'The King while pressed by all parties still made some resistance-public opinion favored it- his conscience struggled with his desire for popularity. He one day allowed permission to be extorted from him to have this famous work brought forward at the theatre des Menus. The French comedians are at once in full operation - Paris is all rumor. The news of the victory of Devain at a former period had caused less intoxication. People disputed - they snatched tickets of entrance from each other. Early in the morning the carriages were defiling with great noise, but oh, grief at eleven o'clock an order from the minister forbade the representation, a general mourning succeeded to the joy, the carriages turned sadly back at a slow pace, and the horses with bent down heads and sad eyes seemed to share the grief of their masters.

'The irresolution of the feeble monarch wavering between good sense and philosophy lasted for a considerable time, there was a continued circle of permissions, revoked as soon as granted. Beaumarchais without being repulsed pressed the siege with indefatigable ardor. Finally philosophy triumphed, it was in the order of destiny that the ancient monarchy should be destroyed, and that the reins of the French empire should be placed in more firm and safe hands. By force of importunity, perseverance and intrigue, Beaumarchais drew from the government permission to ridicule it. It was necessary either never to grant or never to refuse. All governments perish from weakness rather than tyranny.

'Finally Figaro was granted to the public curiosity and impatience. Never was representation more tumultuous and more noisy. Many amateurs slept the night previous at the theatre in the apartments of the actors, that they might be certain to find places the next day. The annals of the theatre offer no example of a success so prodigious and so constant. The piece had a hundred successive representations followed up with the most extraordinary zeal. The public seemed never to tire of this farce, a true thermometer of the taste which prevailed at the time. It was worth five hundred thousand francs to the comedians, and eighty thousand francs to the author.

'But fortune took pleasure in elevating Beaumarchais so highly, only to betray him the more cruelly. The government had shown itself so weak, so indulgent, so blind towards him only to display afterwards to him an unreasonable rigor at the very moment of his triumph. Beaumarchais was arrested and sent to the house of correction of Saint Lazarus, as a young libertine. He was then fifty years old and might have been regarded as incorrigible. The first day people laughed at this stroke of authority, the second day they asked the reason of it, the third day they discussed the matter and began to pity the prisoner, the fourth it was discovered that by a fit of inconstancy as singular as all the rest, the government had restored Beaumarchais to liberty. The representation of Figaro being then suspended in consequence of the indisposition of an actor, it appeared that the government had taken on itself the office of giving the comedy to the public.'

The last of the volumes is occupied by remarks upon contemporary writers. We have no room for further extracts, and if we had, our readers would probably take no great interest in poets, whose names and works are never heard of out of France, and hardly within it. Some of the judgments of our author upon the literature of other nations, particularly England and Germany, would perhaps contribute more to their amusement, and we had intended to extract a part of his observations upon Shakspeare, but the length to which this article has already extended makes it necessary for us to omit them, and hasten at once to a close.

PRIVATE LIFE OF VOLTAIRE.*

[North American Review, January, 1821.]

THE letters, which compose the greater part of this work, were written by Madame de Graffigny during a visit of six months at the Château of Cirey, the residence of the Marquis and Marchioness du Châtelet, and where Voltaire was also at the same time a guest. The name of the writer is not much known in the literary world, and she published nothing in her life time but the' Peruvian Letters,' a work which we have not had the pleasure of inspecting, but which we understand, belongs to the class of sentimental novels, and enjoys a pretty high reputation in the boarding schools. The present series of letters is also a sort of romance, though a narrative of real events; and to our taste even more interesting than the sorrows of the tender Zilia in the novel just mentioned, as far as we can form a conjecture in regard to the latter. The story of this little romance of real life is briefly the following. Madame de Graffigny had long been inflamed with an eager desire to make the acquaintance of Voltaire, under the influence of the common delusion, that the conversation and social habits of a distinguished author must be as agreeable as his writings. Her wishes

*Vie Privée de Voltaire et de Madame du Châtelet pendant un séjour de six mois à Cirey; par l'auteur des Lettres Peruviennes, suivie de cinquante lettres inédites, en vers et en prose, de Voltaire. 1 vol. 8vo, Paris, 1820.

had long been frustrated by the same cause which now prevents our worthy countryman, Captain Symmes, from exploring the interior of the earth through the opening which he has discovered at the North Pole; 'the want of disposable means.' Chill penury had for a long time repressed her noble rage, for Madame de Graffigny, though rich in sentiment and even familiar in the best society, in regard to funds was poor indeed, as we shall see hereafter. By great good luck, while she was on a visit at the residence of one of her friends, which she pleasantly denominates the Château de l' Ennui, another of the number arrived on a visit with her own equipage. An opening was thus made for Madame de Graffigny to take her projected journey free of expense, of which she availed herself at once. The first compliment I made her,' says our author, was to ask the loan of her horses, which was granted,' and the next morning she commenced her expedition at sunrise, and proceeded very prosperously till half past one o'clock. Thus far every thing went well, but at that time, for reasons not sufficiently explained, the coachman refused to go any farther, our sentimental traveller was obliged to resort to the post, and after floundering along dismally over the most detestable roads, and wallowing half the way on foot through the mire to avoid being overset, she arrived at last at Cirey, at two o'clock at night, having spent her last sol upon her horses and postillions. Il ne me restait pas ce qu'on appelle un sol. Two o'clock at night would be rather an unpropitious hour in ordinary cases to arrive at a friend's house in the country upon a visit; but the inhabitants of Cirey kept no ordinary hours, as we shall see. They were all up and doing. The Nymph and the Idol, as she ingeniously styles Madame du Châtelet and Voltaire, were each hard at study, in their respective cabinets. She first paid her respects to the former and

then repaired to her own apartment, where the Idol immediately came up to see her, and received her with great kindness. Your idol came up a moment after, holding a little candle in his hand, like a monk. He lav. ished a thousand caresses upon me, and the expressions of his joy at seeing me were quite extravagant. He kissed my hand ten times, and inquired after my health with an air of the most touching interest.'

Such is the opening of the little sentimental drama we are reviewing, all flowers and sunshine. Madame de Graffigny approached the shrine of her Idol with the same enthusiasm that our young travelling scholars now feel, when they are admitted to an interview with Lord Byron, or Sir Walter Scott; and for eight or ten days, all went on very well. The conversation is delightful, the suppers are divine, and the manuscripts they give her to read irresistible. Voltaire is always charming, always attentive. She sees that he is afraid she shall be ennuyée, but he is much in the wrong. Ennuyée in the same house with Voltaire, impossible! She has not even leisure to remember that there is such a thing as ennui in the world. She is as hearty as the Pont Neuf, and as busy as a mouse, and she sleeps like a child. The Nymph is indeed a little cold, but she soon grows familiar. Our author cannot help laughing in her sleeve, at their ridiculous fanaticism about Newton and geometry, but upon the whole she finds them the most agreeable companions, and Cirey quite an enchanted castle.

This fine weather lasts unfortunately but a little time, and it is soon pretty evident from the style of the letters that a storm is gathering. The inmates of Cirey, like most other persons of genius, or in other words of keen sensibility, were humorous and susceptible, and they speedily took mortal offence at a proceeding on the part of Madame de Graffigny, which, taking her own account