darkened by the dust caused by the movement of the excited multitude. The delirium lasted more than twenty minutes, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that silence could be restored and the performance begun.

As it was the sixth representation of the play, the audience was able to anticipate the passages most characteristic of the author, which were applauded more with reference to their Voltairean significance than their dramatic merit. When the curtain fell upon the fifth act, the tumult was renewed, and the author was about to utter a few words expressive of his gratification, when the curtain rose once more, and revealed to the spectators a striking scene. Upon a pedestal in the middle of the stage was the bust of the poet, familiar to the public as a recent addition to the lobby of the theatre. Around it, in a semicircle, the actors and actresses were ranged, each holding a garland of flowers and palm. Behind them were a number of persons who had crowded from the front of the theatre and witnessed the play from the stage, as of old; while at the back were posted the guards who had figured in the piece. This tableau had been hastily arranged, but the effect was pleasing and picturesque. The audience burst into new acclamations. Baron Grimm remarked a fact without precedent in the history of the French theatre, that not one dissentient nor derisive cry was heard amid the shouts of applause. "For once," said he, "envy and hate, fanaticism and intolerance, dared not murmur, except in secret, and, for the first time, perhaps, in France, public opinion was seen enjoying with éclat all its empire." Brizard, still wearing his priestly dress, was the first to place upon the bust the wreath which he carried in his hand; prophetic of the time, now not distant, when the class represented by Léonce will recognize Voltaire as their deliverer from a false position. All the company followed his example, to the sound of drums and trumpets, often drowned by the cheers of the spectators.

During this scene, the poet, abashed and confounded, had remained in the back part of his box. When all the crowns had been placed upon the head of the bust, covering it with flowers and palms, M. de Villette, in response to the universal demand of the audience, drew him forward again, and he stood for a moment bending almost to the edge of the box. Then he rose, his eyes filled with tears, and sat by the side of Belle-etBonne. Madame Vestris, who had played Irène, advanced to the front of the stage, holding a paper in her hand, from which she read some lines written for the occasion by the Marquis de Saint-Marc:

"Aux yeux de Paris enchanté,
Reçois en ce jour un hommage
Que confirmera d'âge en âge
Le sévère postérité.

Non, tu n'as pas besoin d'atteindre au noir rivage,
Pour jouir de l'honneur de l'immortalité.

Voltaire, reçois la couronne

Que l'on vient de te présenter.

Il est beau de la mériter,

Quand c'est la France qui la donne!"

These verses, well delivered by the actress, renewed the transports of the audience, who demanded their repetition. Madame Vestris recited them again. The curtain fell. A few moments after, it rose again for the performance of Voltaire's comedy of "Nanine," during which the bust was visible on one side of the stage. When the curtain fell for the last time, the author rose, and made his slow descent to the street between the same compact lines of ladies, all beaming and radiant with joyous emotion. As soon as he had mounted the carriage, a cry arose for torches, that the whole crowd might see him. There was so much difficulty in starting the vehicle that it was proposed to detach the horses. The coachman, however, at length contrived to begin the journey homeward, moving at a very slow pace, and followed by a multitude of excited people, crying "Vive Voltaire!" As soon as he had gained his own room, he was relieved by a flood of tears. "If I could have foreseen," said he, "that the people would have committed so many follies, I would not have gone to the theatre."

Neither the desert nor the sea
Imposes rites; their prayers are free;
Danger and toil the wild imposes,
And thorns must grow before the roses.
And who are these ?-and what distress
The savage-acred wilderness

On mother, maid, and child, may bring,
Beseems them for a fearful thing;

For now the day begins to dip,

The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower.

But Carver leads (in heart and health
A hero of the commonwealth)

The axes that the camp requires,

To build the lodge, and heap the fires.
And Standish from his warlike store
Arrays his men along the shore-
Distributes weapons resonant,
And dons his harness militant;

For now the day begins to dip,
The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower;

And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest

She sees a Book, in vellum drest,

She drops a tear and kisses the tome,

Thinking of England and of home:

Might they-the Pilgrims, there and then Ordained to do the work of men

Have seen, in visions of the air,

While pillowed on the breast of prayer

(When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower),

The Canaan of their wilderness

A boundless empire of success;

And seen the years of future nights Jewelled with myriad household lights;

And seen the honey fill the hive;

And seen a thousand ships arrive;

And heard the wheels of travel go;

It would have cheered a thought of woe, When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower.