versation carried on more amicably than intelligibly-will sufficiently illustrate my meaning. I am compelled to abandon all idea of doing justice to the pronunciation indulged in on this occasion:

N. G.-"I kiss you with great heart."

Vis.-"Secouez mains."

N. G.-(Filling his glass.) "To our friends beyond the sleeve!"
Vis.-(Id.) Remplir dessus avec trois fois trois!"

N. G.-"England alive!"

Vis.-" La France pour jamais!"

After many preparatory hesitations and dilly-dallyings, Mdlle. Rachel has at length suffered herself to be fairly caught out of bounds-bounds hitherto far more impassable than the classic limits (Etoniensis loquitur) of Barnspool and Lower Shooting Fields, and guarded by the mystic names of Corneille and Racine. Twice or thrice before has she dared the same freak, but then her fancy led her along the smiling paths of comedy; now it is through a wilder and stormier region that she wends her way, aye, and as surely and trippingly as if she were "to the manner born. Now for the first time does she stand before us, not as a Phèdre, a Camille, or a Cléopâtra, but as a queen unknown in the remote annals of Greece and Rome-a queen of the same illustrious lineage as herself, that of Melpomene, the mistress of the gallant Maréchal de Saxe, the adored of Voltaire, the brilliant, the incomparable Adrienne Lecouvreur ! Now for the first time does she impart the fire of her wondrous genius to a creation, which has the twofold power of exciting admiration and sympathy! Yes, that very sympathy which the woes of a Virginie have but feebly and imperfectly extorted, is fully and spontaneously accorded to the sufferings of the Rachel of her day, whose chequered career of glory and mortification, of luxury and want, presents a strange and startling series of contrasts: now showing her surrounded by the most illustrious of her contemporaries, the object of every flattering homage; and now, at the early age of thirty-seven, left to die alone, unwept, uncared for!

Such a subject, treated by Scribe with that rare intelligence which, even in his least happy efforts, has never deserted him, could not fail to awaken the liveliest interest among those privileged to embody his vigorous conceptions; and, as might be expected, no exertion has been spared by the élite of the Comédie Française to render the production of "Adrienne Lecouvreur" a "great fact" in the history of their theatre. Every performer concerned in its representation seems, while preserving his or her wonted qualities, to have forgotten their accompanying defects; even Maillart is more animated, Leroux less conceited, and Madame Allan less flippant than usual. Regnier is himself, nay, if possible, more than himself; in his hands the character of Michonnet, whose touching and devoted attachment nine hundred and ninety-nine actors out of a thousand would have failed in expressing, becomes a chef-d'œuvre of sentiment and unpretending pathos, with here and there one of those exquisitely delicate touches of true comedy, of which Regnier alone knows the secret. Samson also bestirs himself nobly in his author's cause, nor is there one blemish in the ensemble; even down to the scenery and dresses, all is as it should be.

"Et par-dessus tout" (to quote Jules Janin), "et par-dessus tout, Mademoiselle Rachel."

And yet (this, courteous reader, is between you, me, and the Post) there are to be found people, doubtless thinking and calling themselves rational creatures, who can mention in one breath, aye, and to the implied disparagement of the former, the names of Rachel and Miss Laura Addison!

Il est des choses dans la vie

Qu'on ne peut excuser, quoiqu'on en ait envie.

And this is of them.

Well, the mystery is no longer a mystery, the bird has burst its shell at last, the Prophète has actually trod the stage of the Académie Nationale de Musique, and every one is satisfied. Every one except the newspaper editors. What will they do to replace their little ambiguous paragraphs, now horrifying the musical public with a report that Meyerbeer and his treasure (which, according to them, he must always have carried in his pocket) were flying from Paris as fast as a post-chaise could hurry them, now announcing that the composer (and of course his partition) had been seen at the Opera. It is true, they may fall back on the Africaine, but as another ten years may very possibly elapse before that is played, their readers' patience can hardly be expected to stand the ordeal.

Meanwhile, Messrs. Duponchel and Roqueplan are indulging in golden dreams, in lieu of the nightmare, which has been their constant haunter since February, 1848. Old engagements are being renewed, and new ones hinted at; Roger and Madame Viardot are treated Alexander Selkirk-fashion, as monarchs of all they survey; and the honoraria of the figurantes engaged for the skating divertissement — honoraria fixed at five francs each (bodily fear being generously taken into account) per rehearsal, and I know not how much per representation --are paid without a murmur. There's an Arcadia, an El Dorado, an Utopia for you-a state of things worth waiting ten years for! What must M. Léon Pillet think of his having once refused, as being infra. dig., to engage the then tenor of the Opéra Comique at his own terms? Would he now say, "Je ne veux pas déroger (des Roger) ?”

