tiest and most brilliant of Frenchmen, he who has made the bourgeois strut before us in delightful finery, and inspired with the most charming fooling his Scapin and Sganarelle-strange climax and contradiction of nature, which takes no pains to be consistent, but gives the lie to all our theories with swift interchanges of tears and laughter, of scorn and sweetness! And yet there is a higher consistency in this injured and wounded spirit. It is falsehood he aims at in everything-lightly in his lighter moods, but always with pungent force, and in the end tragically, as the subject rises, and with all the force of suffering.

Perhaps the most complete, how ever, of all Molière's efforts, is the drama which, having been filched from him by a great composer, has now become so identified with baritones and sopranos as to be no longer the 'Festin de Pierre' but 'Don Giovanni,' one of the most popular of operas. It is vain to struggle against such an enlèvement, yet it may well be regretted as high treason to genius. A more complete figure than that of Don Juan is not to be found in dramatic literature. His high courage, his gallant bearing, his ease and light-hearted grace, make us half forget the wickedness, which is so constantly and steadily pursued that it becomes a quality and calls forth a kind of admiration, as do all persistent objects pursued without intermission with all the forces of the mind in unison.

And the valet shares in the higher inspiration which has made of his master an individual hero more vivid and perfect than anything else which Molière has attempted. The Sganarelle of the 'Festin de Pierre' is far beyond all his compeers. He is no longer the conventional knave, full of tricks and resources, but a

puzzled yet faithful human creature, whose mingled criticism of and devotion to his master, his mixture of admiration and horror at all the escapades of the dauntless reprobate, l'épouseur du genre humain, are always natural and lifelike. Sganarelle himself is no saint. After he has described the character of his master in the first scene with perfect frankness as le plus grand scélérat que la terre ait jamais porté, he adds, with equal sincerity, "Here he comes; let us part company. Remember, however; I have spoken to you freely, and perhaps my tongue has run away with me; but if anything of this comes back to his ears, I shall swear boldly that you lie."

But even with this freedom from prejudice in respect to his own moral conduct, his master goes too far for honest Sganarelle; and his sermons, in which there is always a return of alarmed submission-"Assurément que vous avez raison, si vous le voulez "—are always admirable. Here is a specimen of his protestations, yet compliance. Don Juan has just abandoned his last wife Donna Elvira, as all opera-goers are aware.

Don J. What man is that with whom you were talking? He looks very like Donna Elvira's good Gusman.

Sgan. It is something very like him.

Don J. What is it he? ... And what does he want here?

Sgan. You may easily imagine what it is that brings him here.

Don J. Our departure, no doubt? tressed by it, and asks me what is the Sgan. The good man is quite dis

reason.

Don J. And what answer did you make?

Sgan. That you had not said a word to me on the subject.

Don J. But let us see now. What of the affair altogether? is your opinion? What do you think

Sgan. I? I suppose, without doing

you injustice, that you have fallen in love with some one else.

Don J. By my faith, you are right enough! I must confess that another lady has driven Donna Elvira out of my head.

Sgan. Eh, mon Dieu! Have I not my Don Juan at my finger-ends? I know your heart to be the greatest rover in the world, taking pleasure in wandering about from engagement to engagement, and incapable of remaining in one place.

Don J. And don't you think I am quite right?

Sgan. Ah, monsieur !-
Don J. What? Speak.

Sgan. Certainly you are right if you think so; no one can go against that. But if you did not think so, it might be another matter.

Don J. Very well. I give you leave to speak freely and to tell me your real opinion.

Sgan. In that case, monsieur, I must tell you frankly that I don't at all approve your mode of acting, and that I think it very wicked to fall in love all round as you do.

Don J. You think one should be bound to the first one sees-that one should renounce the world for her, and have no eyes for others. A fine thing to pique one's self on the false honour of fidelity, to bury one's self in a single passion, to be dead in one's youth to all other beauties ! There is nothing so delightful as to triumph over the resistance of a beautiful woman; and I have on that subject the ambition natural to conquerors who fly from victory to victory, and cannot make up their minds to restrain their desires. Nothing can arrest the impetuosity of my wishes. I have a heart to be in love with the whole world, and, like Alexander, I wish that there might be other worlds in which to extend my conquests.

Sgan. Vertu de ma vie! how you talk! You seem to have learned all that by heart, and pour it out like a book.

Don J. And what have you to say on the subject?

Sgan. My faith! I have to say-that I don't know what to say-for you turn things in such a way that you seem to be in the right; and yet it is certain

that you are not in the right. I had the finest arguments in the world, but you have confused them all with your talk. Let me alone; another time I will write down all my reasons when I have to argue with you.

Don J. That will be the best way. Sgan. But, monsieur, will it be within the licence you have given me if I say that I am rather scandalised by the life you lead?

Don J. How ?-what kind of life is it I lead ?

Sgan. Oh, very good! but, for instance, to see you make a new marriage every month as you do

Don J. Could anything be more agreeable?

Sgan. It is true. I can imagine it is very agreeable and very amusing, and I could very well reconcile myself to it if there was no harm in it; but, monsieur, to play like this with a sacred mystery, and

Don J. Get along! this is an affair between Heaven and me, and we can manage it quite well without any need for you to mix yourself up with it.

