his genius fair play, and to surpass that master.
The literary discussions—which range with
great impartiality between the heights of
transcendentalism in poetry and philosophy,
and the depths of some feeble bon mot in a
feeble satirical journal—are conducted in
much the same manner. That thoughtful-
looking young man, with the bright eye and
the blonde moustache, is the author of a
tragedy, in five acts, in verse—and unhappily
still in manuscript—which accounts
for the gloomy state of affairs at the Odéon,
where it was refused. Adolphe appeared
for the first time in print only yesterday,
and now stands responsible for an
"Epitaphe anticipée" upon a popular journalist
in the "Tintamarre." He is occupied in
playing at billiards, and holding forth upon
the respective merits of the classical and
romantic schools, with regard to which he
does not seem to have any very settled
opinions; it is probable that his tragedy
belongs to some new school of his own
discovery. He covers his cue with chalk while
covering a classicist with confusion; makes a
cannon—and leaves a Romanticist no head
to stand upon. In the same manner, will
embryo Handels and Mozarts hold forth upon
the great masters of their particular art; but
you may observe that nobody gives specimens
of his own compositions, literary or musical:
it is a strict rule in the order, that its members
are neither to be read to nor sung to;
such assaults being directed only against the
common enemy, society in general; except
at certain solemn séances of the Bohemians
themselves, when every man has an allotted
period of the evening for the gratification of
his own idiosyncracy.

As for politics, you will scarcely hear them
touched upon among the Bohemians—
certainly never unless suggested by a subject
of art. "Art before all," is their creed;
morality and the virtues they hold in high
estimation- as elements without which poetry
could not exist; and they have the greatest
reverence for what is sacred—as furnishing
inspiration to the painter. They bend
themselves—it is to Dante; they adore—it is before
Raffaelle.

So much for the aims and aspirations of the
Bohemians. For the rest, you may listen
sometimes to no inconsiderable amount of
their conversation, without being very much
edified. Their muse is associated with something
like mockery, and their trancendentalism
has a dash of slang. They speak, in
fact, in a style of literary metaphor, which is
somewhat puzzling to the uninitiated. But
this is a habit common to all thorough artists
- using the word in its general sense,—who
live isolated from general society—surrounded
by nothing but art and its associations—until
one might almost believe, from, outward
appearances, that familiarity had produced its
proverbial effect.

Listen to that group in the corner of the
café. That young man with the Vandyke
beard, who sits under the peg which holds
the broad-leaved felt hat, is evidently a
painter. He is telling his friends the life and
adventures of the grand historical picture on
which he has now been engaged for several
years. The picture originally represented
the "Passage of the Red Sea," under which
title it was duly refused admission into the
Exhibition. The artist, however, unwilling to
have lost his time entirely, altered some of
the details without changing the general
composition, and called it the "Passage of the
Rubicon;" but Pharaoh, we are told, ill
disguised under the mantle of Caesar, was recognised
on the following year, and summarily
repulsed. The third year came, and with it
came the picture, once more a candidate for
exhibition. This time greater changes were
made—in the Egyptian especially, who now
appeared in the uniform of the Imperial
Guard. This time the piece was called the
"Passage of the Bérézina." The committee,
however, not only saw through the artist's
design, but through his colours also; although
he was always inclined to produce his effects
by means of what they call an "opaque
medium." The work was, accordingly, again
returned upon his hands. "Never mind,
however," said the artist, in recounting this
last mishap—"next year I shall call it the
'Passage des Panoramas.'"— Next to the artist
is a personage, a little older and more careworn.
He is beginning to compromise, to
some extent, with his ambition, and condescend
to task-work. He has recently produced a
vaudeville at the Variétés— that is to say, he
has written the dialogue, under the direction
of two established authors, one of whom has
furnished the "idea" of the piece, while the
other has sketched out and arranged the
scenes, and given the principal "points." The
names of the two established authors have
appeared in large letters in the playbills;
that of the Bohemian follows in small
typography; and, as may be supposed, his share of
the spoils has been proportionate. This division
of employment is almost universal in
French dramatic writing, and the least
important author, who figures last, in small cap,
is usually a Bohemian. Perhaps the successful
authors, who now reap all the honours, have
passed through the ordeal in their time; and
the subordinate will have his day. In this
case, he sinks into the traditional "literary
hack," and will write anything for which he
can obtain the most miserable remuneration—
from a History of the Universe, to an epitaph
or a tradesman's puff.

But while the young ambition which spurns
the lower walks of art, is not likely to be at
once recognised and at once successful, the
less aspiring or more experienced—who
condescend to plod along wherever a finger-post
points in the direction of a dinner—are not
always certain to secure that refreshment at
the end of their journey. If on the one road