countered. (Cheers.) I shall leave office, I fear, with a name severely censured by many honorable gentlemen, who, on public principle, deeply regret the severance of party ties-who deeply regret that severance, not from any personal motives, but because they believe the existence and maintenance of a great party, and fidelity to the obligations which such an organization implies, constitute a powerful instrument, a necessary agency, of government. I shall surrender power severely censured, I fear also, by many honorable gentlemen, who, from no interested motives, have adhered to the principle of protection, as important to the welfare and prosperity of the country. I shall leave a name execrated by every monopolist, (loud cheering from the opposition,) who, from less honorable motives, maintains protection for his own individual benefit. (Continued cheering.) But, it may be, that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions of good will, in those places which are the abodes of men whose lot it is to labor, and to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow--a name remembered with expressions of good will, when they shall recreate their exhausted strength with abundant and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is no longer leavened by a sense of injustice. (Loud and long-continued cheering)."

The struggle being over, the League resolved upon its own dissolution. The repealing act received the royal assent on the second day of July, 1846. On that day, the League held its final meeting, in the town hall, at Manchester. George Wilson, who had presided over its councils from the beginning, and who, as appeared from the official records, had, during the seven years of its existence, attended its meetings thirteen hundred and sixty-one times, without receiving a farthing for his services, was most appropriately called to the chair on the present occasion. A large number of those who had participated in the conflicts of this well-fought struggle, including several members of parliament, were present from all parts of the country. After giving an interesting sketch of the progress of the great movement, from its feeble commencement to its glorious consummation, the chairman presented Mr. Cobden to the assemblage. As he came forward to address them, the body rose en masse, and welcomed him with the most rapturous plaudits, standing and cheering for several minutes. His speech was like himself, straight-forward, practical and hearty. He poured out his full soul in warm eulogies upon his co-workers in the long, doubtful, arduous contest, bestowed generous praise upon Sir Robert Peel and Lord John Russell, for their efficient aid in the crisis of the final struggle, and modestly declared, that far too much honor had been awarded to him for the part he had borne in the common cause. He closed by moving, that the objects of the National Anti-Corn Law League having been attained, its operations be now suspended, and the executive council be requested to wind up its affairs with as little delay as possible. The following morning, a letter appeared in the newspapers, addressed by Mr. Cobden to the electors of Stockport. He warmly thanked them for the confidence and kindness with which they had honored him while acting as their representative, and announced that the state of his health and the condition of his private affairs, induced him to seek a temporary withdrawal from public life.

The retirement of Cobden was only paralleled in dignity and grace, by that of Peel.

Having done what we proposed, by giving this outline-sketch of the Anti-Corn Law movement, we may, in a future number, allude to the lessons taught by the manner in which it was carried forward, and notice more particularly some of the persons who bore a prominent part in it.

PARISIAN SALOONS.*

THAT the empire of saloons in France has passed away, or that it belongs exclusively to another age, is an idea which originated with and clings to the debris of the old nobility, and it is propagated by that large class who pass through society on the outskirts of respectability; who are not, and who can never be, admitted where refinement of manners and intellectual tastes are the only attractions. If there is no longer a saloon De Stael, it is not because there are no longer admirable and talented women to preside, but rather because Parisian society is more affluent in those who possess all the excellences, with less of the vices, which were, in a former age, the attraction to saloons, which were the focus of debauchery, play, and political intrigue. The decayed aristocracy and the ill-bred parvenue unite in deploring the extinguishment of "good society," with the downfall of absolute monarchy in 1789. Of the urbanity, the elegance, the French spirit, say they, which then existed, nothing now remains; absolutely nothing. And as it is easy to write about a state of society which no longer exists, they become ecstatic upon the 18th century-that era of gunpowder and great generals, of embroidered drawing-room heroes, who gracefully cheated at play. They are enthusiastic in favor of those charming and virtuous women, whose favors were the reward of the lover who survived the duel. These ferocious regrettors of past elegances exclaim, somewhat in the style of Burke: "The age of good manners is gone; the traditions of good taste are lost; the ladies have ceased to be amiable; the men are accomplished only in smoking." That odious cigar alone inflames their indig nation. In those former times, that it is agreed to call the times of good company, they smoked little, but they snuffed much. At present they do both. In this only is the difference. Without doubt, society has lost a little of that frivolous and aristocratic varnish which distinguished it sixty years since; and, possibly, the saloons, opened each evening, are less numerous; but if so, it is owing to a complete change in the manners and customs, and more particularly to the discontinuance of late suppers, which were the family repast with some, and a luxurious féte with others, but everywhere prevalent. They afforded a pretext for assembling. The evening meal was the great affair of the day; the principal expense of the family. The theatres then were not counted by dozens. People knew not how to employ the evening; and after the play, which commenced and finished at an early hour, they went to supper with the contractor-general, or the noble who kept open house. Now the play terminates only at midnight, and suppers bear a seal of reprobation, which renders them more rare. Supper takes place now only by chance, after a ball or féte. It is become a great derangement to the family; nearly an accident. As for those who sup at cafés, they are regarded as cast-away debauchees; not worthy to live, because they desire to eat

