head and ears in love with her; while his rustic bashfulness and nervous tremors kept him at a distance, and prevented him from contending for her smiles, or mingling in the lively badinage of her circle. He had not courage enough to attract her particular attention, or even, it would seem, to make her aware who he was. Finding himself unable to obtain her notice in the midst of her fashionable admirers, he endeavoured to become acquainted with her husband, and to get himself introduced as a visitor at her house; but this he soon found to be impossible. Molière, entirely occupied with his incessant labours as a dramatist, manager, and actor, and fretted and annoyed by the freedom of his wife's behaviour, lived in great retirement, and repulsed with very little ceremony the advances of those whom he knew, or supposed to be, her admirers.

Infatuated by his passion, and imagining that a woman so famous for her gallantries might be won, if he only knew how to set about it, De Lorny resolved to have recourse to the assistance of a certain Madame Ledoux, a good lady of whose valuable services he had heard much among his companions. This convenient personage he made the confidante of his passion, beseeching her to exert herself in his behalf, and assuring her that he was willing to make any sacrifice to obtain the object of his wishes. The wily procuress undertook the task, which, however, she represented as surrounded with difficul ties; and contrived to persuade him to put a thousand louis into her hands, by way of secret service-money, in order to insure the success of the enterprise.

Having obtained so large a sum, Madame Ledoux's only care was to find the means of appropriating it to herself, and she soon devised a scheme for that purpose.

Among the numerous females of the class which furnished Madame Ledoux with instruments and confederates, there was a girl of the name of La Tourelle, who had been much remarked for her extraor dinary resemblance to Madame Molière. She was not only like her in features, figure, and gait, but was able to assume the expression of her countenance, her disdainful smile, and the very sound of her voice. As this girl was accustomed to mimic the favourite actress of the day, this habit became by degrees a second nature; and she became with out effort, and almost involuntarily, a perfect copy of her model. To this girl Ledoux communicated her intended trick; and La Tourelle undertook to personate Madame Molière, so as to deceive M. de Lorny, so long as his liberality should make it worth her while to continue the deception.

In the mean time the amorous swain was impatiently waiting the result of Madame Ledoux's negociations. She made her appearance from time to time to report progress, and dexterously contrived to inflame his eagerness, sometimes by dwelling upon obstacles and difficulties, and sometimes by giving hopes of success. One day the lady was represented as disdainful and indignant at the idea of an attempt on her virtue; another day she had given indications of a disposition to favour so ardent and devoted a lover. One day all access to her presence was barred by the suspicions of a jealous husband; another day she had shown an inclination to yield, by contriving the means of an interview with her lover's ambassadress, notwithstanding her husband's precautions. Poor De Lorny swallowed these stories with im

plicit faith, and was all the while in a state of violent excitement, tossed to and fro between hope and disappointment.

In this manner some weeks had elapsed, when one day the go-between made her appearance in high spirits, with the news of her success. She had contrived, she said, to overcome the fair actress' scruples; and Madame Moliere, moved at last by the warmth and fidelity of his passion, had agreed to meet him at a house where there was no danger of discovery. De Lorny, transported with joy, liberally rewarded his ambassadress.

Next day he hastened to the place of rendezvous; and the lady soon made her appearance, carefully muffled up, and affecting great trepidation on account of her imprudent step, and the utmost anxiety for concealment. She played her part to admiration, imitating Madame Molière even to her slightest peculiarities, the sound of her voice, her short cough in speaking, her little affectations and consequential airs,talked of her excessive fatigue from constantly playing the character of Circe, then in vogue,-and dwelling on her condescension in having, from regard to him, ventured to risk the most degrading suspicions. Her acting, in short, might have deceived an older hand than poor De Lorny, who listened with perfect belief, poured out the warmest protestations of fidelity, and pressed her to accept some token of his af fection. The adventuress assumed the air of a person of wealth and consequence; declared that the value of a gift was nothing to her, and that she could only accept from him some mark of his respect on condition of its being in itself a mere trifle. After much pressing, she agreed to go and choose some bagatelle at Monot's, the fashionable jeweller on the Quai des Orfévres; and De Lorny thought himself too happy to be permitted to pay eight thousand francs for a diamond necklace on which she had set her fancy.

From that time the lovers continued to meet regularly; but the lady requested her fortunate admirer to abstain from ever speaking to her or noticing her at the theatre; it, being necessary, she said, to avoid exciting the watchful suspicions of Moliere, or the envy of her companions, who were already jealous of her success on the stage. De Lorny continued to frequent the theatre punctually; but was content to worship his idol at a distance, applaud her performances, and glory in the public homage paid to one who had chosen him as the object of her secret preference.

