prepare the way in harmless guise for the severer struggles of life. Of the Kittenton Club Podder is a prominent member, and it was with a glow of the ruddiest satisfaction that he handed me a note during the dessert which informed him that the president and members would be most happy to receive an impromptu visit that evening from the National Guards of France. The fondness of the French for society being so well known, no one will be surprised to find that the proposition to adjourn to the Club was received with the greatest pleasure. After a bumper or two to each other's healths which, added to what we had previously taken, put us in very good case for developing our mental energies, I ordered cabs and we drove down to the Strand, that being the most easterly point which the Kittenton migration has yet reached. It happened, singularly enough to be the evening of the weekly réunion of the Club and, as the Morning Chronicle afterwards said in describing the scene, "on their entering the drawing room they were loudly cheered, a gentleman at the piano-forte striking up the Marseillaise,' as if in honour of them." The same paper adds:"The Choeur des Girondins' was then sung in fine style by the visitors, after which, God save the Queen' was struck up in chorus by the company, among whom the National Guards were not the least prominent." This is true enough, but Podder, who sent the account round to all the papers, should have added that it was I who sang the solo parts and was most prominent in the chorus.

I shall continue the extracts :-" Several of the visitors then partook for a short time, with evident Parisian gusto, of the pleasures of the dance," yes-we did, and the lovely girls with whom we polked (ladies being one of the Club emollients) were eloquent in praise of our exquisite tournures which were shown to such advantage beneath our tight uniforms. One soft creature who confided herself to me, tried (for the honour of the Club) to get up a little French, but I think she took fright at the purity of my accent, which was rather too much for her, and I was obliged to continue the conversation-much to her surprise-in English. "After this the party adjourned to the dining-room, where a supper à l'improviste had been prepared, the chair being taken by a member of the managing committee. Due honour having been done to the roast beef of old England,'" (I beg to say it was cold roast beef and pickles, the last rather dangerous on account of the cholera, the best remedy for which in my opinion is Rowland's Macassar) "the chairman in excellent French," (I cannot help smiling at this, as if an Englishman, merely as an Englishman, not having my advantages, could speak" excellent" French), "expressed the extreme gratification it afforded the members of the Kittenton Institution to receive the National Guards as visitors, and after having passed a warm eulogium upon them for the services they had rendered to their country, aided, he must say, by one of the most chivalrous Englishmen whom this age has produced," (cheers, and all eyes directed towards me) " and having dilated upon the benefits that were likely to accrue from the friendly intercourse of nations, and the gratifying contrast it presented to by-gone times, he concluded by giving Prosperity to France and the National Guard.' The toast was received with an enthusiasm peculiarly English, which appeared not a little to startle and amuse the visitors." (It did not startle me; I have been too much used to the Kentish fire at the public dinners at Peckham, myself in the chair.) "The applause having subsided, one of the guests, a captain of the legion, rose and expressed, &c." It was fully

expected, that I would have risen, but I wished to give Percale a chance, and therefore sat still while he spoke (verbatim) as follows.

"Ladies and Gentlemens. It trill my heart wiz a pleasure what I cannot expose to come into zis grand and pleasant contry, to stick my feets into ze Anglish earth where wiz kindness unheard of welcome to us was been given. For to pay such a visit it is now time, ze noble nations of France and England having for too long a while been separate by mutual blows and animosities, what shall nevare be ze case no more. Ze dobble fist of pugnancy shall not no longer clench himself but for him ze opening hand of friendship shall be spreaded in true and religious fraternity. We shall kick away all our prejudice and de Anglishman and de Frenchman shall loff de ozer, like ze happy family of ze dog and ze cat what I zis day have see in Lay-ces-terre Squarr. I offer you a toast, drink it, my fine fellows: A la fraternité des peuples !'"

The reader will perceive a striking omission in Percale's speech; however, I bear him no ill-will for not alluding to me (although the example had been set him by the former speaker), as he was very nervous on the occasion. This brought the events of the day to a close. There were many incidents connected with the visit of the National Guards to London which, at a future period, I may be tempted to reveal; but at present I shall content myself with quoting from the letter I have already made use of, in which my friend Percale shows that he writes much better than he speaks :

:

"At length, after a stay of only thirty-six hours, we left London full of gratitude to the inhabitants of the great city who had shown themselves so sympathetic to the French nation."

The bill at the Sablonière was a stinger, but it was paid by him, who in every vicissitude of life is still the same honest Briton, and still

JOLLY GREEN.

P.S. October 25th.-While I am in the act of putting my monogram to this sheet, I hear loud shouts in the street; I rush to the windowwhat do I behold?-a legion of National Guards in the square! The waiter tells me 1200 more have just arrived. I hasten to fraternise with them and become, I trust, the Tacitus of Gaul.

J. G.

THE HABITUE'S NOTE-BOOK.

