necessarily mingled among the mass a number of the dissolute and the vile, men solely intent on violence and plunder; they formed no part of the people of Paris, but were such of its scum as on this occasion floated here and there on the surface.

The attack having ceased upon the barricade where I had volunteered my services, I was standing idly gazing down the street, now partially deserted, amused at the thrifty expedient which one of my fellow-combatants resorted to, in oiling his boots from a broken reverbere that had been cast down in the tumult, when, from the windows on the first floor of a house at the further extremity, I heard the shrill screams of women. I ran in the direction from whence the cries proceeded, and, as I drew nearer, to my surprise I found that the accents were English, and that the voices seemed not altogether unknown to me. I knew but one English family, and they, I imagined, had two or three months before returned to their own country. But when I got beneath the windows of the house-it was an hotel, at that time a good deal frequented by foreigners-I could no longer entertain any doubt. Screaming, at the highest pitch of her voice, with her body half out of the window, her long curls waving in the air, and her arms struggling to free herself from those of a man, whose figure I could only imperfectly see, I beheld no less a personage than Miss Jane Maddox!

I did not take time to consider-as Bobèche would have suggestedwhether I was likely to hit the object I aimed at, or whether it was not much more probable that I might bring down the wrong bird, but fired at the ruffian. There was a terrific crash of glass, which fell about my ears, another very prolonged scream from Miss Maddox, and the man disappeared from the window, whether wounded or not I had no means of ascertaining.

But the work was only half done; the noise and confusion in the hotel were still tremendous, and, followed by two or three others whom the shot I had fired brought to the spot, I rushed up the staircase. The door on the premier stood half open; I dashed in, and, passing through an antichamber, found myself in the midst of a most stirring scene.

Sir John Chubb-for there he was, as large as life, larger, indeed, than when I last saw him-stood at bay, in a corner of a large room, with a chair in his hands, with which he was endeavouring to keep off a ferocious-looking fellow, in a blouse, who was making cuts at him with a long sabre, happily parried by the legs of the chair. Crouched behind him was a female figure, whose disarranged cap and twisted tournure, betrayed Lady Chubb as its owner; and her voice, if not the most mellifluous, was certainly the loudest of the party. Pale and trembling, her hands raised in an attitude of supplication, knelt, at her father's feet, his youngest daughter, Caroline. Miss Chubb lay on a sofa, apparently in a deep swoon, and Miss Jane Maddox, who had torn the welkin to some purpose, was grappling with a raw-boned fellow, whose every word was a curse of the coarsest description. It altogether formed as lively a tableau as modern art, perhaps, has furnished since Gericault's picture of the Deluge.

"Dammee," cried Sir John, performing all kinds of feints with his clumsy weapon, "more volloors, hey! Take that, you scoundrel," and heedless of the coming blow, he made a terrific rush at his antagonist,

caught him in the mouth with one of the legs of the chair, bore him down by his weight, and, stretching him on the floor, planted his foot on his throat, and wildly invited the rest "to come on.'

"Don't you know your friends, sir,” said I; we have come to your

assistance."

"The devil you have! who'd have thought it in the midst of this murdering crew!-guns beating, drums blowing, and trumpets firing every minute of one's life; me with this d-d lumbago,- -or else I shouldn't have been here,-the gals all terrified, revolutions at our very elbows, and dd black-whiskered rascals coming to carry off our goods and chattels before our faces. Who the deuce are you, I say ? Speak up that I may know you. None of your parleyvoo, but speak like a man, if you can."

"My name," I replied, "is Adrien Roux ; but this is no time for talking just now; let us clear the room of these rascals."

The fellow to whom Miss Maddox had been clinging contrived, while this brief colloquy was going on, to disengage himself from her clutches and, drawing a pistol from his girdle, fired point blank into my face. He must have been a bad or a nervous shot, for he missed me,-and for the second time in his life. It was the third time we had come into collision, for I beheld the features of the convict Durastel! I had discharged my musket in the street, and having no time to load again, I shifted my hand, and was about to give him a coup de crosse. He retreated one or two paces and seemed undecided which way to turn, but the doorway was thronged with those who followed me, and, seeing no other means of escape, he turned to the window, made a spring, caught hold of a projecting spout, and in all likelihood would have effected a safe descent to the ground-he was practised in such arts-had not the spout given way under his weight; the consequence was, he came down on the broad of his back with so much force that he lay with broken limbs groaning on the pavement, unable to stir hand or foot. His companion, the scoundrelly miller of Doué, was in scarcely a more enviable plight, covered with blood and pinned to the ground beneath the chair, to say nothing of Sir John's heavy foot on his windpipe choking his attempts at utterance. He was soon made secure, and then a Babel of tongues was unloosed, all running together like a meute of hounds.

