deux de cette paroisse, vis-à-vis le Palais Royal, fiancés et mariés tout ensemble, par permission de M. de Comtes, doyen de Notre Dame et grand vicaire de Monseigneur le Cardinal de Retz, archeveque de Paris, en presence du dit Jean Poquelin, père du marié, et de André Boudet, beau-frère du marié; de la dite Marie Hervé, mère de la mariée, Louis Béjart et Madeleine Béjart, frère et sœur de la dite mariée."

The document bears date February 20, 1662, and the marriage was celebrated in the parish of St. Germain l'Auxerrois.

Of the three children of this unfortunate marriage, not one of them perpetuated his name. The godson of King Louis died early, another child died at the age of two months, and the daughter who did reach maturity married Montalant, the organist of St. André des Arcs, but died without issue at Argenteuil some time after her father. Madeleine Bejart and an old flame of hers stood as sponsor for Molière's daughter.

The Theâtre du Petit Bourbon had to be demolished to make way for the finishing of the Louvre colonnade. But the king graciously accorded them the hall in the Palais Royal, which was crected for the representation of "Mirame." Richelieu built it for the express purpose, and the expense of its erection was very heavy, so the troupe under Molière seemed to be in a better way than ever. The troupe continued there until Molière's death, and all his pieces, commencing from "Don Garcie de Navarre," were acted there. From thence, after his death, they removed to a theatre in the Rue Guenegaud, and Lulli becoming more the rage, eventually ousted them, and converted it into L'Academie Royal de Musique.

Henriette d'Angleterre, the first wife of the Duc d'Orleans, had his next play dedicated to her. It was played the first time December 26th, 1662, and printed early in the following year. "L'Ecole des Femmes " has in it Molière himself tout entier. He showed himself as Arnolphe, the victim of jealous and misplaced affection, for after bringing up a girl to love and honour him, he finds her love bestowed on another and beloved again. Persuasion and threats are used, but prove of no avail; pathetic and ridiculous by turns, to the child-woman, whom he loves with the despotic love of age, this old man's despair is so truthfully terrible that the surviving of youthful love in his breast renders his role tragical, in spite of the comic details which relieve it here and there. But this successful play was the butt of all the critics; discrepancies were brought to light with a savage spitefulness. He coolly retorted by "La Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes," dedicated to Anne d'Autriche, the queen-mother, performed the 1st June,

1663, and printed two months later. Here he acted, or rather performed himself, and another step in "L'Impromptu de Versailles," led him to act with his whole troupe, under their own names. All his troupe, but Du Parc and Du Brie, were in this piece. It was composed at Versailles, October, 1663, and represented in Paris the next month.

"Le Mariage Forcé," and "La Princess d'Elide," a farce and a ballet, do not exhibit so strongly the full maturity of his talent; if anything they are retrogressive. "Le Mariage Forcé" is best known to English readers, but for all that an English reader should not judge Molière by this play. The two were written to please his faithful patrons, the king and the people. But, in "Don Juan ou le Festin de Pierre," he recovers himself, and fully atones for any backslidings the former may contain. "Le Mariage Forcé" was played at the Louvre, under the title of "Ballet du Roi," on the 29th January, 1664, and on the boards of the Palais Royal, in one act, but underwent some changes on the 15th February. Readers of Rabelais will see some resemblance to that author's marriage of Panurge. It was printed in 1668. "La Princess d'Elide" is an imitation of a Spanish piece, entitled "El desdèn con el desdèn," by Agostino Moreto. It was played at Versailles, May 8th, 1664. "Don Juan" is his first comedy of character, and though it has not the perfection of "Le Misanthrope," or "Tartuffe," it still may be considered a fearful comedy. Many of its passages were expunged, on account of the severe censure of its auditors, so that really no cdition appeared like the original until 1819, which edition was printed from one preserved in the Bibliothèque du Roi, and brought to light by M. Auger. It is founded on another Spanish piece-"El Burlados de Sevilla," by Gabriel Tellez, under the pseudonym of "Torso de Molina." Corneille translated Molière's comedy into verse, and it appeared in that form several times.

Molière's ideal was the worst of libertines; perhaps the suggestion that Byron founded, or in some way took a hint from this play, may not be altogether groundless. A wretch of the deepest dye was Molière's ideal-a blasphemous perjurer, marrying a nun and leaving her for other amours; corrupting other women, and slaying their natural protectors; despising parental authority, insulting the dead body of his friend, and dying a wretch without hope, unrepentant, and as he had lived, without fear. A category of vices that would comprise all the vices.

His next effort was a take-off on the four court physicians, Daquin, Desfongerais, Guenault and Esprit. It might be termed a miracle of quick practice, for "L'Amour Medecin" was written,

learnt and played in five days, and appeared consecutively at Versailles on the 15th September, and at Paris on the 22nd. The following year he wrote "Le Misanthorpe," an exceedingly clever piece, almost as good as "Tartuffe," in fine, there are passages, which almost excel his acknowledged masterpiece. There is a touch of Don Juan, only with an opposite character, an honest man. There is some variation in the critic's judgment regarding the real honest man, but Alceste is honest, if ridiculous, and Philinte is honest with a matter-of-fact character. Again" Le Misanthorpe " was Molière miserable, for all Fenelon's friend, the Duc de Montausier, thought, when he believed he himself was Molière's model.

