isposed of on the day they were issued. I have,
nevertheless, registered your name, and in case a second series should
be put forth, I shall have the honor of immediately giving you notice.
I am, sir, yours, &c., the Director, Robert Macaire."--"Print 300,000
of these," he says to Bertrand, "and poison all France with them." As
usual, the stupid Bertrand remonstrates--"But we have not sold a single
share; you have not a penny in your pocket, and"--"Bertrand, you are an
ass; do as I bid you."

* We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the
account of M. de Bernard's novels.

Will this satire apply anywhere in England? Have we any Consolidated
European Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we penniless directors
issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying their shares through the
market? For information on this head, we must refer the reader to the
newspapers; or if he be connected with the city, and acquainted with
commercial men, he will be able to say whether ALL the persons whose
names figure at the head of announcements of projected companies are as
rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart could desire.

When Macaire has sufficiently exploite the Bourse, whether as a gambler
in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that it is
time to turn to some other profession, and, providing himself with a
black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--a new religion. "Mon
ami," says the repentant sinner, "le temps de la commandite va passer,
MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS." (O rare sentence! it should be
written in letters of gold!) "OCCUPONS NOUS DE CE QUI EST ETERNEL. Si
nous fassions une religion?" On which M. Bertrand remarks, "A religion!
what the devil--a religion is not an easy thing to make." But Macaire's
receipt is easy. "Get a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some
chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or
Moliere--and there's a religion for you."

We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with
our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph, "Les
badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est eternel," one
would have expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow.
We are not in a condition to say whether the subjects chosen are those
that had been selected by Pere Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but
the words are curious, we think, for the very reason that the satire
is so p