For a couple of months De Lorny's happiness was without a cloud; but the lady, who had other pigeons to pluck, at length became irregular in keeping her appointments. She was frequently late, and tried her admirer's patience by making him wait. One day she did not come at all; and De Lorny, who had waited for several hours with impatience and uneasiness, at length got provoked and out of humour, and determined to go to the theatre, which by this time was open, in order to see what was become of his false fair one, in spite of all that Madame Ledoux (in whose house they used to meet) could say to prevent him.

The play was begun when De Lorny reached the theatre. At that time there were benches on the stage for the fashionables who chose to occupy them. A place was vacant in the front row; and as De Lorny took possession of it, the first person he saw before him was Madame Molière, in the rich and elegant costume of Circe. Never had she appeared to him so charming. He had come to upbraid her; but

when, crossing the stage, she passed close by him, he could only find words to say softly, "You are more adorable than ever, and sufficient to turn my head to-night, even if you had not done so before." Accustomed to speeches of this sort, Madame Molière paid no attention, but passed on. De Lorny tried to attract her notice by tender looks, gestures, and signs; but could not draw the slightest token of recogni. tion from the disdainful actress.

This contemptuous treatment, after the slight he had already met with, was not to be borne. At the end of the play, Madame Moliere had retired to her dressing-room, where she was sitting with her maid, when, to her amazement, the door was violently thrown open, and a man entirely unknown to her rushed in with a wild and agitated air, and threw himself into a seat without uttering a word. Madame Moliere's haughty spirit was roused. She hastily rose, and intimated her desire by a commanding gesture that he should withdraw; while her attendant opened the door, and stood ready to call for assistance. De Lorny's indignation, so long suppressed, now burst out without control, and found vent in a torrent of exclamations and reproaches. At first she took him for some madman who had escaped from his keepers; but his air of profound grief, the sincerity of his manner, the tears which rolled down his cheeks, made her suspect that he was under the influence of some strange delusion, and she therefore spoke to him calmly, telling him that he could not possibly know her, or have had any appointment with her, for she was very certain she had never spoken to him in her life. This cool denial of him rendered De Lorny furious. He lost all regard to appearances or consequences, became outrageous in his complaints and upbraidings, referred to the times and places of their meetings, and wildly called on the whole of the company to come and witness the infamous treachery of the woman for whom he had made such sacrifices. While he thus raved, his eye rested on the diamond necklace she wore; and, thinking it was the one he had given her, he flew at it and tore it from her neck. At this moment the guards of the theatre rushed in; and De Lorny, now in a state of absolute frenzy, was seized and carried to prison.

Proceedings against him were instituted by Madame Moliere. Mo. liere himself was a party to them; and heavy damages were claimed from De Lorny in reparation of his insulting and outrageous conduct.

The cause was tried in the Châtelet. Madame Molière's envious companions gave circulation to the most scandalous reports, which for a time gained credit; especially as the jeweller who had furnished the false Madame Molière with the necklace, affirmed that it was Madame Moliere who had chosen it,—a mistake into which he was led by the singular resemblance already mentioned. Fortunately, however, the procuress Ledoux, who had concealed herself, was discovered and arrested, and on her first interrogatory she confessed the whole transac tion. The impostor herself, who had so skilfully played her part, was also arrested, and all the particulars of the affair being brought to light, Ledoux, and her instrument La Tourelle, were put in the pillory in front of the theatre; while poor De Lorny hastened to bury his shame and mortification in the country, and never repeated his visit to Paris.*

* 'The circumstances of this extraordinary affair are taken from the proceedings of the trial, given in an interesting and valuable work published a few months ago in Paris, entitled "Les Chroniques du Palais de Justice," by M. Horace Raisson.

Molière lived for ten years in a state of estrangement from his wife, without having ever ceased to love her, or having been able to obtain happiness without her. At length, a few months before his death, a reconciliation took place between them, through the mediation of mutual friends. She tended him affectionately in his last illness, and appears to have sincerely lamented his loss. The circumstances attending his funeral give a lamentable picture of the bigotry of the age. The curate of St. Eustache refused him the rites of burial, his profession having placed him without the pale of the church. His widow presented a petition to the archbishop of Paris, and, accompanied by the curate of Auteuil, (Molière's country residence,) hastened to Versailles to throw herself at the feet of the king. But the good curate had made this errand a pretext to obtain access to the king, to whom he wished to defend himself from a charge of Jansenism. The king ordered him to hold his tongue, and dismissed them both abruptly. Molière was now dead, and could no longer amuse this selfish monarch, who cared nothing for benefits which could not be repeated, or services which could not be continued. In consequence, however, of the importunities of Molière's friends, it was decided that his remains should be admitted into consecrated ground, but without the usual ceremonies of the church; and accordingly, on the 21st of February 1673, he was buried," with maimed rites," in the cemetery of St. Joseph, in the Rue Montmartre. The people were as fanatical as the church. On the day of the funeral a tumultuous crowd gathered before the door of Molière's house. Madame Molière, terrified by their cries, was advised by her friends to appease them by throwing money among them from the windows; which she did, beseeching at the same time their prayers for her dead husband in such affecting language, that the riotous multitude went calmly and devoutly away. Madame Molière, indignant at the outrage offered to her husband's remains, uttered the memorable exclamation, "What! does France refuse the rites of sepulture to a man to whom Greece would have erected altars ?"

