ars compared with the price in the larger mar-sumption; and the price, therefore, cannot, kets, at the periods preceding the opening and does not, rise in the same proportion as of the ports; and without reference to those the crops are diminished. particular periods, take, as a fair instance, If the farmer is no gainer by the rise in price, most surely are the people sufferers. But there is one class who gain: and here a mighty moral evil ensues. They who do profit by the general loss are the clergy. They whose especial province is to pray for the daily bread of the people, and that "scarcity and dearth" may "be mercifully turned into cheapness and plenty,"* are taught to see increase to their the prices of the last week of last year, just when the very grain would probably be sold which constituted the tithe to be paid for in the new shape of rent charge at the beginning of this year. Take Wales for example: we find that during that week the Welch farmer actually obtained only 43s. 11d. per quarter for his wheat, 28s. for his barley, and 14s. 3d. for his oats, whilst he had to pay the increased rates of 61s., 33s., and own incomes in that very scarcity. It is 23s., that being the septennial average then the direct result of this complex devicein force for all tithe payers alike. This is this elaborate error-the Tithe Act, to father surely hard on the poorer districts, which the superfluities of the clergy upon the wants Phave often the largest tithes to pay. of the people. Out of the poverty of the Another huge fallacy in this principle of land springs the wealth of the church. As dt tithe payment is, that it increases the pay in if to dissever them from Providence, its proportion to the inability of the payer. richest gifts are their bane. Their profit is vested in other men's distresses. The Act has placed them in antagonism with all social sympathies. It has rendered them an anomaly in the common sphere of human inactly the reverse of other men. In sun and leb It were almost an insult to the sense and observation of our readers to dwell on the absurdity of the notion that farmers are benefited by high prices. Have not the years of the highest prices been oftenest fraught terests. The very elements affect them ex with ruin to the farmer? They, as well as their landlords, are gainers when their crops shower, in the verdure of spring and the fruitfulness of summer, in the splendour of the seasons and the fulness of the golden harvest, they behold injuries to them and theirs : for they have no share in the gifts of Nature, and suffer by the bounty of God. In drought and deluge, blight and mildew, they have an especial stake. In dearth and distress their Ishmaelite interests centre, and from the visitations of Providence their best fortunes spring. are abundant, but never was there an instance of their being benefited by scarcity. Prices rise because farmers have lost crops, not because they have gained; but although they rise, they do not rise in proportion to the loss. And the reason of this is, that the same expense in cultivation, and nearly the same in collection of the crops must be ined curred, whether the produce be great or small. After the return of outlay, which must be paid in all cases, the remainder is profit, and this profit the farmer loses by scarcity. Take the case of an acre of wheat, of which the cost of cultivation has been 6l. In a good season the yield will be four quar$ters, saleable at 50s. Here the gross return will be 10l., and the profit 41. In a bad season the same acre yields but three quar- CHEAPNESS; have mercy upon us, that we who ters; here is a diminution of one quarter of are now for our sins punished with like adversity, as The Tithe Act is imperfect. It wants a clause to relieve the clergy from the cruel mockery of reading the prayer "In times of Dearth and Famine," which runs thus : "O God, merciful Father, who in the time of Elisha the prophet didst suddenly in Samaria turn great scarcity and dearth into PLENTY and may likewise find a seasonable relief. Increase produce. Assume, for the sake of argument, the extreme case, that the price shall have risen in the same proportion the quantity has fallen, viz., 25 per cent. How stands - the case? Three quarters, at 62s. 6d., make B 9l. 7s. 6d., and, as the expenses are not at all diminished, the profit is reduced from 41. to 31. 7s. 6d. But does it ever happen that prices really rise in the same proportion as the quantity has fallen? By no means; and for this clear reason, because the means of the people, so far from increasing, are diminished by the scarcity of food; instead, therefore, of keeping up the demand, which is the cause of high prices, it restricts con-Common Prayer Book. The Tithe Act teaches the clergy to pray the converse. The corn laws have long rendered these prayers a similar mockery to the people they starve; they have long placed the practice of the legislature in bitter antithesis to its prayers; but the refined wickedness of giving the ministers of the *Prayer in the time of Dearth and Famine: religion of Christ a vested interest in the adversities of his people was reserved for the Tithe Act. We have but two short proposals for the amendment of this pernicious statute. Let the ascertained value of the tithes in 1835 be henceforth the actual value of the rent charge: Sweeping away the commutation into bushels and the reconversion into money which annually changes, together with the whole tissue of complex absurdity which