The approach of May-le mois de Marie-whose opening day suggests recollections of Louis Philippe and Mrs. Montague, of concerts in the Tuileries, and Jack Ragg's "Only once a year, my lady," reminds me that almost every French friend I have in the world, male or female, bears the name of Marie; nay, if you inspect the different baptismal entries at any of the maries throughout France, you will find that at least nineteen out of twenty children's names, no matter how many other pronomina they may have, begin with a Marie. Now the first and most obvious reason for this selection, is the laudable desire on the part of the godfathers and godmothers to place their infant "responsibilities" under the protection of the Madonna; but another motive lurks behind, a motive highly characteristic of French gallantry.

"Explain yourself, Monsieur l'Habitué."

Willingly, gentle reader. Is not Marie the anagram of aimer?

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.

WE are now writing with the sound of Mdlle. Jenny Lind's triumphant reception ringing in our ears so loudly that our faculties are almost demolished for every other object. Such innumerable carriages -such shouts of welcome-such billows of waving handkerchiefsnever was such a sight, and, let us add, such a noise. Jenny Lind still has her command over the hearts of her audience, and they still hold, with undiminished love, to those sweet notes which die away to be sweeter still in their evanescence. But let us collect our scattered senses, and reserving the success of Calzolari, an admirable tenor, for another occasion, consider affairs as they stood before Thursday last.

Just at the moment when there was no immediate prospect of Jenny Lind, save at a concert-and the habitués of the Opera set small store by concerts-just as people were beginning to make up their minds to content themselves with anticipations of Alboni, and with the actual presence of Coletti and Giuliani-that is to say, until our prophecy respecting the return of the Lind was fulfilled,

For mind, good reader, who art now aware, as a matter of fact, that Jenny Lind, having overcome all scruples, or whims, or caprices (take the choicest expression), has returned to Her Majesty's Theatre, not surrounded with the prosaic appurtenances of the concert-orchestra, but befittingly rusticised into Amina-mind, we say, good reader, who art aware of all this-that we, by our own special inspiration, predicted the return of Jenny Lind to the stage, at a time when the world in general had quite abandoned the notion of seeing her again in theatrical costume, and had been forced to seek dismal solace in the announcement of the six dull concerts to which we have alluded-we do not want to boast of our light, good reader, but allow that we can look into that vast millstone, called the future, an inch or two further than most people. Give thewe mean, give us our due, gentle reader.

But this will not do. While we are sunning ourselves in the contemplation of our own prophetic powers, we are compromising our character as grave historians. Like everybody else who tries to be entertaining— Mr. Macaulay y compris-we shall be accused of violating the dignity of history. We have left our first paragraph an unfinished thing of antecedents, which are all looking after their consequents, as wistfully as the lustreless Pleiad looks at the light of her six sisters, conceiving that a kindred light ought to be her portion.

And well does Mr. Lumley, in his new ballet of " Electra, ou la Pleiade Perdue," compensate the frail star for her temporary dimness. Probably he knew that the audience of the grand Opera at Paris was about to be astonished with a rising sun beaming with electric light (vide any account you like of Meyerbeer's "Prophète"), and, therefore, he determined that his Pleiad should be as brilliant as the Phoebus across the "Manche." A "star" has ever been the sun of Her Majesty's Theatre, and so the restored Pleiad is well entitled to those electric beams with which Mr. Lumley has provided her, and which not only dazzle, but almost put out the eyes of all beholders. Never was there a more glorious scenic spectacle than that last scene of "Electra."

But, after all, is the Pleiad so very perdue, when the love which produces her downfall is illustrated by such exquisite dancing as that of Car

lotta Grisi? In her impersonation of the living star, there is much of that nature which charms us in the Undine of La Motte Fouqué. The supernatural trenches closely upon the terrestrial, and the playfulness of the Pleiad has much in common with the playfulness of the child. But still her most hilarious movements are pervaded with that sweet melancholy which is completely her own, and which ever endows her with a mournful grace. He who knows what it is to fix his whole soul upon some earthly object, and at the same time has the transient character of all earthly existence forced upon his mind, feeling that the attachment grows more strong as the perishing nature of the object becomes more visible -he alone can appreciate the dancing of Carlotta Grisi. She is the ethereal being, whose home is not properly in this world; and you tremble lest she should vanish into empty air just as she becomes most charming. Still does our first paragraph remain unfinished; but when our readers reflect that we are led astray by the rays of the electric light and the charms of Carlotta Grisi, they will, at least, be lenient in their censure, if they do not wholly pardon. We were going to say, that just as there was a want of operatic stars, a most fortunate phenomenon, called Mademoiselle Parodi, rose into the horizon, and took the habitués by surprise. We have never seen success more legitimate than that of Mademoiselle Parodi in the character of Norma. She did not start with a dazzle, and then begin to flicker, like many honest folks whose names we could record, but the impression she made on her audience became stronger and stronger with every performance.