A little pamphlet which went through many editions in its time, and entitled "La fameuse Comedienne, ou Histoire de la Gueria, auparavant femme de Molière," has left us some idea of the poignant feelings which beset him in regard to his wife's conduct. Chapelle, his faithful friend, was his confidant, and Armande at that time was behaving her very worst. Let us then proceed to these reminiscences, in a translation as near as possible to the original.

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Chapelle rallied his friend on an abandonment to a sorrow for a woman unworthy of him. 'I see well,' replied Molière, 'you have not as yet loved anything, and you have taken the figure of love for love itself. You say I have a perfect knowledge of the heart of man, and I agree that I have studied it, as well as I could, to learn its weak parts; but if my science has taught me one could flee peril, my experience has taught me only too well to see it is impossible to avoid it. I judge of it every day by myself. Born with the last dispositions to tenderness, I believed my efforts would be able to inspire her, by habit, with some sentiments which time could not destroy. I have forgotten nothing to attain that object. As she was very young when I married her (seventeen), I did not perceive her wicked inclinations, and I believed myself a little less unfortunate than the greater part of those who make similar engagements. And as marriage lessens not my earnestness, but I find in her so much indifference, that I begin to see all my precautions have been useless, and what she feels for me is far different to what would have made me happy. I attributed only to myself this reproach on a delicacy which seems ridiculous in a husband, and I attributed to her humour what was really her little tenderness for me, but I had only too many means of perceiving my mistake, and the foolish passion which she had a little later for the "Comte de Guiche " made too much noise to leave me in this apparent tranquillity. I spared nothing in the first knowledge I had of it, to overcome in me the impossibility I found in changing her. I made use of

;

all my strength of spirit, I called to my help all that could contribute to my consolation. I considered her a person whose merit is inuocence, and who accordingly loses it by her infidelity. I made from that time the resolution of living with her as an honest man should, who had a coquettish wife, and who is well persuaded, whatever anyone may say, that his reputation depends not on the bad character of his wife; but I had the mortification of seeing a person without beauty, who owed the little wit he had to the education I had given him, destroy in a moment all my philosophy, her presence made me forget my resolution, and the first words she gave me for her defence, left me so convinced my complaints were ill-founded, I asked her pardon for being so credulous. Nevertheless, my kindnesses have not changed her. I have now determined to live with her as if she were not my wife; but if you knew what I suffer you would pity me. My passion has got to such a pitch, that it enters even with compassion into her interests; and when I consider how impossible it is for me to subdue what I feel for her, I say to myself, probably she has a like difficulty in destroying the penchant she has of being a coquette. I find myself more in the position of complaining to than blaming her. You tell me, doubtless, one must be very fond to love in this manner, but for me, I believe there is a kind of love, and men who have not felt the like delicacy, have never truly loved. Everything in the world has some connection with her in my heart, my idea of her is so fully occupied, I can do nothing in her absence to divert me. When I see her, an emotion and some transports, which can be felt but not expressed, deprive me of the usage of reflection. I have no longer eyes for her defects, they rest only on her amiable qualities. Is not that the last degree of folly? And do you admire me when all the reason I have only shows me my knowledge of my feebleness without the power of triumphing over it?"

[To be continued.]

ABOUT CHELSEA HOSPITAL.

MOTIONLESS, their folds scarce holding together,-drooping as if in sorrow for the fallen brave, the hues fast changing and the sparkle gone, thus find we the worn-out standards of the British army. Viewed in the hush of a great cathedral, a pair of these old colours, fixed against the wall, arouse many reflections. On all sides of one are the sculptured monuments of the dead; but none of them, to my mind, are half so suggestive as those two ancient, faded pieces of silk. Think of the many brave lives of which those colours form the only memorial, and you will agree with me that they are more glorious than granite, more mournful than marble. Think of the dangers through which they have been reverentially guarded. Think of the tempests of fire which have raged around them, the charging cheer, the steel, the blood, the victory! The thought of all this will surely quicken the slowest pulse and warm the coldest heart.

"See what a rent the envious Casca made," cried Marc Antony holding up the slain emperor's mantle, "through here the wellbeloved Brutus stabbed Ah now you weep! What, weep you when you but see our Cæsar's venture wounded? Here is himself! marred as you see by traitors!"

In like manner I might ask how, if we are affected at the sight of old colours, we ought to regard the men who have followed and fought under them!

Unfortunately, the Roman orator proceeds to say: "Good friends, dear friends, let me not stir you up to such a sudden flood of mutiny." As the last word, however, is totally inadmissible in a military paper like this, I am compelled reluctantly to relinquish the simile.

But that is no reason why we should not go to Chelsea together.

Here, I am about to make a humiliating confession; which is, that though a resident in London all my life, I had never yet paid a visit to Chelsea Hospital. The other afternoon, therefore, I suddenly resolved to repair the omission, without delay.