The objects which will present themselves
to his gaze are a row of theatres, large and
small, so close to each other, that the quantity
of dramatic establishments which one would
ordinarily assign to a tolerably large capital,
are here packed within one of those recesses,
which, in the language of our suburbs,
would be called " crescents " or " places."
The third lyrical theatre, an opera house
formed out of the failing speculation of
the Théâtre Historique, the Théâtre
National, devoted to military spectacles, the
Gaîté, famed sometimes for its faëry wonders,
sometimes for its deep dramatic interest, the
Funambules, where Pierrot goes through his
unsavoury jokes, the Folies Dramatiques,
and the Délassements Comiques, both sacred
to a somewhat frivolous Thalia—are all in
this region. Here great successes are achieved
—here is collected the largest playgoing
multitude in the sublunar world. Here spring
dramas, which can only be studied by an
actual visit to Paris; for, with the single
exception of Paillasse which was brought out
at the Gaîté during a temporary engagement
of M. Frederic Lemaître—and which was
transplanted to London, when that great
artist last paid us a visit—we do not believe
that our ever indefatigable Mr. Mitchell, the
manager of the French plays at the St.
James's Theatre, London, ever culled a
theatrical flower from the remarkable region
to which we here refer. The tarry-at-home
traveller of Western London may, if he
please, visit the Français, and the Vaudeville,
and the Variétés, and the Gymnase, and even
the Palais Royal, without moving to any
point more distant than the elegant little
theatre in King Street, St. James's. He may
not, to be sure, catch the novelties just as
they are hatched; but, if he will wait
patiently they will all—save certain
objectionable creations which the power of the
censor will not sanction—come in turn. But
to see the drama of the Boulevard du Temple
he must go to Paris— there is no road to that
particular species of French drama and to
the Boulevard where it flourishes, except
across the British Channel.

When I was last in Paris the weather was
intensely cold, and cold is no light matter in
the metropolis of France. If I am not
mistaken there is the character of a cockney in
some old English play, who boasts of the
London fog as something substantial, and
hints that there is nutriment in inhaling it.
As the Briton is always in an anti-national
mood when he seeks his amusements, he is
taught to laugh at remarks of this kind, and
to flatter himself that his views are more
enlarged than those of the cockney upon the
stage. Ah! He who has passed one wintry
week at Paris, will begin to suspect that the
mimic cockney was not so far wrong, and
that there is something estimable, after all, in
the much-abused London fog. The air of Paris
is so pure, but withal so cutting, that the cold
seems to have a clear field for its operations;
whereas a good damp fog forms something
like a vast wrapper; as Sancho Panza said of
sleep, " Verily it covereth a man like a
cloak." Then, the Parisians appear to
respect cold, just as the Turks respect dogs,
which are allowed to thrive and luxuriate at
Constantinople, as if no nuisance would be
occasioned by their eccentricities: so with
cold among the French, who take no measures
to get rid of it. You may ruin yourself in
purchasing baskets of wood, but these merely
make property fires,—like those around
which gypsies sit in some Adelphi
melodrama; and, though very pretty to look at
—if you are curious enough to open your stove
and peep in— they give out no heat whatever.
Ugh! a terrible, sharp, pinching, biting,
paralyzing thing is that same Parisian cold!

The cold weather limiting my sphere of
observation—for a long walk was a formidable
undertaking, and gardens were places to
be studiously shunned (I still shiver at the
recollection of one mistaken passage across the
gardens of the Luxembourg)— I devoted
myself principally to the study of the Boulevard
du Temple. The theatres offered at any rate
a constant refuge when the cold became
intense.

And here, evening after evening, did I
observe the spectacle to which I now call
attention. I mean the living rows of
theatrical audiences, in front of each of the several
theatres of that strange Boulevard, all parallel
to each other, and consequently at right
angles to the coach-road. In London a
theatrical audience, intensely awaiting and
expecting the opening of the doors, is a rare
sight, only to be seen at long intervals of
time and space, except, perhaps, on the
"other (or Surrey) side of the water; " but
here is a line of theatres, only separated from
each other by the café attached to each; and,
far from rivalling each others' attractions,
they seem to co-operate lovingly in drawing
a multitude to one spot. By seven o'clock
post meridian every one of those theatres
will be full; or, at any rate, they will contain
what is called a " good house."

Well, every one knows that the French
are fond of theatrical amusements, and therefore
it follows as a matter of course, that the
theatres are filled; but there is a peculiarity
in the French theatrical public which is far
more instructive than its magnitude, and that
is the strong sense of order that pervades it.
Eagerness to witness a certain object might
be supposed commensurate with recklessness
in reaching a fitting point of view, but to
this supposition the behaviour of English and
French audiences is decidedly antagonistic.
The English as a nation care comparatively
little for the stage, but the least theatrical
attraction, above the ordinary level, will produce
a crush, always disagreeable, sometimes
dangerous. No law but that of the strongest
is recognised, and the passages of a London