another thing. I told this story to M. le Duc de Châteaubriand, 'Oh! don't be afraid,' said he, that is what happens every day at Paris.' "The Duc de Cazes was very much my friend. When I arrived in Paris from England, where I had been very well received, nay, in a very distinguished manner, I went one evening to a soirée given by a lady, who was his cousin. By my side sat a little blonde, who asked me how I liked Paris. I replied, Madame, I only arrived this evening, therefore, I can as yet form no opinion.' Which do you like the best, the French or the English?' How can I tell you? I know absolutely nothing of Paris, and the English I like exceedingly, they have been so very kind to me.' Ah! good God! Madam, I see, you are English.' And this malicious blonde spread about everywhere that I loved the English passionately, and hated the French. I do love the English, every body knows I love them, but this little spiteful creature wished to drive me out of French society, and she misrepresented my words in such a manner, that I never again beheld the Duc de Cazes!

"The Parisians at that time entertained a horror of the English, and of everything that came from England; and when they saw me in my little English hat by the side of their monstrous bonnets, of which I knew nothing, they used to run after me in crowds, crying out 'Madame l'Anglaise! Madame au chapeau rond!'

"I am not at all a bigot, I cannot endure bigotry, what folly not to permit the Bible in the vulgar tongue! As for me I keep the Holy Scriptures in all parts of my habitation, and in all languages, and when I read the life of our Saviour, I try to follow his example of patience, humility, and charity. Poor miserable creature that I am! I think there is nothing so beautiful as the Life of Jesus Christ!"

Madame Catalani was much pleased with a large air-screen at R―, but spoke of the magnificence exhibited even in this article of luxury at Prince Potowski's. The lower portion is of polished mahogany, the upper part of plates of rock crystal, so transparent that those who enter can see the party assembled round the fire, and, of course, are themselves seen.

Monsieur Vallabrègue's sister married a Polish prince; he is himself of good family, and was in the army. Madame Catalani refused to marry him unless he quitted it, upon which he told her that if she did not sing, he could not maintain her. She supports by her talents her husband, father, brother, sister, and two nephews. They have three children, Angélique, Auguste, and Paul. Madame Catalani said she never could bear to nurse her own children for fear of hurting them, as a terrible accident happened to herself and one of her brothers whom she was nursing when a child. He was five years younger than her, and she pulled him by the leg most unconsciously, till it was dislocated! So that her poor brother always remained lame. One of her children, too, nearly fell out of her arms, and out of window, but she saved him by clutching at his long clothes.

She told a comical story of her first landing in Devonshire. After dinner, with the wine, little checked doyleys were set down, without fringes, and hemmed all round. These she and her associates mistook for pocket-handkerchiefs, and thought it odd such dirty things should be put on the dinner table. When the waiter returned, all displayed their pocket-handkerchiefs, as they could not speak English, wiping their noses, and making signs for the offensive articles to be removed.

When a friend came in who spoke English, and explained the mistake, to the mutual diversion of the party, and the waiter, who ran out of the room convulsed with laughter.

Although an Italian, Madame Catalani has a peculiar and wellfounded aversion to some usages and customs in the manners and morals of her country people, and rather accuses them of insincerity; says they are given to criticism without possessing any esprit or piquant quality to render it palatable. The French she much prefers, but seems to like the English best of all, save in les modes.

She gave a deplorable account of the immorality which prevails at the Italian Opera in London since the introduction of French dancers, says it is quite altered to what it formerly was; the envyings and jealousies which prevail are perfectly terrible. She was dragged out of her bed at the Oratorio, not by the British public, but by her enemies among the Italian canaille, who do all in their power to annoy her, and any other great singer, after putting their names at the head of the bills in order to draw the people and to injure their rivals.

She spoke very highly of the English stage, and after saying she would almost rather starve than act again at the Italian Opera, declared she would perform on the former for the future could she speak English well enough.

Madame Catalani esteems Madame Pasta the first singer extant, and greatly admires her private qualities. One day they were conversing together, and Mad. Pasta said to the other, "Madame, you have a voice to praise God for." "That quite affected me," added Madame Catalani," because it showed a noble and pious soul."

She gave us a very touching account of the ex-Empress of Hayti; said these unfortunate people were highly interesting, possessing good manners, noble minds, and much sweetness of disposition. Their resignation under misfortune was something sublime. The poor queen saw her two little boys butchered before her face while trying to save them. When Madame Catalani left the house she would close the door after her; Madame Catalani entreated in vain; the poor queen replied with sweet humility, "Ah! Madame, you see my condition, what am I? I must learn to accustom myself to everything."

