the greatest judgment on the part of the actor, in order to keep alive the sympathies of the audience. This tour de force, the real difficulty of which few but professionals can fairly appreciate, is accomplished with perfect ease by Montdidier; he contrives, without rant, superabundance of gestures, or exaggeration of any kind, to concentrate in his own person the main interest of the piece, and to render impressive and effective passages which, in any other hands, might have seemed improbable, if not absurd.

In a former paper, I expressed a hope that this excellent actor would ere long be engaged at the Théâtre Français. C'est fait.

As for Madame Guyon, she is la passion incarnée; if ever acting can be said to resemble nature, it is hers. When she weeps, she makes her audience weep with her; and when she embraces her child, every mother in the house is moved to tears, so full of maternal tenderness is that embrace. Madame Guyon's acting is neither poetic nor graceful, but it is genuine and touches the heart; her gestures may, at times, be inelegant and wanting in correctness, but they are always spontaneous and earnest. Enfin, M. Wititterly's description of his lady-spouse may be fairly applied to the Grisi of the Ambigu—" she is all soul."

*

*

Madame Ancelot, one of the cleverest French authoresses of the present day, has just published a complete edition of her dramatic works, illustrated with vignettes and portraits, designed by herself, and prefaced by an announcement (which I hope, on second thoughts, she will retract) that, as a writer for the stage, "elle a dit son dernier mot." Most of the productions contained in these volumes have been performed with success, and some have attained great and deserved celebrity. "Marie, ou les Trois Epoques," may fairly rank among the best modern creations of Mademoiselle Mars, Isabelle was a favourite part of the charming but inconstant fugitive, Mademoiselle Pléssy, and Loisa and Marguerite still maintain a high and attractive position in the répertoire of Madame Doche.

*

The new ballet, “Griseldis; ou, les Cinq Sens," has come too late to be noticed in detail. Suffice it to say, that in it Carlotta dances as she rarely, if ever, danced before, and that her pantomime, graceful, expressive, and dramatic, is in every respect equal to her dancing. The piece is got up splendidly, as all pieces should be which are destined to run a hundred nights, and it needs but a very cursory glance at the scenic magnificence of the spectacle, and at the queue, long as that of the sea serpent, which extends from the doors of the Opera, as far as the boulevart, to assure one not only that Messrs. Duponchel and Nestor Roqueplan have adopted the old motto of "Set a sprat to catch a herring," but also that, however often they may renew their bait, they will always find fresh fish to nibble.

Paris, February 21, 1848.

March.-VOL. LXXXII. NO. CCCXXVII.

2 c

LITERARY NOTICES.

MADEMOISELLE DE MONTPENSIER.*

ANNE MARIA LOUISA, of Orleans, better known as Mademoiselle de Montpensier, born in Paris in 1627, was the daughter of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, and the niece of Louis XIII., vain, clever, ambitious, and daring, her whole life was one succession of restless acts of ambition and intrigue. There are within the whole range of French literature few other works which possess so great an interest as the eight original volumes in which the details of this life are recorded, and which are now presented to us in a perspicuous and most available shape.

As a child, mademoiselle was a pet, both of Louis XIII. and of Anne of Austria, and she used to call the little dauphin (afterwards Louis XIV.) her husband, till the austere Cardinal de Richelieu interfered, upon which occasion she says, even at that early age, she scrupled not to show him that she was very angry at what he said. This was, however, only the budding ambition of this haughty young princess. Upon the death of the Empress of Austria she became desirous of taking her place, and the idea of an empire so occupied her mind that when the Prince of Wales (afterwards Charles II.) who had taken refuge at the French court, paid his court to her, she intimates that she looked upon him as an object of pity. But even these two affairs on hand did not prevent her at the same time carrying on an intrigue with the presumed heir to the crown of Spain, through the medium of a certain Saujon, who suffered imprisonment for his matrimonial officiousness.

The war of the Fronde fills a chapter in French history which, from its little defined and trifling objects, its unsteady progress, its armies in feathers and silk stockings, and its pretty women at the head of factions and with mere gallantry at once originating and dissolving cabals, contains quite as much that is ridiculous as of any thing that is heroic or creditable to national character. Mademoiselle de Montpensier is, in her vain and flippant memoirs, the true and proper chronicler of such events. The Duke of Orleans having deserted the court and joined the Frondeurs, mademoiselle followed in the same direction; a line of conduct to which she appears to have been no less impelled by some remote thoughts of becoming the wife of the great Condé, than by any actual feelings of hostility to Mazarin or the court.