constitutes the sliding scale of payment and the eternal vexation of change. This amendment is one of easy adoption, and obviates any necessity of undoing what has been already done. And then let the entire payments be collected with the land tax, and form one central fund to be paid in portions adjusted to the work to be done in each cure of souls at the death of each present incum bent. Ξ. sor. pédie Méthodique,' which came afterwards, did little more than re-arrange its predecesThe Encyclopédie Nouvelle,' now publishing under the editorship of Pierre Leroux and Jean Reynaud, is valuable for many of its articles and general arrangement. We have heard it highly praised, and such papers as we have consulted seemed to warrant the reputation of the work. One obstacle, however, is that it is made a vehicle for the doctrines of Pierre Leroux, which, though accepted as gospel by "les humanitaires," will receive little attention here. The present work has a similar drawback to its success in England. It is Catholic. This, which is of course in its favour as regards Catholics, will prevent the generality of Englishmen from becoming subscribers; for although it does not affect the articles of science, yet these alone escape its influence; history, literature, and philosophy, have a Catholic colouring which is not acceptable to Protestant readers. Apart from these considerations the work is on the whole a creditable and useful one. ART. VI. Encyclopédie du Dix-Neuvième Siècle. Répertoire Universel des Sciences, des Lettres, et des Arts; avec la Biographie des Hommes Célèbres. Paris. 1843. is excellent; so is' Accouchement;' so also ers. We are going to present our readers with two brief and graphic memoirs of two celebrated persons of the last century. We select these memoirs from the Encyclopédie mentioned at the head of this article; and we select them because the work in which they appear is by its nature not likely to fall into the hands of the generality of our readCyclopædias are of recognized utility; but their very size prevents their being in the libraries of ordinary readers. To such of our subscribers whose purses and shelves render cyclopædias available, we will address a few words of criticism on the present work; to the others, we trust we shall be affording some harmless amusement by the biographies of Beaumarchais and Sophie Arnould, from the sparkling pen of the indefatigable, inimitable Jules Janin. It must be confessed that France, though the first to start an Encyclopædia, has not produced one worthy of rivalling those published in England. In the 'Britannica' and 'Metropolitana,' the majority of articles on important subjects have been laborious treatises. No French cyclopædia can stand a comparison with them; nay, not even with the 'Penny Cyclopædia,' for learning and accuracy. The Encyclopédie started by D'Alembert contained some striking articles, but as a whole it is ill digested, ill written, and deficient in accuracy. The Encyclo Some articles are insufficient, as is the case with all cyclopædias; some of them elaborate and worthy of all praise. 'Alienation' is 'Abbaye.' Voltaire has no justice awarded him. Is M. Philarète Chasles really insensible to the greatness of that astonishing writer, or is he merely following the prejudices of the party to which he belongs? The article 'Sublime' is contemptible, being merely a few illustrations, without the least philosophical inquiry. The article 'Art,' by Buchez, will find great favour in the eyes of the party he addresses, but in the eyes of no other mortals. Some of the biographies appear to us to be very nearly models of cyclopædia articles; brief yet satisfactory. It has been well said that du P B pe to ha or We pre pre SU 2 the the 200 G श DE 77 L And who that has ever toiled through the | glory; they have all fallen into obscurity, dull monotony of facts which most writers deem biography, can help being struck with the graphic impression conveyed by the Beaumarchais of Jules Janin in this cyclopædia? We do not say that it is unexcep-go-between without credit, living from hand Beaumarchais as well as the rest. Beaumarchais is now only represented by an old woman, once the Countess Almaviva, by a cunning and ill-bred servant named Susanna, and by a fat, grisly, wrinkled old man called Figaro, a bad tionable; we do not fancy that it could not have been still further improved by the rigorous statement of all facts and dates; but we ask, is not the image of the man clearly presented? In those seemingly careless lines there is more matter than in pages of ponderous dulness priding itself on facts. Instead of facts he gives you a distinct impression; in the place of dates he gives results. Jules Janin, who writes everywhere and on everything, on what he does as well as on what he does not understand, is hardly the sort of writer one would most trust in the pages of a cyclopædia. One would doubt his accuracy and sincerity. One would believe nothing on his word. He could not be quoted as an authority even in ✓ Grub street: one would as soon believe the 'Quarterly Review. In spite of this we El pronounce his biographies wonderful. With a keen eye for the salient characteristics he gives you but few details, and they all tell. With a rattling, somewhat wordy style, he is never dull, never obscure. Reckless enough as to facts, he is never careless as to effect. You may detect him in a hundred blunders without disturbing his effect one single iota. He does not care for dates and