THE PRESS IN FRANCE. If you went to the French Opera, and saw a large and very brilliant box, rather larger and more brilliant than any other, whose would you suppose it to be? The king's? no: a minister's? no: an ambassador's? no: a Russian prince's? no: an English lord's? no: a French peer's? no: a deputy's? guess again:-That box is the Temps newspaper's! What! a newspaper have a box at the Opera? to be sure; that box is where the newspaper does the greatest part of its business. You see that fat smooth-faced little gentleman, and that tall, thin, pale figure in spectacles-one was a great man a little time ago, the other expects to be a great man soon. The editor is giving these statesmen an audience. They tell him their views, he listens. They tell him the strength of their party, he takes a note. They tell him what course they mean to pursue, he proffers advice. The editor is a clever man. This is his way of conducting his journal. He pretends that to influence the politics of the day, he must know the political men of the day. He makes his paper the organ of a party; and he makes himself the head of the party. But how to keep this party toge ther? He used to give dinners-he now takes an Opera-box. I do not know any thing better that paints the character of the French, or of the state of France, than the journalist at the head of his political party, assembled in a box at the Opera. In England a paper has immense consideration; but the editor, however respectable, little. You rarely hear him spoken of-in few cases is he known, unless pelted, on some accidental occasion, by public abuse into notoriety. There seems on all sides the most ignorant willingness to submit to newspaper despotism, coupled with an equally ignorant contempt for those who direct it. When M. Thiers paid a visit to London, a year ago, the English papers, and the writers of these papers strange to say, affected to sneer at M. Thiers, because, forsooth, he had been a writer in a newspaper. I need hardly remark that they showed, by such conduct, a very mean opinion of themselves, and a very gross ignorance of that country in the affairs of which M. Thiers takes so conspicuous a part. It is difficult to point out a public man of any eminence in France, who has not written in a newspaper. M. Benjamin Constant, M. de Châteaubriand, M. de Lalot, M. de Villele, M. Villemain, M. B. de Vaux, I'Abbe de Pradt, M. Arago, M. Odillon Barrot have all written in newspapers: and the only man worthy of being put into competition with M. Thiers at the present moment-the only man whom at the time I am writing, the dynasty has seriously to dread, is that gentleman who lately sought refuge on our shores and whose talents and integrity have been made visible through the channel of a daily journal. THE BURIAL OF LOVE. His eyes in eclipse, His bow unstrung His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go-carry him to his dark death bed TEETOTALISM. Though we recognize temperance as a cardinal virtue, we have always considered teetotalism, as it is called, a new creation of fanaticism, which must ever prove abortive of its purpose. Most virtues in excess become vices. Caution, if unduly encouraged, will generate apathy, generosity carried to excess, loses itself in prodigality, and zeal pushed to extremes degenerates into enthusiasm: so of other virtues. The subjoined passages from Mr. Hogan's pamphlet are worthy of attention. "What is it that has not its latent evil in it? the food we eat, the water we drink, clear from the fountain head, the air we breathe on the mountain top, and the sleep we take which only in moderation regulates the motion of the blood, and gives strength and health to the body, as well as food. Are we then to reject roast beef because prussic acid, a deadly poison, can be obtained from it? Are we to reject water itself, the Teetotaler's Hygeianism of the health and happiness of the poor, because it contains hydrogen, a substance fatal to animal life; are we to reject the air we breathe, because atmospheric air contains azote, another deadly poison; are we to reject sleep, because too much of it, like wine, beer, ale and ardent spirits is highly pernicious? Whatever is taken beyond necessity ceases to be a nourishment, and becomes a poison; and whatever is necessary tends to promote and sustain health. Hence it is evident, that beer, ale, wines, ardent spirits, which accord with the human stomach, are necessary when temperately used; and it is upon this principle the science of medicine and the curative art depend, even to the adtating the dose to arrest some malignant evil and ministering deadly poisons, reason and art dicpromote health. "I have not dwelt upon the extensive ruin which Teetotalism is calculated to bring on trade, commerce, and employment: I have not dwelt upon that Temperance, namely, the moral medium between extremes in eating and drinking, which is consistent with the religion of God and Nature, and therefore opposed to the morbid insanity of Teetotalism; but I have dwelt upon the object, and the principles and conduct of those at the bottom of the scheme: a scheme which, if realized, would ruin coopers, black-smiths, coppersmiths, brass-founders, engine-makers, flint-glassmakers, &c. in the first degree, and many others in the second; as brokers, carpenters, painters, glaziers, indeed, all concerned in the building departments; with an extensive depression in the breed and sale of horses-and an enormous loss to the revenue and publicans. "In 1827, there were 49,500 publicans in England and Wales, and 4,430 of them in London. Only 23,000 brewed their own beer among the population of England and Wales, owing to the Malt Tax: at that period only 39 brewed their own beer in London. The duty on Malt was £3,800,000-on Beer £3,300,000, and on Hops £400,000-malsters' licences yielded £20,000brewers' £53,000, and publicans' £164,000." THE VALENTINES BY T. DIBDIN. FOR VALENTINE'S DAY, 1838. THE REQUEST. Buds on the branch, birds on the spray, With spring born smiles I hear and see; And fairy voices on this day Ask who my Valentine shall be? Mary, permit me say, if you Nor jealous nor pedantic be, Neither a Yellow nor a Blue, Then you're the Valentine for me. If in the dance it be your lot To bear the belle in action free, Yet, ask'd to waltz, had rather not, Then you're the Valentine for me. If Taste applaud when Mary sings, (Not "Fly not yet,") and when, with glee, Her rapid fingers "kiss the strings," Then she's the Valentine for me. If you, while loved by many a friend, Then you're the Valentine for me. Then you're the Valentine for me. Then you're the Valentine for me. Should carriage roll, or charger shy, With nerve unshaken should you see Then you're the Valentine for me. Worthy yourself, and Love, to be, THE REPLY. I far from Yellow am as Blue, Nor to suspect nor write incline, You rat not, nor with rogues combine, And Talent round your heart entwine, And you shall be my Valentine. And you shall be my Valentine. |