When these notes were penned, the writer was a very young girl, and entertained no thought of publishing any of the contents of a voluminous diary; but in the absence of all notice of the celebrated lady who is the subject of the present memoir, she thought it might not be unacceptable to the general reader, and only regrets its brevity. There was much in the musical way during Madame Catalani's long and glorious career I longed to question her upon, and I feel doubly sorry I can throw no light on the succession of her operatic triumphs. But my extreme youth made me so diffident of interrogating a person so gifted in every way, that I contented myself with listening to the revelations with which, unsolicited, she favoured my delighted ears, and writing them down immediately and faithfully as they fell from her lips.

I have since seen Madame Catalani at Florence, where she rested upon her laurels, surrounded by all that could make life desirable, enjoying her well-deserved health and popularity, the favourite of all, the esteemed friend of many, the object of especial notice to the amiable sovereigns of Tuscany, the Grand Duke Leopold and his Duchess, admitted to their private audience, and adorning their court.

The last time I heard her sing was in 1835, at a concert given for a charity at Casa Standish. Her voice had lost its sweetness, but its power was marvellous, and the spiral movements in the powerful muscles of her throat, while performing her celebrated shake, resembled more the working of a piece of machinery than the action of the human throat, and I have never observed it in any other singer.

Madame Catalani's conduct through life affords a bright and glorious example to those of her own sex who are exposed to the perils and allurements of the profession she ennobled; and the total absence of all envy and jealousy towards others, her never-tiring beneficence, and attention to her conjugal and maternal duties, render her worthy of imitation by women of all ranks, and in every situation in life. And many there are engaged in theatrical avocations, who.possessing equal genius, are equally virtuous, equally charitable, and equally dutiful to their families, only they do not fill the prominent position of this once magnificent singer, and consequently their light does not shine with such notorious brilliancy. This should lead those who have the power of fostering genius, to accomplish so grateful a task to the best of their ability, as opportunity and a helping hand are often wanting to its perfect development; and the encouragement bestowed on the virtuous may even act as an incentive to the unfortunate and the erring to return to the paths of peace and virtue. There are few professions in which the female sex can make a livelihood; all cannot be governesses or needlewomen, and the talent given by Almighty God, it is a woman's duty to cultivate; yet as a sensible writer says, "whatever a woman does, she seems to lose caste thereby." Those who pursue the histrionic art as a maintenance, have a double claim on the protection, sympathy, and indulgence of the public, because they are often unprotected, and always exposed to everything that is painful to a sensitive mind.

I read with sorrow in the newspapers of Madame Catalani's demise at Paris, last year, of cholera, in her 74th year: after flying from her Florentine retreat to escape the recent troubles; but I have no doubt the fortitude with which she bore the vicissitudes of her early years, did not desert her at the last.

Her endeavour had ever been to raise her profession, and in so doing, she had raised herself to the highest pinnacle of female worth and female celebrity.

As an actress, I believe (from all I have ever heard), Madame Catalani fell short of that greatest of all geniuses in the tragic line, Madame Pasta, the amplitude and majesty of whose "Io!" still vibrates in my ears as she arrays herself in the balance against the empire Jason is complaining of losing.-Pasta, of whom Mrs. Siddons once exclaimed to an old friend, after witnessing her marvellous and unrivalled performance of "Medea," "Mine eyes did ache with gazing on her, and I rejoiced that she lived not in my day, else my glory would have been eclipsed."

With this heart-drawn eulogium on the goddess of my idolatry, from such an authority, do I close these reminiscences of the great and elder cantatrice, who has now become an historical personage, and of a generation passed away.

