In conclusion, let us amuse our readers with a little drame which took place in Paris. After the year 1830, the Théâtre l'Odéon took a new flight under the active direction of M. Harel, assisted by the talents of that great tragic actress, Mademoiselle Georges. At that time la grande actrice, the directeur, Jules Janin, and J. de la Salle, directeur de la scène, agreed to inhabit a house situated in Rue Madame, and there to live together like one family. Amongst other rules and regulations, each of the inmates was allowed the privilege of keeping a pet animal. Janin had a goat, and Harel was strongly attached, strange to say, to a young pig !-but let us add that, though a pig, he was the most endearing, and, at the same time, intelligent pig that one could meet with on a summer's day—si naïf! si spirituelle! Indeed, so extraordinary were his intellectual powers, that M. Harel pronounced him "the Voltaire of pigs!" (In England he would have been thought more like Bacon.) In more playful moods, his fond master would say that Télémaque (for that was the name which distinguished this pet) was un cochon à porter des manchettes! In short, there never was a pig so adored; and, in addition, Télémaque was enriched with a silver ring, delicately inserted through his nostril-first to adorn, and next to inform strangers of the name and residence of the master of this valuable animal; for, reader, Télémaque had one fault; whenever his master went to the theatre, his favourite whiled away his time in some erratic pursuit in the open air, which sent him home not in respect to personal cleanliness in as good order as when he went out, placing him in mauvaise odeur with all the dispassionate part of the family. Save and except this infirmity, he was discreet as pig could be; and, indeed, Télémaque idolized M. Harel, with whom he lived pair à companion, and seemed to regard as another St. Anthony; he followed him about the house, and slept in the same chamber with him upon a superbe paliasse, constructed purpurposely for his repose. In every respect Télémaque was what ladies might have called a perfect love of a pig! His gambols were so infantine! his grognements so melodious! and yet, it must be told, there existed miscreants whose sinister eyes and brows scowled secretly upon the little darling (" a favourite has no friend "), nay-'tis vain to disguise the fact, however incredulous the reader may be, Télémaque was absolutely detested! and by whom? it may be asked. Alas! by the very members of his own family! namely, Mademoiselle Georges and M. Janin, both of whom cherished peculiar opinions touching live pigs in general, and very illiberal prejudices against pigs that were permitted to run about the house, like the famed " goosey gander" of our childhood, who wandered "up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber," as in fact did Télémaque, to the great dissatisfaction of all save M. Harel, whose "little pig" was by every other inmate thought no less than a great bore! One morning, in the absence of his master, Télémaque, having fatigued himself in a promenade dans le rue Madame, sought on his return home the dressing-room of Mademoiselle Georges, wherein were sundry cushions, for which he had often evinced a particular penchant, and for his present personal repose had jumped upon a sofa whereon the femme de chambre of Mademoiselle Georges had recently laid a new white robe just brought home by the modiste. Long before this malappropriation was discovered, the trotters of Télémaque had indelibly marked it for his own, and consequently rendered it unfit for the wear of its lawful owner. Here then was provocation to the malice of enemies prone to cavil at even the offender's most harmless actions. Mademoiselle Georges, in a transport of tragic rage, summoned her friend Janin, and they together held council in what manner best to punish this crowning act of Télémaque's enormities. The great actress, with bowl and dagger upreared, demanded revenge; and Janin, nothing loth, admitted the immediate necessity of ridding the house of the objectionable animal. He must be "disposed of," but how? At length it was agreed that the only way to render the pig less distasteful to them was to stuff him à l'Anglaise with sage and onion-in effect jointly to cut him into pork, and convert his shining white satin coat, with rose-coloured lining, into brown crackling, and turn his little trotters into petty toes. But-then came certain doubts and fears as to the manner in which they should reconcile M. Harel to the loss of his favourite. Now be it known that M. Harel had another weakness independent of his fondness for live pig; of this his friends were fully aware. Reader, M. Harel loved eating! He was at once gastronome and gourmand, and, reasoned the conspirators, may not the act meditated be made palatable to him if skilfully managed? It should be so. While these deadly points were being discussed, the unconscious object of the fell treason lay dosing softly before the fire on the very tiger of the rug, without dreaming of his perilous position. The incipient murderers viewed his rounded form and graceful attitude, and could not deny that M. Télémaque was in many respects a remarkable character. But urged Janin-his very charms are but arguments in