literal facts; he cares only for results. The life of Lesage has been attempted a hundred times; it has been written only once, and that once by Jules Janin. Compare his introductory memoir to the illustrated edition of "Le Diable Boiteux,' with every other memoir, and the graphic force with which it is executed will call forth your admiration. So also we would ask you to interrogate yourself as to what sort of an idea you have of the dres rega ea author of 'Le Barbier de Seville?" Then read Janin's account of Beaumarchais : "Of all the fame, nay more, of all the noise which this man once made, what now remains? nothing but some long, licentious, withered comdedies, which are now painful to behold; like vice when it has grown old and wretched, with to mouth by selling old clothes. Such is the intellectual, philosophical, and moral lumber of a man who overturned as many things as Voltaire, and who perhaps made more noise than Voltaire, that is to say, made a great deal too much. "Beaumarchais was born at Paris in the year 1732; he died in the year 1799. He thus traversed all that troubled portion of the 18th century, of which he was one of the coryphees. He winessed the birth, growth, and extinction of the French revolution, and escaped its dangers by a miracle, and the remains of that good fortune which attended him through life. Beaumarchais was a child of chance; his education was chance, his life was all chance, so were his wit, his talent, and his style. What he says of his Figaro might be said of himself, 'Enfant trouvé! Enfant perdu, docteur!" And doubtless, had heaven so willed it, Beaumarchais would have been the son of a prince. Unfortunately heaven did not will it. "Before he became a comic poet he commenced, like Figaro, by being a musician. He gave music lessons to Mesdames, the daughters of Louis XV., virtuous princesses who, without sufficient foresight, granted their all-powerful protection to this clever intriguer; Beaumarchais taught them the guitar, Figaro's instrument. And thus the musician became a courtier; the courtier soon became litigious; the litigious man ushered in the comic poet; the comic poet preceded the seller of guns to the American insurgents. He did everything, he used everything, he was by turns rich, poor, glorious, proscribed, carried in triumph, shut up in St. Lazare, glorified, and treated like a bandit by M. Bergasse, who was an honest man. All his life contained in his 'Mémoires Judiciaires;' he there shows himself not without art, but without paint, such as he saw himself, a little handsomer, perhaps, than he really was. In these memoirs are to be found all that the most creative and remorseless fancy can say of any one on the spur of the moment. This affair which occupied all Europe, was originally a bagatelle. Beaumarchais, who had worked with Paris Duverney, found himself in Paris Duverney's debt at the death of the latter. The heirs claimed 150,000 francs of Beaumarchais; Beaumarchais, on his side, claimed 15,000. Whilst the cause was pending, Beaumarchais, like Figaro, endeavoured to see his judges: 'A-t-il vu mon secré no other refuge than the truckle bed of an hos-taire, ce bon-on gar-arçon la?' One of the pital. That Beaumarchais who wore out his councillors of the parlement Maupeou closed his life in overthrowing authority, and overthrew it door against Beaumarchais. Beaumarchais perindeed because in his time it hung upon a severed; he sent the councillor a gold watch breath; what has this revolution profited him? set with brilliants, and a hundred and fifteen Alone amongst the revolutionists of the eight- louis. At this price, Goezman listened to the eenth century, Voltaire still lives and reigns; he pleader, but when the day arrived Goezman gave is the master, the chief of that rebellion of wits judgment against Beaumarchais, who then rewhose names have been absorbed in his fame. membered the line from Plaideurs: Mais renThe most famous satellites who aided him to dez donc l'argent!" And effectively the watch, make a name, have hardly any share in his the brilliants, and a hundred louis were returned to him. Beaumarchais claimed the fifteen louis | yers whom Fabre d'Eglantine has so spiritedly which still remained due. The councillor Goezman, instead of returning the money, prosecuted Beaumarchais for libel. Beaumarchais defended himself valiantly. He instantly set to work, and with inexhaustible humour recited all his adventures with M. and Madame Goezman, namely, three useless visits on Friday, the 2d of April; one useful one the next day, the 3d of April, thanks to Madame Goezman; on the 4th of April an audience promised but not granted; on the 5th of April, the day of the report, an audience granted by the wife, refused by the husband, and a hundred louis placed in her hands, a watch set with brilliants, and fifteen louis which Madame Goezman not choosing to return, Beaumarchais is threatened with M. de Sartines and M. de la Vrillière; and Goezman, like a fool, laying his complaint in the hands of the president, the procureur-général is commissioned to inquire; and the sieur BaculardArnaud, lying, accuses the sieur Beaumarchais. And thus Beaumarchais goes on confiding all to the public, and it may be imagined how much this amused the spectators, and what pleasure they took in seeing the parlement Maupeou treated in this fashion. All around Beaumarchais applauded him; his irony and anger were excited; Goezman and his wife were devoted to the infernal regions; the corrupt judge