remonstrance. He suppressed the Dramatic Unity
Riots, by a slight foretaste of Russian recruiting
in Poland.

Dramatic writers may, perhaps, have been themselves
a little dramatised. It is said that one
writer, finding his sight beginning to fail him, went
to consult an oculist whose celebrity was confined
to the advertisements which he caused to appear
in the newspapers. The medical man,
after inspection, came to the conclusion that it
was passing ophthalmia without danger, and,
indeed, of no importance. They continued to
chat upon the subject, growing more and more
familiar.

"Monsieur," said the oculist, "I have invented
an ointment which would have restored
Tobias's sight without troubling either angel or
fish. But I have not yet tried it on any patient,
and I would give a handsome douceur to whomsoever
would submit to the experiment."

"How much would you give?" inquired the
writer.

"A hundred francs."

"Per month?"

"Per month."

"I accept the bargain, if it is good for a
year. I am your blind man during that period.
You will undertake to furnish the dog."

The oculist, foreseeing the publicity that
would be the consequence of such a cure, did
not hesitate. The scribe appeared in his new character,
in all the public places of Paris. At the
close of the year, when the world was persuaded
that the patient was afflicted with hopeless
blindness, the oculist observed that it was
time to look sharp, the term of the agreement
having expired. The writer, however, refused
to recover his sight, threatening to expose the
charlatan, unless he came down with two
years' indemnity. A long and loud discussion
concluded with the payment of the sum demanded.
The experiment was performed in
public. The patient was duly ointmented in the
presence of numerous witnesses; — and the
remedy rendered him really blind.

The famous Count Rostopchin, who set fire
to Moscow, was a frequent visitor behind the
scenes and in the green-room of the Variétés.
He was a colossus, with a head like Holophernes,
and great fiery eyes, which might inspire fear at
first sight; nevertheless he was mild, polite, and
very amiable. A piece called Werther was then
under rehearsal. It was a parody of the notorious
novel, and excited uproarious laughter.
The count was constant in his attendance at the
rehearsals, and eagerly awaited the first performance,
which was delayed by the continued success
of one of Scribe's charming pieces. Meanwhile,
the Emperor of Russia ordered him to return to
Moscow; and there was no choice but to obey.
On reaching Weimar, he heard that Werther
had actually been brought out; so he returned
to Paris, and remained there three months, witnessing
the performance every night. Rostopchin
entertained a great antipathy towards Goethe
and the whole school of German literature. He
detested its cloudy dreaminess, and spoke of
Goethe as a profound and perfect egotist: comparing
him to that bit of old cracked china,
Fontenelle, who preserved himself in cotton
wool, in his academic chair, for a hundred years.

The parody of Werther became the cause of a
still greater scandal. When Madame Catalini
went to sing at Munich, she visited the lions of
the Bavarian capital, and amongst others the
author of Faust and Werther.

"Ah, Monsieur Goethe," she exclaimed, as
she entered, "I saw your Werther at the Variétés!
Allow me to congratulate you. It made
me laugh till I cried again."

At this speech, Goethe's countenance turned
as black as thunder. Without replying a single
word, he motioned to the songstress to leave
the room. The mistake was afterwards explained.

Among the performers of the Vaudeville
Theatre, there was one, named Chapelle, who
played Pantaloons and stupid old men to the life.
And, indeed, he was naturally simple and credulous.
Before taking to the stage, he had been a
grocer in the Rue St. Honoré, and for some little
time he combined shopkeeping with dramatic
pursuits; but eventually he became bankrupt,
and gave up his sugar and spice to his creditors.
Laporte, the harlequin, had such influence over
him that he could make him believe whatever he
chose. Once, when it had been raining all day
long, Laporte told him that an immense crowd
had assembled in the square of the Palais Royal
to see a very fine carp which was swimming
down the kennel. Chapelle, who was dressed
as Pantaloon, and was waiting to go on the
stage, rushed out of the house to have a look at
the wonderful fish. He asked everybody where
it was, and people only laughed in his face.
On returning, he found the curtain raised; he
had missed his entry, and had to pay a fine.

One morning, Laporte arrived to rehearse a
piece in which Chapelle had a part; and, as his
faith began to be shaken, although he was still
extremely inquisitive, the harlequin, addressing
one of his comrades, recounted confidentially
that he had just seen in the Rue Notre Dame
des Victoires a new-fashioned diligence made of
elastic gum, which had the great advantage of
expanding at pleasure, so as to hold any number
of passengers. Chapelle did not lose a syllable
of the secret. As soon as the rehearsal was
over, he betook himself by stealth to the coach-office.
Laporte, expecting that he would do
so, got there before him, in a disguise which
prevented his being recognised. Chapelle made
his way into the yard, looked about him, and,
not perceiving the object of his search, went
up to Laporte himself to inquire where the
elastic diligence was. "It has just started for
the Pays des Crétins (or for Idiot Town)," his
comrade replied. "If you had been a little
earlier, there was room for you." Satisfied with
the answer, he went his way; but in the evening,
he asked every one in the theatre where
Idiot Town was. Some said it was in the
Valais; another, less scrupulous, told him that
it was No. 12, Rue de Chartres, which was the