favour of his speedy removal from the fondness of a master who denies him no indulgence-however contrary to reason-and making an apt quotation from the "Odyssée" at once proved that pig had in heroic times been a dish for the demi-gods; and why not for M. Harel? The great artiste was pleased with this classical authority, and admitted that to immolate such an animal was a meritorious act—from that moment classic enthusiasm usurped the place of friendship-M. Harel was forgotten-the sacrifice was resolved upon-they killed the victim! Later than his usual time the directeur returned. The protracted rehearsal (le répétition) had almost famished him. He was "hungry as the sea, and could devour as much." On entering their common abode, M. Harel was gratefully saluted by the air de fête which pervaded the house. The culprits affected a light-heartedness they did not feel; but the dinner was served in haste, and all were promptly seated at table. Des boudins bouillants et des saucisses, dorées sur le gril accompanied le bœuf-to all of which the hungry man did ample justice. These dishes were succeeded by an entrée de ragoût, of which he also vigorously partook, une langue à la sauce piquante came very seasonably to give his appetite new energy. Finally-un rôt de porc frais, marvellously browned by the fire, brought the climax to his felicity, it was, he declared, perfectly delicious! Finally M. Harel spoke with enthusiasm of the dinner he had ate, and dwelt especially upon the extraordinary flavour and delicacy of the pork. The assassins, who had previously suffered remorse (or perhaps fear) for the deadly deed of the day, now gained courage, which was as immediately dispelled by the sudden recollection of M. Harel, who apropos de porc, was reminded that his darling Télémaque had not appeared to greet him as was customary, and he no longer delayed to ask for the pet, whom in his hunger and haste for dinner he had forgotten. The guilty pair looked their dismay, and M. Harel gazed in the conscious face of Mademoiselle Georges, which was the index to a tragic volume. She spoke not one word. Again the now somewhat alarmed master demanded his favourite-they hesitated! A dreadful suspicion crossed the mind of M. Harel as he turned to the remnant of the dish he loved which was still upon the table. Again he looked at his friends-conviction seized him-and uttering a cry of horror, the bereaved man fell back in his chair, covering his face with his hands, with the greatest emotion. The truth needed no words, he had just devoured his darling, his intelligent Télémaque! For a time M. Harel remained silent-his face buried in his hands-the authors of his misery actually trembled as they viewed the evident suffering of their poor friend. But all at once he seemed to have made a successful effort to be calm-he stood up, and, tottering towards the door, thus addressed the party, who, in breathless expectation, awaited the result: "My friends," said the heroic man, you have taken from me the solace of my leisure hours, my friend and companion, my Télémaque! need I tell you how I loved him? But I forgive you-and also confess, that although I always prized him tenderly, I never was fonder of him than on this day-I repeat it-you have my forgiveness, and in return promise to remember these my last words upon the subject. What I now require of you is," and here the affected man cast an affectionate glance at les débris of his late favourite, "that you will preserve the remains of my beloved friend for my to-morrow's dinner!" of Here, reader, you have the end of our pig's tale, and, by way "moral," we cannot help thinking that Mademoiselle Georges and M. Janin owed their pardon less to the philosophy of M. Harel than to the philanthropy of a good dinner. THE CUP OF LIFE. YOUTH, unwarned, in sweets delighting, Finds the nectar still inviting, Nor the change to come can see ! Age, all wearily, Age, uncheerily, Holds that cup when its charms are past ; Dreads to think of it Loathes to drink of it Yet must drain it to the last! Youth, take heed! nor drink so madly! Age, take heart! nor sip so sadly! G. D. RECOLLECTIONS OF MADAME CATALANI. BY MRS. WEST. I PASSED the 27th, 28th, and 29th of December 18-, at RH, the seat of the Earl of N-, in company with Madame Catalani, her daughter Angélique Vallabrègue, and Mademoiselle Cianchettini, her governess, niece to the famous Dussek, and sister to Pio Cianchettini, a musical composer and performer. The society of persons celebrated either for talents or great deeds is always productive of infinite pleasure to me, and that of the first-named lady afforded me double gratification from the union of so many amiable and ennobling qualities, with so rare a talent. The various anecdotes she related to me, will, I think, form an interesting epitome of her life, which if it be never perused by another, will at any rate be an agreeable means of securing to myself the remembrance of the admiration she excited in me, and as our conversation was in French, with now and then Italian, I shall write my souvenirs of her in the first language. Madame Catalani possesses the highest religious principles, the greatest generosity. She would pull the clothes off her back to give a poor person; a tale of distress will always draw tears from her