"Good gracious me! for to go for to think of its being Mr. Hadrian," broke forth Miss Maddox; "You're a d-d fine fellow!" symphonised Sir John; "Order a coach, immediately; I won't stay another moment in Paris," cried miladi; "Generous deliverer! odious deceiver! vile assassin!" ejaculated Miss Chubb; and, heard by me over all the rest, murmured the sweet, soft voice, of Miss Caroline, Thanks, dearest Adrien, our best, our only friend!"

66

To enter into any explanation, at a moment like this, was out of the question. Paris, so bravely defended by her citizens, was as yet only half won from the grasp of tyranny; much remained to do, and many sad events to be chronicled, before the victory was won. I leave these events to be told by pens more worthy to record them than mine. More, also, must I leave untold respecting myself and those amongst whom it was my fortune to be once more thrown.

At some future period I may renew the theme, when the Courier shall have gathered together his more matured experience. For the present, he bids his readers farewell.

MADAME EMILE DE GIRARDIN'S "CLEOPATRA."*

PHARSALIA, Philippi, Actium! Names consecrated by the transcendant genius of a Shakspeare, still retain their spell. The fierce protracted struggle of a despairing republic, the grandest which the astonished world, its tributary-ever witnessed, was regarded as a spectacle worthy of the gods themselves.+ That mighty heroic drama-the epic of history, from which the painters of human passion have ever since delighted to fill their scenic canvass, its separate groups and figures, with the strange astounding destiny preparing for them, can never lose their hold over the mind and heart of succeeding ages. The splendid episodes, and startling incidents arising out of this magnificent subject, have supplied writers of every nation with materials which, manufactured into odes and epics, plays, lays, and lyrics, would have sufficed to form a funeral pyre for those rival aspirants to the world's sovereignty, and to lull their shades to peace most effectually, could they have heard them recited in their elysian retreats. How modern battle-fields seem to dwindle-not excepting Waterloo itself, when placed by the side of those gigantic struggles for world-wide rule. The variety equals the grandeur of the events, affording infinite choice of selection for the dramatist as for the historian; Rome opposed to Rome; dictators, triumvirs, emperors; the flight, the parting with Cornelia, the death of Pompey, almost before the eyes of Cleopatra ; the great Julius in swift pursuit.

Yet all this is but the commencement of the great historic drama, the closing scene of which is alone treated in the spirited production before us. Though Rome had fallen, her spirit survived in the last of her great republican race; there was Cato and his little senate; there were the sons of the Scipios and the Pompeys, aided by the arms of Rome's tributary princes, by Asian and Afric kings; but all vanished, like a dream, before the fortunes of that bright Julian star. The conqueror of Rome paused not in his career till arrested by the strange fascinating beauty of Egypt's youthful queen-then hardly a queen-debarred of her rights by her despotic brother (Ptolemy), and having scarcely attained her seventeenth

year.

But the mistress of Cæsar, however fascinating, was not his tyrant, nor was she then, perhaps, so accomplished in the seductive arts as when she exercised them on the infatuated Antony. It required the steels of Brutus and Cassius to arrest that fiery spirit; nor could they, nor the sons of Pompey and of Scipio, destroy the fabric of that master-power which he left as a hostage to be wielded by weaker and meaner men. The fall of Sextus Pompeius was effected only by treachery and dishonour, which, had he deigned to employ against the triumvirs, once in his power, he might have restored the republic, in name, at least, or proclaimed himself dictator of the world. But the men of old Rome became extinct with Cæsar, Cato, and Brutus; Antony himself was the mere soldier of fortune-a roysterer, a robber, and an assassin; such as Cleopatra, in her passion, is made to describe him; his victories were mainly achieved by his lieute

* Represented, for the first time, at the "Theatre Française," on the 13th of November the part of “Cleopatra" by the justly celebrated Mademoiselle Rachel. † Lucan, iu his Pharsalia.

nants; he knew not how to be great, even in crime, nor to prize greatness; and glory and empire, even honour and fidelity to friends and soldiers, were easily sacrificed to the fascinations of a woman.

Among the few illustrious and unapproached, who have represented her in all the variety and splendour of her anomalous character, her wild genius, and fiery passions; in the hopeless story of her crowning love and despair-none are to be paragoned with our Shakspeare, and next to him with Corneille. In their conception of her singular nature, her rare versatility, her soaring pride, noble sentiment, vices, and weaknessall the most perplexing contradictions-the one has drawn her full of sweetness and attraction, brilliant, enthusiastic, with a fire of soul, flashing through her resistless eyes, yet tempered with queenly graces-the young girl who rivetted the look of Pompey, whom Cæsar delighted to crown and honour; while the other, our interpreter of all natures and characters gives us a Cleopatra, the full development of all these in the splendid, ambitious queen, and in the artful, capricious, and enchanting woman. Matured in pride of beauty, skilled to rule; full of intelligence as of surpassing grace and beauty; cunning, wild, and variable, even her love of Antony appears subservient to her desire of ruling him with an absolute sway. Shakspeare's then is "the infinite variety that never stales," he preserves throughout the characteristics of the woman in subordination to those of the ruler, weak, changeful, faithless in the hour of peril, and bringing down destruction upon her lover by an ostentation of bravery and vain-glory.