Again, after the battle of Worcester, did Charles seek refuge in France, and again did he renew his attentions to mademoiselle; but the lady had now altogether a new project in view, no less than becoming wife of Louis XIV. and Queen of France. This was not, however, a project of easy accomplishment. Louis XIV. was wandering with his mother and Cardinal Mazarin from province to province. The only hopes of the royal family were placed in Turenne, who was stationed upon the Loire, and the court was seeking to unite their forces with his. At such a conjuncture, Condé being in the south, Gaston of Orleans, who has been described 66 as a soldier in spite of Mars, and a statesman in spite of Minerva,"

* Memoirs of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Grand-Daughter of Henri Quatre, and Niece of Queen Henrietta Maria. Written by Herself. 3 vols. Henry Colburn.

put Paris in a state of defence, while mademoiselle now first exhibited the more prominent characteristics of her nature, by treading nobly in the steps of Joan of Arc, and defending the city of Orleans with equal courage and

success.

After this heroic act mademoiselle was received on her return to Paris with all due honour, and here another occasion to display her gallantry soon presented itself, and by her promptitude in going to the Bastile and ordering the guns to be turned upon the royal army, she saved her party from defeat and destruction. Nor did she manifest a less remarkable energy of character in appeasing a riot in the Hotel de Ville. These acts of vigour and courage were mixed up in a manner most characteristic of the age, with the play of the softer sentiments. The mere illness of the Princess of Lorraine was sufficient for the commencement of an intrigue between M. de Lorraine and mademoiselle. Ever, however, on the eve of wedding a great personage, and destined, ultimately, and it would appear not altogether undeservedly, to marry a very humble one, mademoiselle was soon, by the success of the court party, and the timidity of her father, compelled to leave Paris, and to live for a time in comparative seclusion.

her

It is vain, however, to attempt to sketch the career of so extraordinary a personage, even in its more superficial details. Every act of life involved some other one of greater or less importance. To understand by what delicate manœuvres the heroine of the Fronde became reconciled with Mazarin and with Louis XIV., and her subsequent progress at thecourt of the greatest monarch of his age, it is absolutely necessary to peruse own spirited narrative. The passionate love which, after her numerous princely and royal intrigues, she permitted herself to entertain for a mere courtier, M. de Peguillin, afterwards Count de Lauzun, the indifference which she met with on the part of the object of her attachment; her perseverance under the ban of the court, and that of both king and council; the imprisonment of the count, and his deliverance through her personal exertions and sacrifices; present details which are full of that interest that is only to be met with in the romance of history, and that to in its more gallant and brilliant epochs.

ANGELA.*

THE just delineation of character has ever been held as one of the chief excellencies of a successful work of fiction; but it has been doubted by many if by tracing the origin and growth of a master passion, we always arrive at a correct estimate of that character. The author of “Emilia Wyndham" entertains no doubt whatsoever upon the subject; like Joanna Baillie, she is of opinion, that "this clue once found, unravels all the rest;" or, like a still higher authority, she deems, perchance, that "Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loaths;" and she sets boldly to the task of working out a single idea into all its possible bearings; "a brave heart struggling with the storms of fate," and the "master passion" triumphant over all difficulties and adversities.

Angela. A Novel. By the Author of Men's Tales," &c. 3 vols. Henry Colburn.

"Emilia Wyndham," "Two Old

There is nothing to our mind, however, half so touching or so beau tiful in the story of Angela, as the few days of sunshine which gladden her early career. There may be more to win interest, or to excite apprehension in her subsequent perplexities and trials, but there is nought to compare with the few and simple details with which affection is made to weave its chains round her young heart. Angela is the almost penniless daughter of a half-pay officer. She lives with a much loved and young step-mother, who is dying of consumption, in an old-fashioned farm-house in one of the midland counties of this dear little island. The family is further composed of three little children and a nurse-a greater scold and a better heart than even the "rude ragged nurse" of the poet. Angela is as sweet, attentive, pretty, and resigned, as it befits a heroine to be.