NUTMEGS FOR NIGHTINGALES.

BY DICK DISTICH.

No. V.-WATERLOO.

AND was it not the proudest day in Britain's annals bright?
And was he not a gallant chief who fought the gallant fight?
Who broke the neck of tyranny, and left no more to do ?—
That chief was Arthur Wellington! that fight was Waterloo !
The quailing croakers prophesied when first he went to Spain,
The French his troops and him would soon drive back into the main :
Their patriotic prophecies as Shipton's were as sooth;

For Arthur kept as far from sea as they did from the truth.

O, when on bleak Corunna's heights he reared his banner high,
Britannia wept her gallant Moore; her scatter'd armies fly-
To raise her glory to the stars, and kindle hearts of flame,
The mighty victor gave the word, the master-spirit came.
Poor Soult, like Pistol with his leek! he soon compell'd to yield;
And then a glorious wreath he gain'd on Talavera's field.
See! quick as lightning, flash by flash! another deed is done-
And Marmont has a battle lost, and Salamanca's won.

The shout was next "Vittoria !"-all Europe join'd the strain.
Ne'er such a fight was fought before, and ne'er will be again!
Quoth Arthur," With th' Invincibles' another bout I'll try ;
And show you when the Captain' comes a better by and by !"
But, lest his sword should rusty grow for want of daily use,
He gave the twice-drubb'd Soult again a settler at Toulouse,
His Marshals having beaten all, and laid upon the shelf,
He waits to see "the Captain" come, and take a turn himself.
Now Arthur is a gentleman, and always keeps his word;
And on the eighteenth day of June the cannons loud were heard ;
The flow'r of England's chivalry their conq'ror rallied round;
A sturdy staff to cudgel well "the Captain" off the ground!

"Come on, ye fighting vagabonds!" amidst a show'r of balls,
A shout is heard; the voice obey'd-the noble Picton falls!
On valour's crimson bed behold the bleeding Howard lies-
Oh! the heart beats the muffled drum when such a hero dies!

The cuirassiers they gallop forth in polish'd coats of mail;
A show'r of shot comes pouring in, and rattles on like hail !
A furious charge both man and horse soon prostrates and repels,
And all the cuirassiers are crack'd like lobsters in their shells!

Where hottest is the fearful fight, and fire and flame illume
The darkest cloud, the dunnest smoke, there dances Arthur's plume!
That living wall of British hearts, that hollow square in vain
You mow it down-see! Frenchmen, see! the phalanx forms again.
The meteor-plume in majesty still floats along the plain-
Brave, bonny Scots! ye fight the field of Bannockburn again!
The Gallic lines send forth a cheer; its feeble echoes die-
The British squadrons rend the air-and "Victory!" is their cry.
Twas helter-skelter, devil take the hindmost, sauve qui peut,
With "Captain" and " Invincibles" that day at Waterloo !
O how the Belges show'd their backs ! but not a Briton stirr'd--
His warriors kept the battle-field, and Arthur kept his word.

No. VI.-I MET HER IN THE OMNIBUS.

I MET her in the omnibus (a maiden free and frank)
That carries you from Brixton Mill for sixpence to the Bank;
"Where are you going, all a-blowing, on a day so fine?"

I'm going to the Bricklayers Arms," said I, "pray come to mine!"

She blush'd just like the red, red rose, and gave me such a look,
And from her silken reticule her lily-white she took ;

Then hid her face with modest grace, and wiped away a tear

"What is your name, my pretty maid ?" She simper'd "Shillibeer!

My dad's conductor vow'd to have, our last Whit-Monday spree,

Except his twenty, in and out, no other fair but me:

Alas! for my Cad-waller true, that holds so cheap his dear,

And plays his shilly-shally with his Charlotte Shillibeer!"

"A Glass of ale, Miss Shillibeer, if I may be allow'd

To ask if you would sip with me ?"--" Kind sir, you do me proud!" Then as I pointed to the inn, and help'd the lady out,

66

"I'll take," she sighed, " on second thoughts, a drop of cold without."

She took a drop of cold without to keep out cold within : "In bitters here's to you, my sweet, until we meet ag'in !" Within the glass the loving lass left little to discuss;

And we both exchanged at parting, at the omnibus, a buss.