eyes, and the chief of what she gains at concerts, &c., is bestowed on charities. She is very animated and naïve, perfectly free from affectation, all her sentiments are full of dignity and propriety. Her study is to make those around her happy, husband, children, friends, servants, all feel the influence of this star of beneficence, down to the four-footed favourite, which for his mistress's sake was in every sense of the word Chéri by us all, and who was allowed to sit on the table at dessert, and stuffed with nuts and biscuits by the good-natured Peer, because he was Madame Catalani's dog. In fact, I do not go too far in saying her mind is as dignified as her person, which has always been unrivalled. Her stature is peculiarly fine and stately, her countenance the picture of her mind; her fine hazle eyes sparkle with good humour; the sweet smile which plays on her beautiful mouth whilst it displays row of regular, small teeth, is expressive of every delightful feeling. Her brow and forehead are majestic, her hair raven black, her hand perfect. Well is she named Angelica! She was born at Florence, and is, according to her maid's account, one and forty.* I proceed to write as nearly as possible from Madame Catalani's own lips : "I was but fourteen when I first went on the stage. They took me from the convent to make me perform. My family is a good one, but ruined by the Revolution. I had received the best education at the convent; they told me it was necessary I should employ my talents in the service of my parents. I was then made to study for the Opera. What horror! Never shall I forget the martyrdom I underwent at the commencement of my public life. I wept-my God! how I wept! Dragged from the convent where I had passed my life tranquilly without seeing anybody, figure to yourself the horror of being exposed to Madame Catalani must have been ten years older at the time I wrote. the gaze of a thousand persons! And then I was so awkward, I did not know where to put my arms! "I sang the first song in the wing of the theatre, and when they came to tell me it was not there where I ought to sing, I replied, 'Oh! never mind, it will do very well!' I would willingly have entered into any service rather than have been an actress. In short, I nearly sunk with terror, and several of the first gentlemen came to reanimate and console me, which was not usual, and, therefore, a very great compliment to me. I took a dancing-master, who taught me to walk and gesticulate, so that I became less awkward, and at fourteen years of age I was Prima Donna at Venice! "I sang afterwards at Lisbon, where I had introductions to the first families. There they applauded me very much, and I gained a coffer full of gold, of which my father kept the key. But, unfortunately, he had the mania for cameos, of which he had brought a quantity from Rome, and it was his folly to have all this rubbish set in diamonds. 'Well, madame,' my particular friend, a lady who loved me very much, said one day, My dear Angélique, you must really recover the key from your father, you will soon be one and twenty, and then you can ask him for it. Well I will try, provided I do not offend my father.' My birthday arrived, and after dinner we coaxed my father a good deal, and at last I said with great humility, My father, you know, I am now one and twenty, and I beg of you to grant me the key of my chest that I may see how much money I possess.' • But you do not doubt me, my daughter?' Surely not, but only to see.' Well, he gave me the key, and upon looking in, there was scarcely anything left. He had squandered all my earnings on this hobby. Then I said, 'My father, you shall not have the key any more,' and ever after that I kept it myself. "When I first entered the theatre I was obliged to cut off all my hair; I had very fine tresses down to my waist; they nearly descended to my feet, but they were all shorn off. Oh! my beautiful hair! how I cried over it! It was in the time of the Revolution when everybody wore their heads cropped; if not, the canaille pursued you in the streets, tore off your hats, and tore out your hair, and daubed you all over with filth and mud. What frightful times were those! "I returned from Vienna to Paris, and I wanted to buy myself a bonnet, I begged my sister-in-law to accompany me to a milliner's because I did not speak French very well. I asked for a bonnet à la Marie Louise, which was then the fashion at Vienna. The modiste replied, Madame, we do not know that woman.' Goodness! I ask for a bonnet à la Marie Louise, and they answer me, 'We do not know that woman.' They showed me one à la Duchesse de Berri. It was too hideous. At last I bought one à la Marie Stuart; and I chose a bouquet of roses, violets, and heliotropes. One of the apprentices approached me, and squeezing my hand violently, said, Madame, I understand you.' I who understood nothing, exclaimed, Madame, I do not understand you, and if you are bewitched, I am not.' They talk politics even in the shops of the Marchandes des Modes at Paris. As for me, I was quite alarmed. I came from Vienna ignorant of all these changes; they thought me revolutionary, I only sought a becoming bonnet. I apprehended the police, and gave my name. When they found it was Madame Catalani it was quite VOL. XXVII. S S |