BY CHARLES HERVEY, ESQ.

"SHIKSPUR! who wrote Shikspur?" asks one of the masters (or mistresses, I forget which), pro tem., in "High Life Below Stairs," a query answered by one of his or her camarades as follows.

"Why, Kolley Kibber.”

With equal correctness might we reply to the question, "Who wrote 'Mildred Vernon ?""

"Why, Hamilton Murray."

And yet, in so replying, we should have the title-page of the book itself, aye, and all Mr. Colburn's advertisements into the bargain, to bear us out; sufficient authority, no doubt, for the uninitiated, but for us, Nov.-VOL. LXXXIV. NO. CCCXXXV.

2 D

nenni, nenni! Hamilton and Murray are two good old Scotch patronymics, and together harmonise into a very taking, a very nice name, but as the fat boy says, "I knows a nicerer.'

Don't be alarmed, madame, your secret is safe with the habitué; it needs no conjuror to tell that for "Mildred Vernon" the world is indebted to a lady's pen-every page of the work itself affords sufficient evidence of that but beyond this one excusable admission, nothing will be got out of me. No, no, friendly, but inquisitive reader, were you to assume the form of Paul Pry himself, with blue swallow-tail and umbrella accompaniment, you would worm out nothing further. "I'se Yorkshire too."

As a picture of Parisian life "Mildred Vernon" possesses unbounded interest for all those who have resided long in the French capital, and who are thereby enabled fully to appreciate the very remarkable observative and descriptive powers of the writer. The various characters are hit off with masterly cleverness, and those (by far the greater portion) which are taken from living models are daguerreotyped with the minutest accuracy. Be the originals French or English, there is no mistaking them; the prototype of Aurélie de Cévèzes herself, unquestionably the personage of the book, is not more vividly present to the reader's mind than are those of Lady Elfrida Thompson, of Madame Jacques Vavin, and many other equally microscopic delineations.

Rarely have the drawing-room mysteries of la vie Parisienne been so graphically anatomized as in this clever work-its lively and sparkling pages transport us from the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain to those of the Chaussée d'Antin, from the impenetrable strongholds of legitimacy to the gay and gaudy show-rooms of the parvenue, the habits and peculiarities of each locale being described with correctness and piquancy.

Viewed merely in the light of an amusing and interesting novel, "Mildred Vernon" has every claim to great and lasting popularity; while as a faithful record of the state of Parisian society sous Louis Philippe, it is invaluable.

I have been digressing from my usual topic, but I do not intend to apologise for so doing; there are literary as well as theatrical habitués, nor is the one métier by any means inconsistent with the other. Like Mr. Pott's immortal writer on Chinese metaphysics, I have an occasional fancy for combining my information, and if I do poach now and then on other people's preserves, why, from the days of Ruth downwards, where is the corn-field in which there have not always been a few ears left for the gleaner ?

*

During the last month there has been a steady improvement in the receipts of the various Parisian theatres; the caissier of the Montansier, especially, has more than once taken 2000 francs a night, which in the dead seasons of summer and autumn is much above the ordinary average. But M. Dormeuil, like Paddy O'Rafferty, was "born to good luck," and always contrives, after the fashion of a Dutch tumbler, to light on hisfeet. Even this last summer, in the very worst part of the crise, political and dramatic, when all the other managers in Paris were wishing their respective theatres at Jericho, the proprietor of the little snuggery in the Palais Royal (old style) could afford to smile as affably as usual. He had lent (for a considerable consideration) the major part of his company to his London confrère, our worthy and indefatigable caterer, Mr. Mitchell. When the poor préposée à la location, with her fat jolly face

elongated like those newly-imported little German deformities whose heads you can squeeze into any shape, and looking as woe-begone as the backers of Surplice after the Cesare witch, pointed to the feuille du jour, and mentally set down the night's receipt at fifty francs, M. Dormeuil's imagination was far away, gathering not wool, but bank-notes, and jingling sovereigns in perfide Albion.

This enterprising director has recently lost one of his liveliest pensionnaires; Mademoiselle Aline Duval, who has been at the Palais Royalfever since she emerged from the obscurity of the Panthéon, took it into her head not long ago to throw up an unsatisfactory part, and with it her engagement. Her place has been more than filled by Mesdemoiselles Azimont and Anouba, who, though their emploi is far from being the same as hers, nevertheless numerically complete the feminine ensemble of the troupe. The first of these is a smart and rather pretty girl, an importation from the Variétés, and quite at home in a soubrette's cap and apron; the second, though a mere novice, dramatically speaking, is equally good-looking, can pincer un cancan as neatly as Frisette or Mogador, and wears her hair crépé very becomingly. If M. Dormeuil in this exchange has been a loser as regards aplomb, and I may almost say impudence, he has decidedly gained on the score of gentillesse and beauty.