The "Cleopatra" of Corneille, in his " Pompée," presents a contrast in nearly all these points. She is young, generous, abounding in sensibility and noble sentiment, the intercessor for a brother who aimed at her life and throne; she would protect Pompey, and wept over his fall; though she owed every thing to Cæsar, already enthralled by her charms-aspired to become the arbitress of his destiny, and that of the proud republic prostrate at his feet. Amiable as irresistible-of elevated and right-royal mind; all of womanly grace combined with grandeur of sentiment, such as a Roman matron might be proud of-we see nothing of the fickle, wilful, cunning beauty, employing her arts to the ruin of her adorers, to secure the favour of the new victor, and by ruling him to strike at Rome and achieve unrivalled power. No doubt our great dramatist is the most true to nature as well as to historic authority; while the portrait of the grand Corneille is most agreeable to our feelings, the most ennobling, and calculated to enlist the hearts and sympathies of a select audience.

Madame de Girardin has evidently studied both these splendid, but strongly contrasted models. She has at once represented Egypt's proud, diademed sovereign, and the accomplished woman; the unrivalled beauty, the enchantress of all hearts, with the fiery genius and ardent passions which plunged her into wretchedness and crime. From both the mighty masters she has attempted to draw another Cleopatra differing from either, yet retaining all such features of them in her closely studied portrait which she deemed best adapted to produce a powerful impression. Add to this blending of characteristics, strong sensation, startling incident, and sudden surprises, and a little too much straining after effect, and we behold the new "Cleopatra" of the French stage just as Mademoiselle Rachel presented her to the admiring gaze of her numerous votaries.

In her manner of developing this novel combination of character, the

writer has shown considerable skill and talent, as well as some original power; but in the latter respect she has committed one fault, and a grave one-she has given to her heroine too dark a hue-deepened by the contrast of the too fair and spotless Octavia :

"That faultless monster which the world ne'er saw,"

and then weakened the interest by giving too great relief to a rival, who by her virtues ought to enlist our sympathy against " Cleopatra." With this drawback the drama is written in a spirit not unworthy an admirer and follower of Corneille. To imbibe any portion of his lofty soul and fervid eloquence, and combine it with a native vein, is no easy task. Elevation of genius and magnanimity of feeling-almost Roman -with an originality peculiarly his own, are stamped upon all his works; models of a severe and manly taste, which spite of the prolixity and false glare of the French classical school, set an example, not lost upon successors like Racine and Voltaire, and which ennobled the spirit of the modern drama.

Wanting such a redeeming power, the French stage could never have attained its present celebrity; and its best writers of the romantic, the mixed, and the familiar classes, would have failed in that nerve and solidity which render them so popular-a sort of dramatic storehouse for the pens of foreign playwrights, adapters, and caterers to the tastes of other nations. They ought to venerate the memory of Peter Corneille, and that noble advocacy of liberty which extended its influence to the revolutionary era, and is the soul of his chefs d'œuvre. In the reform of national taste, costume, and manners, he is to be considered no less the father of the French stage. Forms and styles might alter, but the spirit survived-and he still spoke through the works of the great men and the mighty events that followed. More an antique Roman than a Frenchman, he knew how to describe Roman magnanimity, the old simplicity of manners, and spirit of independence which, like his own, taught men to look down on kings, to despise and shun their courts. When that of the "Grand Monarque" himself, the ostentatious and falsely estimated Louis Quartoze, who could not appreciate his noble genius, or forgive his heroic virtue, shall have ceased to be spoken of, the fame of the consecrator of national honour and manly independence will continue to grow brighter with the lapse of time in the eyes of a grateful posterity.*

This little tribute to the founder of the French Drama will hardly be considered irrelevant, when we venture to surmise that had he never lived and written the Loves of Cleopatra, the frequenters of the Théâtre Française, might have wanted a stage, and the present production, upon which to exercise their judgment or bestow their applause; nor should we have had the pleasure of beholding a new "Cleopatra" in full and complete costume, of pointing out some of its beauties and resemblances to its predecessors to our play-loving readers.

Not the least gratification to a French audience must have been that of curiosity derived from such a source, the natural desire of drawing comparisons between the portrait drawn by the lady and that of each of her illustrious predecessors. Without wishing to derogate from the positive merit displayed in the work of Madame de Girardin-enough to support it both on the stage and in the closet-we shall attempt to extend this source of

* See preface to his Life and Works, by Fontenelle.