The young heir of Sherington, the very ideal of the English youth, with ingenuous eye, thoughtful brow, and "soft, silken moustache, just to give character to the upper lip," comes down upon this secluded farmhouse, like the wolf on the fold. Chance first directed his steps to the spot, admiration soon led them thither again. Feigning a name and a profession, he wins the friendship of both ladies, as Carteret, a young artist, and he is in this character allowed to give lessons in drawing to the fair Angela. It is singular that the author, who is particular in her adherence to nature in all that refers to character, and is so strict in her attention to details, should overlook the impropriety of an unknown youth being thus admitted to familiarity; and still more so the impossibility of that youth paying daily visits to a fair maiden at a farm-house, within an hour's walk of his father's estate (admitting that Lord and Lady Missenden are in Italy), without his person being discovered, or even an inquiry being made by any of the village gossips, as to what roof shelters that "beautiful head with its carelessly waving hair."

But proprieties and probabilities are alike disregarded by love and fiction. Carteret, the artist, has obtained a footing in this small family circle, described by their landlady as composed of people without money or friends; he has defended Angela and the children from the attacks of a furious bull; his pet dog has been hurt in the encounter, and it is left at the farm to be tended. It must be seen again. These visits reveal to the youth the position of his new friends. On the one side a young and beautiful girl, taxed beyond her powers in tending a sick mother, in anticipating the wants of three little children, and, worse than all, in toiling by midnight lamp to gain some addition to their small pittance; on the other hand, a youth of spirit, but indolent, because hitherto deprived of every wholesome stimulant which could invite him to development and exertion.

66

That stimulus now for the first time presented itself. The words 'they have neither money nor friends" kept ringing in his ears, and when, on his return home, he looked at the contrast, and the luxuries by which he was surrounded, his heart froze as it were together. It was a contrast certainly, and a strong one. There sat, or half lay, the man, extended in a most comfortable arm-chair, after a delicate repast. All with him was vague, imaginative, easy, pleasant. (We are stealing snatches of description from our author to save extracts at length.) She, was holding a little faded purse in her hand, and slowly counting and dividing its contents. She had supped, or endeavoured to sup, upon the sour-leavened bread. She was occupied in calculating

how she should provide bread enough of any kind for those she had to feed.

Cheerily and pleasantly rose the sun. All nature was in her holiday dress that day for Carteret, for he was wending his way across the fields, with a little basket, in which he had ventured to place, with infinite self-satisfaction, a few things for his new friends.

"The weather is so hot, that I have taken the liberty of bringing you a little fruit, which I have procured," addressing Margaret; "and for you, Miss Angela, a few flowers."

"Fruit!" exclaimed the wasted and thirsty invalid, her eyes almost sparkling with a feverish pleasure.

"Fruit!" cried Angela, her countenance beaming with gratitude and delight. "Fruit! and at this time of the year! Oh! thank you, thank you, a thousand, thousand times."

"There are a few strawberries, and two or three peaches," said he, beginning to open his basket, and putting the nosegay upon Angela's lap, who bent her head over it, and hid her face a moment among the flowers.

I believe she kissed them.

He took out the little basket of strawberries, and handed them to Margaret. I believe he never in his life afterwards forgot that moment; the look of pleasure with which she applied them to her parched lips,-the exquisite gratification which this little treat-this little alleviation of her sufferingsseemed to afford her.

It was a lesson to him which he remembered; and from henceforward he knew better how to dispense his superfluities.

How soon people, in such circumstances, become acquainted! There was nothing to prevent their young hearts from running together. He was so enthusiastic and romantic, and she so simple, and so filled with charity that thinketh no evil; and there was no jarring feeling upon either side to prevent it.

They sat, day after day, at their drawing, side by side; together they carried out the table, and arranged the midday-meal under the shade of the walnut-trees; together they tended the invalid; together they played with the children. He had been one who disliked children before, but he learned to love these. His visits were daily. At first they lasted only a few hours; these hours became more and more numerous: at last he did not go away till the evening. The mother watched what was going on with attention. At first her pride had been a little alarmed at the idea of an officer's daughter marrying an unknown artist; but when she considered now the many good qualities that young man possessed, and the position of that officer's daughter, she began to take herself to task for these scruples.

Time passed on. Happy in that best and most blessed of lives, where useful daily occupation is combined with all the sweetest ideal of passion; the two became as one soul. 66 They loved," exclaims the "Old Man,' "as lovers should, as lovers used to do!" and they were betrothed to one another.

Such was the sunshine of Angela's young existence. As it was cloudless, and fair, and bright, so were the days that followed, the more dark and stormy by very contrast. From the very day that Carteret had told his love, and that he had promised to give to the mother some more satisfactory information, the young man never came again to the farmhouse. The reason for this is not satisfactorily explained. There is passing mention made of a letter and of money that must have gone