was everywhere pointed at. "There was a chapter in these memoirs entitled 'Confrontation de moi à Madame Goezman,' which was a real comedy, in which you saw Beaumarchais and Madame Goezman move and heard them talk. But the public feared that it would end too soon; the public might certainly have trusted Beaumarchais for making the most of scandal. The unfortunate fifteen louis were never allowed to drop. They were the watchword in this great battle. And when he had replied to the wife he began to reply to the husband; he heaped physical on moral proofs, and thus dragged the parlement Maupeou through the mud. And when nothing more could be made out of the male and female Goezman, he allowed the parlement to pass sentence, and by that sentence the parlement Moupeou again injured itself, for it gave the right to neither party. But the public had long judged the case in Beaumarchais' favour. The cause was heard and won; town and court sided with Beaumarchais; the Prince de Conti himself, who was extremely jealous of his prerogative as prince of the blood, invited him to dinner; he called Beaumarchais a great citizen, a new expression which was a whole revolution in itself. and successfully drawn in the Philinte: 'Go, fetch me a lawyer.' Moreover, since the Goezman affair, France laughed less, France at last understood she was marching to her ruin, and then Beaumarchais had to plead with a stronger antagonist, and more than once the man of wit was crushed by the emphatic eloquence of the adverse barrister. Beaumarchais no longer had so many laughers on his side. "He then threw himself into comedy with renewed vigour. He possessed all the qualities which make, not a comic poet, but an inventor of scenes, acts, dialogues, and imbroglios; his was a bantering imagination caring little for truth. He would willingly have exchanged all dramatic improbabilities for a bon mot; he had a confused notion that his comedy had not long to live, and therefore wrote it in haste. To commence and finish his dramatic career (we do not reckon his melodrama of 'Les deux Amis') he had the assistance of one person, which was himself; he represented himself such as he was; daring to insolence, witty to shamelessness, sceptical to impiety, despising the world and despising himself more than anything in it, jesting on everything sacred; placed himself on the stage, he no longer called himself Beaumarchais but Figaro. "This lawsuit gave Beaumarchais a love of lawsuits. He was already accustomed to them, his style also; success had rendered him quarrelsome. He therefore considered himself very fortunate when his second lawsuit commenced against M. Bergasse the advocate, who prosecuted him in the name of the sanctity of the marriage state; Beaumarchais was accused of having aided in the seduction of Madame KornThis time the accuser was not a Goezman, but an upright and honest lawyer belonging to that courageous young bar which already foreboded the French revolution; one of those law mann. only when he "Once his name altered, he struts about the stage with as much freedom and impudence as if he ran no risk of being recognized. He first shows us Figaro, like Beaumarchais, the child of his own works, a poet, a musician, playing the guitar, living from hand to mouth, laughing at the great man who pays him, practising all trades, even the least honourable ones, for a living, flattering aloud the nobles whom he secretly maligns, a leader of intrigues, a chatterer, necessitous, clever, always on his guard against first impulses, for the sole reason that first impulses are almost always good; such is this newly-invented hero. In order to make him more presentable and attractive, Beaumarchais gives Figaro the handsomest dress of all Spain. The Barbier de Seville is but the first act of this long story. Be patient! You will soon see all the persons whose amours, passions, hatreds, fears, ambitions, and hopes, Beaumarchais presents to you, busy in an endless drama, complicated by the strangest details. "The 'Mariage de Figaro' is therefore the second chapter of the immortal story, of which the sieur Beaumarchais is the hero. What a chapter! what a long and incredible philippic against the whole of society! what a jesting leveller is Figaro! what wonderful audacity was required ever to imagine that such a play should be publicly represented under a monarchy which remembered Louis XIV. and King Louis XV. ! And what perseverance and will of iron necessary to get such a piece performed under a king who was an honest man, to whom excesses of all kinds caused as much repugnance as terror. King Louis XVI., to whom the piece had been read, expressed himself frankly on the subject- Be certain,' said he, 'that this piece will never be played! This man sneers at everything. To be consistent, the Bastile should be pulled down, t k te h L a th F fo SC a te Wa th en T pie WO ce Th ten an ch eff to So Be ten rub les bo to W th en tur mu sele An ery adu G if such a comedy were publicly acted.' Louis | vant, himself ridiculing law, justice, morals, and XVI. was not aware of the truth of what he said. He was a weak and respectable man, who foresaw evils, but knew not how to prevent them. The king was borne down by the exacting and witty body of nobles, who thought themtselves invulnerable, and who did not choose to appear to fear dangerous writings, like the common people. Moreover, after having at first authorized the performance of the 'Mariage,' the king withdrew the permission he had gra