THE METROPOLIS ON SUNDAY. *

No one can with reason complain in these days that the wants of the poor-however much may yet remain to be done for them—are not taken into due and careful consideration. Indeed, so anxiously are their interests, moral, physical, and metaphysical cared for, that every other man you meet has an infallible scheme in his mind, in his pocket, or in the press, for their social amelioration. Mr. Capes is one of the philanthropists who has published his plan, which we find in his preface, but hardly in any other part of his book. He wants Sunday recreations for the poor. He tells us that one of the four things needed by the poor man is healthy, innocent amusement, which he can only enjoy on a Sunday. Accordingly, he desiderates music and dancing (and, we presume, open theatres) as on the Continent; with permission to wander through galleries of sculpture and painting, and other elevating relaxations. We have nothing at present to say for or against this proposition; but, unfortunately, Mr. Capes informs us that "the gloom of England is, in truth, one of the most formidable evils of modern times. ... John Bull, it must be confessed, is still an individual of a most lugubrious aspect. In this case, what on earth-at least on that portion of it called Great Britain-is to be done? The plan may be good, but alas! it is impracticable. If John Bull is such a saturnine and sorrowful old fellow as this; if he will persist in exclaiming,

what is the use of commending to him a potion which he will not take, and which he will not see his neighbour quaff with complacency?

Fielding once wrote a chapter in which he ventured to insinuate that a man might possibly write better upon a subject if he happened to know something about it. It is certain that Mr. Capes, who is by no means without literary ability, would have been more happy in his Sunday in London," if he had ever really seen one. It seems pro

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bable, too, that a long residence on the Continent has caused him utterly to forget the manners and customs of Englishmen. Here is a picture. "Those who are not influenced by religious principles, or a regard for the decencies of respectable life, fly headlong on Sundays into every abomination and excess. There is more gambling, more swearing, more reading of the vile and blackguard portion of the periodical press, and more outrageous licentiousness, on the Lord's day in England, Scotland, and Wales, than in the whole week from Monday morning till Saturday night."

Let us ask seriously and plainly ought not Mr. Capes to be ashamed of putting forth so gross a libel upon the great body of the English people? If the ingenious, laborious, and, in the main, virtuous masses of this country rushed into all manner of vice and licentiousness because they cannot see a play, roam through a museum, shake a fantastic toe, or hear the Ethiopian Senenaders on a Sunday, they would richly merit the scorn of Europe, and almost deserve a still more vigorous advocacy on the part of Mr. Capes.

A Sunday in London. By J. M. Capes, M.A. London: Longman and Co.

SOUVENIRS OF VERSAILLES, ST. CLOUD, NEUILLY, AND THE TUILERIES.

At the end of our corridor, forming the very angle by which it joined the Galerie du Bourreau (one running parallel with the river) stood a door which often formed the object of my waking speculations and of my unconscious dreams. It stood in a slight recess, and was attained by a flight of wooden steps, all painted of a deep red. Thus much was familiar to me from my unceasing watching at the corner of our gallery when sent out of our apartment to breathe the fresh air (oh, Heavens!) in the Galerie de Bourbon. Whatever may have been the closeness and confinement of this passage, it was gay and airy compared with the dismal Galerie de Bourreau, and tired as I was of the eternal length and sameness of the one where we resided, yet I but seldom ventured into the other. The darkness here was impenetrable, and the one single lantern, swung by a cord across the passage, but ill served to light its dim and solitary length. At the extremity stood an old stone fountain, hollowed from a single block of granite, such as are now to be seen nowhere save in stable yards. Against the wall was carved a rude head of Medusa, from the mouth of which the drops fell night and day, with unceasing plash-drip-drip, causing the water in the basin to break into shivering rings, and the long hairy plants which lolled upon its surface, to wave to and fro. This fountain and its sarcophagus-looking stone was always associated in my mind with images of mystery and terror, and as I have already said, I but seldom ventured so far as the place where it stood; for the whole length of the dark passage was full of mystery to me, and even to pass the outer door was a work demanding a courage and strength of nerve which I did not always possess.

The apartment into which it opened was inhabited by persons of dark renown; people who mixed not with the more peaceful denizens of the gallery. That dark red door was opened stealthily, and closed with care; no creaking hinge or rebellious lock gave token of the arrival or departure of any guest who might chance to visit the occupants of the chamber. Now and then a veiled figure might be seen hurrying down the corridor concealed beneath hood and mantle, or holding the silken robe with dainty fingers, lest it should come in contact with the damp and slimy wall, and after knocking at the dark red door, and whispering a word in a low tone to the person who appeared at the summons, glide mysteriously through the narrow opening left by the cautious hand within. I have often watched the approach of these disguised and furtive visitors, and could always tell by the rustling sound of a silken dress, and the light mysterious tread of the approaching stranger, that the visit was destined for the red door painted No. 1 of the Galerie du Bourreau.

At certain times when the Court remained at the palace, these