First night of MEROPE; which raised the Paris Public into transports, so that they knew not what to do, to express their feelings.

'Author! M.de Voltaire! Author!' shouted they; summoning the Author, what is now so common, but was then an unheard-of originality.

'Author! Author!' Author, poor blushing creature, lay squatted somewhere, and durst not come; was ferreted out; produced in the Lady Villars's Box,--Dowager MARECHALE DE VILLARS, and her Son's Wife DUCHESSE DE VILLARS, being there; known friends of Voltaire's.

Between these Two he stands ducking some kind of bow; uncertain, embarrassed what to do; with a Theatre all in rapturous delirium round him,--uncertain it too, but not embarrassed.

'Kiss him! MADAME LA DUCHESSE DE VILLARS, EMBRASSEZ VOLTAIRE!' Yes, kiss him, fair Duchess, in the name of France! shout all mortals;--and the younger Lady has to do it; does it with a charming grace; urged by Madame la Marechale her mother-in-law.