granted; 그 to which Beaumarchais replied that he would have his piece performed in the choir of Notre Dame. And Beaumarchais himself was not aware how truly he spoke. At last, in spite of the king, in spite of all the right-minded men in France, at least of all those who knew or could foresee the future, the piece was played with a scandalous success, which has no equal in the annals of the theatre. The day preceding this terrible and solemn one the Théâtre Français was half filled with people who spent the night there. Monsieur, the king's brother, was prestot ent at the first performance in a public box. The king, however, anxiously waited for the ant piece to be played. He hoped, he said, that it would be damned. A vain hope. As if sucocess did not always attend the demolishers. The piece was lauded to the skies. It was listened to with unanimous delight! 'If there is anything madder than my play,' said Beaumarchais, 'it is its success. The piece had all the effect of a revolution. Court and city flocked to it, and it may be imagined with what delight. Some great ladies wished to go in private boxes. marriage, ridiculing himself and every one else. The lady appears on terms of friendship with the servant, who is her rival, burning with a secret flame for a boy of fifteen, an adulteress in her heart before being one with her body. The judge shows himself corrupt and a corrupter, a poor foolish creature, ignoble in appearance. None are spared in this satire on the world. The peasant Antonio is drunk; his niece is a girl almost ruined by her own folly. Old Marcelina, who has lost a child, is only placed there to make us laugh at the feelings of maternity. Doctor Bartholo holds out his cheek to receive the slap aimed at science. Childhood itself, even childhood, that pure and holy innocence which Juvenal orders should be so respected, is placed there also to be the victim of immoral passions. Poor child! his heart is filled with bad passions; he is already made vicious creature, sighing, and his heart beating for every woman, whoever she may be; Madame Almaviva, Susanna, Fanchette, he pursues them all, even old Marcelina. Poor child! they pass him from one to the other like some frivolous toy. And all these vices have been portrayed in the same drama, solely to amuse the crowd for five hours every evening. a "They all came panting, curious, greedy to be present at this immoral spectacle. And whilst these imprudent men clapped their hands at this debauch of wit, they did not hear the shaking of the falling throne; they did not hear that revolution roaring in the distance; they did not hear the murmurs of the people of '89, who meant to Beaumarchais replied that his play was not writ- take these members of French society at their ten for prudes. Prudes, if you please; but Che-word; the people was coming to clutch them in rubino, half naked at the Countess' feet, is hardly the midst of this joy, this licence, the them in cies, these past vices, and to plunge them into what an abyss! into what despair! into what a revolution !" a less immoral seen from a public than a private box. One young man wrote to Beaumarchais to ask for a ticket, even were he to die afterwards. Yes, it is a strange and incredible thing in the annals of a civilized people, thaible entire society, the patient work of eighteen centuries, the treasure of morals which nations ist must amass, but which they, alas! amass but Iseldom, should be thus remorselessly sacrificed. And sacrificed to what? To a piece of buffoonery, a scandal, an immoral story of love and adultery. Yes, that was all; on one hand, the 'Mariage de Figaro;' on the other, the monarchy of Louis XIV. ;-on one hand, the wit of Beaumarchais; on the other, the genius of Bossuet. Oh! what would Bossuet have said had he been present at such a scene! Oh! what would the stern Cardinal Richelieu have said This is a striking picture, but an exaggeration. Beaumarchais was able to overturn the monarchy of Louis XIV. and Bossuet, only because France would no longer submit to the burthen. Beaumarchais was applauded, because he spoke out the convictions of the people. Beaumarchais was powerful, because he was applauded. There was point in his satire; there was wit in his attack on society: but this wit would have only raised a passing smile, had not all society been in a state of fermentation, and ready to applaud any and every expression had he been told that one day, and that at no of its hatred to established ideas. In the distant period, the King of France himself would not, and could not, venture in his own same way Siéyes became powerful, because he first put the question which all his conkingdom to prevent the performance of a stage play! A strange thing! Oh! the wondrous temporaries were endeavouring to bring into blindness of nations that are ruining themselves! shape. What is the tiers-état? he asked. To ruin themselves thus. All French society To ask such a question was to produce a ✓✓ clapping its hands to encourage the comic poet, revolution. But if the men of our day look ing wi who dragged it through dirt, shame, infamy, and back upon the comedies of Beaumarchais by insult. All the authorities of society are compromised in this fatal drama. First appears a i'l priest, mixed up with all this uncleanliness, flat tering, cringing, a and the pamphlets of Siéyes, we are unable to comprehend their prodigious success: the wit of the one seems forced and exaggerated the logic of the other trivial and narrow' |