Mademoiselle Parodi has great qualifications. In the first place there is her person, which is eminently fitted for the highest walk of tragedy. The face is not fascinating from its beauty, but it is stamped with the power of expressing strong, large, southern passions; she has a countenance not to coax but to command; and the same commanding character belongs to her figure.

In the second place, Mademoiselle Parodi has an immense substance of natural to work upon. energy She really feels all that she acts; and the varied expressions are all the result of so many moments of inspiration. When she dreams that Pollio will once more bring to her the plenitude of his love, and her face is radiant with joy-when she punishes his contemptible infidelity, with a glance in which there is very essence of scorn-when she eyes him with calm triumph, after she knows that his life is in her power-when she is cast down at the feet of Oroveso—it is strong, hearty feeling that expresses itself through all these phases of character. There are few actresses who can do so much with a look as Mademoiselle Parodi. By a movement of countenance alone, she can produce effects for which others require the most violent gesticulations.

Ma

A third qualification is the power of imposing limits on the expression of that very energy which is so strongly implanted in her nature. dame Pasta's training has not been thrown away on her pupil. Without a severe discipline, so much passion might easily have given birth to vulgar violence; nay, here and there is a rapid gesticulation, which tells us of the danger that has been avoided. But the greatest attention has been paid to her fixed attitudes-her poses-which are marvellously finished and sculpture-like. To have a native energy that is disposed to break all barriers, and utter itself with a force disdainful of restraintand to have, besides, an artistical talent, that can subdue all those expressions into forms of elegance-these are rare qualifications.

ROYAL ITALIAN OPERA-HOUSE.

WHILE Mademoiselle Parodi has been fixing the attention of the habitués at Her Majesty's Theatre, there has been no lack of variety at the Opera-House in Covent Garden. Grisi, the Queen of Assyrian queens, has returned to the stage, and delighted everybody with her Semiramide; a new contralto, Mademoiselle Angri, has made a decided sensation, and raised disputes whether she is or is not worthy to be compared with Alboni; and Miss Catharine Hayes (a "native talent"), though she has not reached the top of the lyrical tree, has accomplished a success in the " Persiani" line. It is said that Meyerbeer's "Prophète" will be produced at this House, done in a style to challenge comparison with the Parisians; and certainly the "Royal Italian" Theatre has always kept up its character, as much for its mise en scène as for its superb band.

THE THEATRES.

A CRUSH of Easter pieces marks the second great festival of the theatrical season. Mr. Planché betakes himself to the Seven Champions, -puts their armour, plumes and all, on seven of the prettiest women that eyes ever beheld-and contrives situations for scenery, such as Beverley alone can paint. Other painters use a compound which bears the vile name of "distemper," but Beverley dips his pencil in the rainbow itself, and hence all his pictures come forth with such aerial softness. The backgrounds in Mr. Beverley's scenes are ever wrapped up in the softest mistiness, which marks him out from the vulgar herd of semidecorators. And his talent for setting a scene equals his skill in painting one; the refined landscape-painter is united to the profound adept in stageeffect. Nor are Mr. Charles Mathews's rattling songs the least amusing part of the Lyceum spectacle.

Those Lancashire wits, the "Brothers Brough," aim, as usual, more at the comic than the picturesque, and display abundance of drollery in their Haymarket piece, which is founded on the story of the "Sphinx,' with deviations as monstrous as the animal itself. The appearance of Keeley, transformed into a work of Egyptian sculpture, with stonecoloured body and physiognomy, and with claws instead of hands, is, in itself, a laugh. We would also call especial attention to the graceful acting of Miss Reynolds. That young lady, who first appeared three or four years ago, has made a steady and unmistakeable progress. In burlesques she is arch and vivacious, without once over-stepping the bounds of feminine elegance; and her singing is just what is required to give effect to the musical portion of the piece. The Adelphi scorns Easter, and reposes on the attractions of "Hop-picking," and Mr. Oxenford's highly successful farce of "Who Lives in No. 9?"

It might be supposed that the burning down of the Olympic would cause Westminster to have one theatre less. Not a whit of it! Wigs were consumed, but not the heads that wore them; and the whole company-" auspice Farren"-are in an active state of vitality at the tiny theatre in the Strand.

The beautiful Mrs. Mowatt still holds unlimited sway over the hearts of those sylvan beings who inhabit St. John's Wood, and the districts thereto adjacent.