At the same theatre a species of pantomime called "les Parades de nos Pères," has been lately produced, Amant being the Cassandre, and Mademoiselle Honorine Lagier the Colombine. The former receives in the course of the piece more thumps and kicks than would suffice to tame even that refractory and historical character, the donkey "wot wouldn't go;" and the latter indulges in such very Mabilleian gestures and antics as to make one wish that she would take a lesson from the Columbine par excellence, the pretty and modest-looking Mademoiselle Béatrix, of the Funambules.

That versatile and impassioned jeune premier, le chaleureux Laferrière, still wisely prefers the hearty enthusiasm of Boulevart play-goers to the colder suffrages of a more aristocratic public. His delineation of Maurice the young mobile draws forth a nightly fountain of tears from the eyes of sympathising admirers in percale and indienne, and vast indeed is the consumption during each entr'acte of apples, oranges, and sucre d'orge, as well as of "orgeat, limonade, la bière;" a grisette's appetite in a theatre being invariably regulated by the state of her pocket-handkerchief.

Some two or three years back, it was reported that this excellent actor was about to be married to--guess, je vous le donne en mille?—to Déjazet. One of Frétillon's comrades laughingly asked her if it was true that she was on the point of changing her condition.

"Moi me marier," replied she, "la charge est bonne, et contre qui, s'il te plaît ?"

"Ma foi, Virginie," was the answer, "puisque tu n'en sais rien, les noms propres seront sacrés pour moi; mais je t'assure qu'on m'a parlé de l'affaire hier."

There is at the Gymnase a venerable relic of antiquity, named Bordier, who from time immemorial has played the serving men in and out of livery, from the major-domo to the chasseur. His duties chiefly consist in opening and shutting doors, and in receiving orders with a de

ferential bow; occasionally, but rarely, his part is enlivened by such phrases as "Madame est servie," "Oui, Monsieur le Comte,” and similar effective sentences, which he dwells upon as long and as affectionately as if they were 66 angel's visits, few and far between." Whenever I see him open his lips to speak, I involuntarily think of Athos's exhortation to his faithful mute:

"Grimaud, en considération de la gravité de la circonstance, je vous permets de parler."

I know few stage exhibitions more tiresome to witness than a piece the principal character in which is mimed, not spoken. Such a piece is "le Muet d'Ingouville," which has been lately revived at the Variétés for Bouffé, who is himself one of its authors. If the personage represented by him were invested with any strong melodramatic interest, or even if the inanity of the plot and characters were bolstered up by the help of attractive scenery and picturesque costume, the talent of the actor, in spite of the intrinsic worthlessness of the piece, might, to use old Bagsby's pet phrase, contrive to "pull it through;" but to see a genius like Bouffé dodging about in a black frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers, twisting his expressive features into every imaginable and unimaginable kind of contortion, and uttering guttural sounds as indistinct and ароcryphal as is the umbrella-mender's cry in Wexford-to see him stamp his foot with rage like Rumpelstiltskin when the Princess tells him his name, and gesticulate during two long mortal acts, much after the fashion of the gentleman in black, who is so unmercifully pounded by Mr. Punch's cudgel-is a spectacle at once wearisome and painful.

The only pleasurable recollection connected with "Le Muet d'Ingouville," which is present to my mind, is the grateful exclamation of my neighbour in the stalles d'orchestre who, stretching himself at the end of the second act like a dog coming out of the water, thus testified his idea of the interest of this telegraphical drama; "Cré nom d'un petit bonhomme, ai-je bien dormi ce soir!"

Léon Gozlan, the clever author of "La Main Droite et la Main Gauche," has just awoke like a giant refreshed from a somewhat protracted nap in order to enrich the répertoires of the Variétés and Porte St. Martin with a novelty a-piece, viz., "Le Lion empaillé," and "Le Livre noir." The first is witty but slightly scabreux, and requires a consummate comedian like Lafont (who, like Déjazet, can say any thing) to bring it safely into port. Mademoiselle Page lends him the aid of her brilliant eyes and dainty figure, and Delphine Marquet, with her arch smile and graceful tenue, acts the part of satellite in the background. Abondance de biens ne nuit pas.

"Le Livre noir" is a dramatised version of one of Gozlan's own stories, not quite so décousue as are the pieces of his fellow-townsman, Méry, but still, though brimful of talent, very rambling and carelessly charpentée. The leading male character affords scope for some excellent and impressive acting on the part of Munié, Ravel's brother-in-law, who, notwithstanding a certain coldness and disadvantageous stiffness of manner, does not want for moyens when he chooses to exert them. His deportment, moreover, which is quiet, graceful, and gentlemanly, is

"Yelva" is a splendid exception to this rule, the surpassingly beautiful acting of Rose Chéri being more than sufficient to atone for the substitution in her part, during the greater portion of the piece, of pantomime for dialogue.