Celebrated Saloons: By Madame Gay; and Parisian Letters: By Madame Girardin. Crosby & Nichols.

when others desire to sleep. Whoever aspires to the reputation of an orderly liver, to public employment, or to matrimony, ought only to sup secretly by himself, tete-a-tete, with a single dish, the doors fastened and the windows closed. The well-known prefect, Romieu, was the last of the supper-givers, after the days of July. He did not eat, and he only pretended to drink, yet he was possessed of a singular vanity to be considered rather a cormorant than a man; to be endowed with a gulf rather than with a stomach; and he continued regularly the suppers of the age of Louis XV. He had, also, his Dubarry, who flattered and cheated him. One fine morning, however, this virtuous prefect fell into disgrace. He had supped too long. The custom had changed.

The saloons had then lost a powerful attraction; but, at the same time, they were not less elegant; nor had they deteriorated in mind or refinement. Since the successive revolutions have removed all line of demarcation between castes and ranks, society is no longer composed only of grand seignors, whose only accomplishments are an agreeable smile, and a conversation eloquent upon ribbons, lace and perfumes. Beside this debris, less frivolous and more instructed, of ancient aristocracy, are now to be found men, unknown yesterday, but celebrated to-day; men of obscure birth, but of brilliant genius. And these literary and political geniuses disdain the pompous customs of former times.

It is also the mode to sneer at the bankers of the present day for their presumption, their love of money, and their insolence; as if the farmers' general, the Mondons and Turcarets of a past age, were models of urbanity, intellect and disinterestedness. Society has not degenerated, it has changed. The men have become more serious, the women less frivolous; and fifty saloons could be cited, where mind prevails over fashion.

It cannot be charged upon Parisian society as a crime, because foreigners, enriched, no one knows where or how, exercise the privilege of drawing crowds around them. Time does justice to the successful grocers, cutlers and ticket-venders, who flutter in Paris. After they have reigned a winter or two, at most, they disappear, ridiculed, abused, and nearly ruined. They afford, however, amusement while they last. It is so amusing to visit a person simply rich, an awkward, ill-bred broker, for instance, from New-York, who, having acquired wealth, disdains his countrymen and apes the manners of a foreign court. Such a one is visited without restraint. They carry whom they please. They order, command, and even break, at pleasure. They laugh at the amphitryon, whom they pass without saluting, and who is not permitted to invite a relation or a friend. The visit is a sort of escapade of good society, a passing error; and they consider themselves in a conquered country. They behave as in a model restaurant, where the host places at their disposal his cellar, his larder, his kitchen, and his domestics; and who, after they have eaten and drank, has the good taste to avoid presenting his bill. But this, although akin to New-York, is not Parisian society, a thing more easily felt than described. It is a union of good manners and good taste, a mixture of benevolence, of dignity, of intellect, and of familiarity: a bouquet of frivolous and solid qualities, with many attributes that defy analysis.

Without possessing millions, it is possible to have a saloon and of the best. Extreme wealth is not a drawback, but it is not indispensable. There are many saloons where, like that of the Duchess d'Elchingen, the attraction

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exists neither in the rich tables, nor the fauteuils, that cradle you softly in their downy arms; nor, perhaps, even in the more attractive favors of the cards; because they do not play, nor even dance; but they assemble to refresh the ideas and vivify the thoughts, in conversations full of life, of mind, and of heart. When the hour of retiring strikes, the too devoted friends, who would wish always to remain, withdraw reluctantly. The mistress of the house is reflected in her saloon; and, in the place of the present charming head, if a lady, without mind or heart, were installed, the charm would disappear, although the wealth should be quadrupled.

In a hotel of the Rue d'Astorg is to be found the most aristocratic saloon of Paris. There antique elegance is allied to all that modern luxury has invented for comfort: lackeys in livery, footmen for the anteroom, ushers for the reception-rooms, introduce and respectfully announce the visitors. In those apartments, decorated and furnished in the style of Louis XV., one is surrounded with an atmosphere of grandeur. Amidst those glorious family portraits, one finds himself in a familiar circle. It would be possible, from their biographies, almost to make a continued history of France. Here, with distinguished grace, Madame de Noailles nightly receives the old nobility of France, with strangers of

birth and distinction.