Sgan. My faith, monsieur! I have always heard that it was a bad joke to jest with Heaven, and that libertines never came to a good end.

Don J. Holloa, master fool! you know that I don't like sermons.

Sgan. I don't say this for you,— heaven preserve me from taking the liberty! You know what you are doing; and if you believe in nothing, you have reasons for it: but there are certain insignificant persons in the world who are libertines without knowing why, who set up for being freethinkers (que font les esprits forts) because they think it becomes them; and if I had one of them for my master, I should say to him distinctly, looking him in the face, How do you dare thus to play with Heaven? and are you not afraid to make a jest of the most sacred things? It is well your part, poor worm of earth, little idiot that you are (this is what I should say to the kind of master I spoke of it is well your part to turn into a joke all that men reverence most. Do you think, because you are a man of quality, because you have a wig well dressed and curled, feathers in your hat, a laced coat, and flamecoloured ribbons (it is not you I speak

to, but the other)-do you think, I say, that these things make you more of a man, that everything is permitted to you, and that no one must venture to speak the truth? Learn of me, though I am only your valet, that sooner or later Heaven punishes the impious, that a bad life ends in a bad death, and

that

Don J. Peace!

Sgan. What have we in hand now?

Thus the valet smothers his remorse and his sermon together, and remonstrating but docile, goes on to the next villany, his perplexed fidelity, obedience, and reluctance raising him to as much higher an eminence over the Mascarilles and Scapins as Don Juan in his unhesitating courage and confidence holds over the young étourdis and more virtuous gallants of the previous plays. But what can even a fine drama do against the superior charms of opera? It is almost a pity that great composers do not always content themselves with an idiotic libretto, conceived and planned for their use alone. 'Don Giovanni' has altogether eclipsed 'Don Juan,' and

Sganarelle is lost in Leporello. The 'Festin de Pierre,' with all its wit and wisdom, its charming grace, its unflagging animation, and the tragic pauses it makes upon the edge of the abyss which finally swallows its hero, has fallen into obscurity. We desire to speak no blasphemy of Mozart or his genius, but it is somewhat hard upon Molière.

It was in this great but neglected drama that the powers of the first of French comedy-writers reached their highest development; but it is not by this that he is remembered among ourselves at least. The gay wit and amusing situations of his lighter works, however, keep their supremacy. The doctors and the philosophers, the Précieuses and learned ladies, the Dorines and Sganarelles, the Scapin and the Nicole, have lost none of their charms. These personages are always delightful to meet with; there is no weariness in them.

Stories retold, even situations repeated, do not interfere with the inherent life of beings so fantastic, so humorous, so gay.

BOMBAY, I admit, is a delightful place of residence if you can take it on the conditions enjoyed by its governors, commanders-in-chief, and members of council. Granted that you are at liberty to spend the hot season, from the middle of March till the commencement of June, in the forest shade of the cool tableland of Mahabaleshwar at a height of 4500 feet; that you can pass the time from the commencement of June to the end of September at Poona or Nasik, on the elevated plains of the Deccan, where the great rains of the south-west monsoon (which at that season make Bombay like the bottom of an old well) do little more than screen off the sun and moisten the arid air; that in the unhealthy season of October and the commencement of November you can place yourself high above the decaying vegetation of the plain, at such isolated hillforts and sanitaria as Singhur and Poorundhur; and that, in the cold season, you can take a two months' tour in Kathiawar, Sind, or Rajpú tana, in order to get a little real cold weather and brace yourself up after your fatiguing residence in Bombay,-then, I frankly admit, a residence in the capital of Western India is not only endurable, but has great advantages of its own. Admirable as this arrangement is, it does not appear to leave much time to be spent in Bombay; but then a very little time spent there goes a long way, and also goes far to impart a pleasing consciousness that you have been an unrewarded and unacknowledged benefactor of your fellow-creatures. It may be well, however, not to impart any whisper of this conviction to your fellowcitizens of Bombay; for now that

the Indian element has got the upper hand there, nothing is regarded with more dislike and distrust than any expression of dissatisfaction with the climate of that great city. Admit at once that it is simply perfection, and that your sole duty in life is to devote all your capacity and all your means to the benefit of its population, and then you will soon become a popular character, even though you may labour under the serious disadvantage of never having been twice born or circumcised, or bowed as a worshipper of the sacred fire.

It need not be denied, however, that the climate of Bombay, though debilitating, and favourable only to sub-forms of human life, is a pretty safe climate, and that Bombay has the advantage over the other Presidency towns in the easy access which it affords to immediate changes of climate at all seasons of the year. It is supposed to have a very delightful climate in what, by courtesy, is called its cold season; and, no doubt, visitors at that season, contrasting its sunny air and brilliant skies with the cold and fog and darkness of an English winter, have good reason to be delighted with the change: but those who have had some years' experience of tropical climes will perceive that a winter on the coast of Western India may do them much harm, while it is not likely to do good. The weather is not cold enough to brace, or to allow of warm clothes being worn with any degree of comfort; but the dry, desiccating wind of the north-east monsoon so rapidly cools the body as to be a real source of danger. When protected from that wind we are in a tropical climate; when ex