Israelites sitting round the waters of Babylon, with their harps on the willows! A Babylonian says to the leader of the chorus, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion;" the chorus answers, "How can we sing in a strange land?" and so on: the whole piece is a scandalous parody of the Scripture, made up with French sentiment and French decency. A large family of children were behind me, looking, with much interest and edification, at the Queen rising from her bath! This piece concludes with a superb imitation of Martin's picture of Belshazzar. Another piece at the Porte St. Martin, called "Bergami," vivifies Hayter's picture of the House of Lords at Queen Caroline's trial. There was a report this morning that a courier had arrived from England, for the express purpose of forbidding this piece; and supposing, from that circumstance, that it must contain something very terrible, I sallied to the Porte St. Martin to see it; but I was sadly disappointed for there was nothing in it but a little Platonic dialogue between Bergami, who is an angel, and the queen, who is an injured woman. Bergami appears first in the character of a post-boy, and makes such delightful remarks on the weather, the scenery, and Italian politics, that the warm-hearted queen is subdued at once, and makes him forthwith her equerry. The first act ends, and the queen gets into a carriage. In the second, she gets into a packet, (that unlucky packet!) in the third she gets into a balcony; in the fourth she gets into a passion, as well she may, since Bergami is assassinated by Lord Ashley, (on which fact we beg to congratulate his lordship;) and, accordingly, she goes to the House of Lords to make her complaint against him for this act of unpoliteness: here the scene is very animated, (it is taken from the picture.) Sir Brougham makes a speech about injured women, patriotism, and so forth; Lord Eldon replies, the Ministerial bench cheers, the Opposition jeers, and the Queen comes in majestically, bowing right and left, and uttering the noblest

sentiments. Presently a row is heard in the streets: the mob is in arms for the queen! Lord Eldon motions the Minister of War; he rushes out to quell the disturbance, the queen follows him, but the attempts of both are in

effectual; windows are broken, stones are flung, Lord Eldon disappears, Sir Brougham bolts, and Lord Liverpool, (a stout man in a white waistcoat, with a large tin star,) falls to the earth, struck violently in the stomach with a leather

brick-bat, and the curtain, of course, drops with the Prime Minister. The French nation was exalted by this exhibition to a pitch of immoderate enthusiasm, and called stoutly for the Marseillaise. I did not see the fifth act, in which the queen is poisoned, (Lord Ashley again!) but returned home to give an account of this strange tragedy. There is a third play, of much more importance than the two former, of which I had wished to give some account, "Les Enfans d'Edouard," by M. Casimir Delavigne, one of the best acted tragedies I had ever the good fortune to see; but I have made this letter so long, that I must reserve this for some future day. I could not, however, refrain from sending a little sketch of Ligier, who performs the part of Richard, in this play, in a manner, I think, which Kean never equalled.

Beside Ligier is the admirable Mademoiselle Mars, and that most charming, gay, graceful, naïve actress, Madame Anais Aubert. It would be worth an English actor's while to come to Paris, and study the excellent manner of the French comedians; even Cooper might profit by it, and Diddear go away from the study a wiser and better man. Here is too much about theatres, you will say; but, after all, is not this subject as serious as any other?

[Vol. ii., pp. 10, II.]

THE wondering reader may fancy that the scene here given was designed in the wilds of America, rather than in this gay city of Paris, but he will see, if he takes the trouble of reading the following article (from the pen of M. Jules Janin,) how the figures above represent three unfortunate Charruas Indians, who have quitted South America to shiver under the cold Parisian sun.

"Allons! let us go and see the savages; they are lodged in the Champs Elysées, in one of those half-built houses, those ruins of yesterday, the view of which is sad without being

solemn. Here are the heroes of our drama, not taller than the brave Agamemnons and Alexanders of the Theatre Français, but well-built and active, bold cavaliers, and gallant horse-tamers. They are perfidious, idle, revengeful, cruel-cannibals, some of them; perfect dramatic characters, in fact. In truth, they possess all the qualities requisite for the modern drama; they can ride, fight, betray, revenge, assassinate, and eat raw flesh; it is true that they don't know a word of French; but what of that? it is all the better for the theatre now-a-days.

"When I saw them huddled together in their court, I declare I thought that I was looking at some modern tragedy: these brave savages wore costumes hideous and fanciful; they were all three seated in different solemn attitudes. First, the cacique, with hair uncombed, and fierce and heavy looks; he would have made a capital tyrant for a melodrama the next, a lean, livid animal, with a sidelong look, and an indefinable smile, reminded me of Cooper's Magna; the third was gay, careless, and merry enough and then came the timid and gentle Guynuya. She sate alone in a corner of the court, with her head on her bosom, bending under the weight of her captivity, like a princess of Ilium of old. This woman is truly sublime: it is true she is fickle and faithless, that she loves pleasure and change, that she has not our ideas of conjugal fidelity; but she has more passion and love than all the heroines of our tragedy; and, above all, she has the passion of grief. I was much touched by this woman and her sorrows; her arms are all scarred over with wounds, and each of these wounds is the history of a sorrow. They were inflicted by herself: there is a scar for each friend she has lost; for every child of which she has been deprived there is a finger gone; she has lost two fingers, and there are near eighty scars on her arm and this woman is not yet eighteen years old!

"Have you, in all the range of your drama, such an