In the faubourg St. Germain, Madame de Scherville is "at home" thrice in the week once in the morning, and once in the evening. In the morning the ladies appear in promenade dress, and the men in fancy cravats. In the evening, laces, silks, velvets, coquetish bonnets as well as low necks, are displayed, but not exacted. The hostess, who presides with as much grace as indulgence, would close the eyes on the irregularities of a toilet a little too familiar, even if they presented themselves, which is, however, never the case. It is still a saloon where all are amused, although the number is never large. Sometimes they perform a comedy impromptu, as brilliant and gay as in the best days of Scribé. But with or without comedy, the saloon in question is an agreeable exception in fine society.

A visit to the hotel of Madame de Vatry is a delicious enjoyment. Elegance has invented nothing more complete. Every where the rarest flowers and objects of art are flooded with light. Her wealth creates friends, and her charity, a rare virtue with the rich, is profuse. Notwithstanding, she is a prey to ennui.

The saloon of Madame de Bihague would be one of the most attractive and elegant, if it were not for the over-anxiety of the hostess to draw around her the marquises and counts of the faubourg St. Germain. Contrary, however, to their custom, the counts and marquises, in this instance, turned a deaf ear to the invitations, and perseveringly resisted the balls, concerts and suppers, given in their honor. They consider her too willing. If the fair hostess would but content herself with her natural friends, who are worth all the others, particularly the wealthy city dames, who are worth more than the others, by, at least, the cost of the diamonds which they display profusely in the hair, the ears, on the arms, the hands, and the breast; some of them, even, resembling a traveling casket, or a jewel peddler, there would be nothing to desire. However, there are people worth seeing, and who are very agreeable; nevertheless, the taste of the hostess requires old names to adorn her saloon, and, in her despair, as a last resort, she has installed card-tables, which spread her

renown, and the aristocracy have already shown signs of surrendering to play what they refused to all other seductions.

There is, on the contrary, the aristocratic saloon of the Baroness d'Elmer. It is brilliant, legitimist, and very recherché; but, for all that, not very recreative. At first, the very exclusive manners of the mistress gave some offence. She received nobody before ten o'clock, and then caused herself to be served with tea without offering any to her guests. These inconsiderate eccentricities have been, however, otherwise largely compensated. People are now accustomed to them, and these things are easily arranged; the question is only to be understood.

Among political saloons, that of M. Thiers is distinguished from those of Count Mole and M. Pasquier, in that the ex-minister is neither descended from Mathieu Mole nor Etienne Pasquier, but is descended from himself. Talent does not measure itself either by the lustre or the antiquity of one's grandfather. To talent and youth M. Thiers adds the advantage of opening his saloon every evening, while those of Mole and Pasquier are opened only once in a week. What an immense advantage it is for a statesman to have a saloon or club, where each day and each evening the friends and co-operators meet to concert and prepare decisive manoeuvres for the next day! The war of places, equally with the contentions of the battle-field, admits not of delay; and a whole week in the strife for power is an eternity. An active, enterprising, ambitious statesman, who has a week before him, can upset the world, if the ministry is the price of his trouble. Many an up-town house in New-York has lately been built in this view by wealthy tradesmen turned politicians. M. Thiers unites all the necessary qualities of a party-chief-love of power, eloquence, and a daily saloon. The latter alone may suffice to make a political man. M. Fulchiron, the prince of good-fellows, was certainly not born to become an important personage, a cabinet maker; but he had a saloon, and more than one tottering minister has owed his stability to the saloon of M. Fulchiron. However, M. Thiers for many years was out of power, not withstanding his saloon. But there is a mystery about that which Louis Napoleon may one day unveil. Thanks to the presence of Madame Dorne, Madame Thiers, and some intimate friends of high rank, the saloon of the ex-minister holds a lofty and elegant position, notwithstanding that the sister of M. Thiers keeps an eating-house, where an excellent dinner may be had for one franc. At the saloon, visitors are introduced, announced, and served by richly liveried servants. They walk on thick carpets, and repose on soft fauteuils. The eyes rest on handsome faces and rich toilets; but the penance is to listen to the dull but exhaustless babble of certain gossips, who, not being able or not daring to appear at the tribune of the chambers, take their revenge, and compensate themselves in the saloon. M. Thiers himself speaks too well and too fluently to allow to others a monopoly of speech; and when he speaks not, he sleeps; and then each feels bound to respect the repose of the great orator and master of the house.

The saloon of M. Sauset, the old president of the Chambers, was an ex ception among the political saloons. Here no opinion was expressed, but all opinions were collected: as the Chambers were generous, they gave their president $100,000 per annum, and the president in his turn gave the deputies some glasses of sugared water every week, and a ball every year. At these balls they danced, but did not polka, and it is not so certain that they waltzed. The balls of the president were consecrated to