d'œuvre des Theatres Etrangers, of which the first volume has just appeared, containing four pieces of Lopez de Vega,*

translated from the Spanish. This bookseller has just completed his editions of Schiller and Shakespeare, in French, which have had great success, and have inspired him with the idea of the new work. It will consist of twenty volumes 8vo, and will contain a selection from the most celebrated dramatic authors of Germany, England, Denmark, Spain, Italy, Portugal, Holland, Poland, Sweden, and Russia; all translated by some of the first literary characters in Paris. The King is a subscriber to the work; as he also was to the translations of Schiller and Shakespeare.

You know that the King of France is famous for his speeches and replies. The Abbé Frayssinons, one of the most celebrated preachers now in Paris, having pronounced, by order of the King, the funeral oration of the late Archbishop of Paris, sent a copy of it to his Majesty, who, perceiving the Abbé the other day, after mass, addressed him and said: "I read your funeral oration an hour after I got it, and with great pleasure, because every thing that is well written pleases me; I read it with emotion, because you recalled to my mind all the affeetion and friendship which the Cardinal had for me; I read it with admiration, for one might might have thought Bossuet had lent you his pen."

The late Cardinal de Talleyrand Perigord, Archbishop of Paris, among other numerous legacies, left 6000 francs to the church of Rheims, of which he had formerly been archbishop, for an annual mass for ever; the same sum for the same object to the metropolitan church of Paris, and as much for the decoration of a chapelain of that church; also 5000 francs to the chapter of Saint Denis for an annual mass for ever; 2000 francs to the church of Rheims for another mass of reparation to the Blessed Sacrament, and the same for a mass of reparation to the Blessed Virgin.

Chance sometimes throws one into strange situations, and brings on accidents and rencontres with very queer circumstances. The other evening I was at the house of the Countess of

who had a large party. It was two in the morning, and beginning to rain, and not a coach to be had. The porter's son, in the prospect of a pourboire, went off to find me one; after waiting nearly half an hour, he came back with a cabriolet, not being able to

find a fiacre; though it was very cold, blew hard and rained, there was no remedy, I got in and set off.

As we were going along, the driver, who was drunk and half asleep, not perceiving a heap of stones, drove right into the middle of them: down comes the horse, one of the shafts broke, it was impossible to go on any farther. I got out of the cabriolet, and there I was in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, the rain falling in torrents.

I began to run to keep myself warm, and get sooner home; but the sewers were soon swelled out as broad as rivers, impossible to pass in any direction, and I was forced to take refuge in an entrance for shelter. All of a sudden I heard loud cries of "Thief, thief." People came running down stairs with great rapidity, when a man who was pursued, finding me in his way, falls against me, knocks me down, and makes his escape. As I was getting up on my legs, I found myself seized by the collar by several persons, all exclaiming, "We have got the villain; we have got him!" It was in vain for me to swear that I was not the man, and that I only came in there for shelter: nobody would listen to me, and they carried me off to the corps de garde. Most fortunately for me, the officer on duty happened to know me, offered to be answerable for me, and I was dismissed, with many apologies from the gentlemen who had arrested me so roughly.

Just as I came out of the corps de garde, a fiacre drove by, and I took it. As I got in, I said to the coachman, "Rue Saint Fierre, No. 6." "Very well," said he, got on his box, flogged his horses, and drove off.

We had been rolling along about half an hour, and I had fallen asleep in a corner of the carriage when it stopt. I got out, and was going to knock at the door, when it seemed to me it was not my house. I looked about, it was not even the street. " Why, where the devil have you brought me?" said I to the coachman. "Why, to the Rue Saint Pierre, No. 6, at Chaillot." "The Lord have mercy on me," said I, "why, this is not the place; I live quite on the other side of Paris!" "Diable,” said coachee, "you should have told me so, you should have said Rue Saint Pierre, au Marais. I live here, how could I know there were two Rues Saint Pierre at Paris?" "Well," said I," it is only