The Sun.
London, England, 1841-07-02 00:00:00

THE MOLIERE COLUMN.
PARIS, JUNE 30.—Not having, like_ the Round-Table

Knights, the search of the SanCrreal before me, or any
other special piece of business, I° yesterday, after buck-
ling.my sabottes, allowed " the spirit in my feet" to lead
me where it listed, and which, accordingly, conducted
me to a part of the " Ville de Paris," formed by the
corner of the Rue Traversicre St, Honore and the Rue
Richelieu. I was here surprised into the discovery, by.
the: reverberations of axe and hammer, and the hum or
busy ouvriers, that these implements were hungrily en-
gaged in pulling down a private house. This circum-
stance was nothing very alarming, but having a certain
affection for old houses, and an antiquarian's veneration
for cracked boards and crazy door-posts, I usually pry
into the history of these perishable tenements, and some-
times meet with pickings of history. Addressing myself
to one of the workmen, I learned that they were engaged,
by Government order, in pulling down the said house,
that the ground might be cleared for the erection of a
monument to Moliere (!) ; and I was farther informed by
the suavid surveyor of the works, that this house was the
second so demolished by a second order of the Munici-
pal Council, who, on the preceding Friday, had voted
an additional sum of 132,0001: to the former sum of
211,0001', raised in the first instance by a Parisian sub-
scription and the grants of the State, and which had

been found insufficient to complete the undertaking.
" But we shall go on bravely now," continued he, " and
Moliere will be crowned with ' 1a gloire.' "
goliere has been ever my favourite; and I am so pas-
sionately his admirer, that like the books of the stoics,
he always lies beside me on a silken cushion. My edition
is the unrivalled of Sainte-Beuve, so splendidly embel-
lished by Johannot. On hearing my colloquialist's last
remark, my mind at once reverted to Tony's dark and
sombrous' chiaro-scuro of Moliere's burial, and all its con-

current circumstances came upon me like a rush of fu-
neral horrors. , You know the hubbub ;that arose at his
death. You know how when he lay a clay-cold corse,
and the white shadow of corruption brooded over him,
—when his tongue was silent and past all power of of-
fe,nce,—the ecclesiastical tyranny of Harlai, the Archbi-
shop of Paris, a man of loose morals himself, denied 'him
" un pen de terre," a narrow burial-hole, consigning him
to a laical dunghill, as carrion for dogs and crows. You
remember too, that when knees even sunk to the
ground, and women with implorations and streaming
eyes prayfully besought for him the last poor
rites of Christian interment, that a stern and ruth-
less denial was still maintained, and only the almighti-
ness of a King's authority could gain this hard-entreated
point from this truly episcopal " Tartuffe," who was
himself a mockery of godliness, himself but a bragga-
docio in virtue. And then, when something of a cession
was finally made, right of sepulture was only allowed
on the ground that the ceremony should be celebrated
without a vestige of pomp—that it should be a sort of
serge and sackcloth burial, and that no canticle or psalm
should- be breathed, to call the seraphim around his
grave. That funeral took place as Johannot has engraven
it. Two priests alone were appointed to bury him. The
body was borne to its last home with no song, no chaunt-
ing, no sound of blessing, and Moliere was cast into an
inglorious grave-hole, behind the chapel of St. Joseph,
in the Bite Montmartre, unapneled and almost uncoffined.
His friends attended, and saw the destitute and power-
less dead thus ignominiously treated. His wife beheld
this heinous and disgraceful transaction—her indigna-
tion, snore burning and insufferable than the men's
around her, flamed within her ; and the voice of nature
and of virtuous shame at length broke out of her pent-
up bosom, and she exclaimed, as the clods were shovelled
on his body, " What ! do they grudge a burial to a man
who deserves an altar ?"
True-hearted woman, and faithful beyond death !
Would that the strenuous and affectionate spirit that in-
formed thy frail and fragile shape, could at this day be
resuscitated for a short instant, that thy soul might learn
in love and satisfaction that the high altar and shining
catafalque which thy far- seeing spirit knew was his de-
sert, was by the united world of Paris, with France's
professors and councillors at its head, decreed as due to
thy immortal husband ; if haply the news hath not al-
ready travelled to thee in the far land of the departed,
forming the burden of thy present song of praise, poured
by thee beside the waters of overflowing comfort !
Build up a column to Molierc
Build it aloft in the heights of; the air!
Hew and unquarry the marble white
To shape its shaft and pediment bright
That high it may rise, and trophy-like stand
As a grace to his name, and a gift to his land.

Yet shall its marble magnificence be
But of small account, and little degree
Compared to the blaze and the golden spell
That his fame shall cause round his column to dwell,
Filling the air and the reffion. round
With a glorious light and'a clarion-sound,
That the pilgrim afar shall cover his face
And acknowledge the awe of that radiant place.
Moliere had but little praise in his life-time, at least no
more than his true comedies brought him. In 1778, in
deed, the French academy did him honour by erecting a
bust to him in their hall, with one of Saurin's verses for
its motto—"Rien ne manque a sa gloire ;it manquait a
la notre." This, perhaps, was the beginninc, of his pos-
thumous fame, but the harp of the poet, and the energies
of the actor have, sine:, then, given him s fresher glory.
Who remembers not the magnificent verses of Boileau
upon him (" Avant qu'un peu de terre," &c., in his
Epistle to Racine), which rose to a,n eloquence, that had
all the deep accent of Bossuet, when Bossuet spoke
solemnly over the dead? Who can forget that the na-
tional theatres of France have no text-pieces but must
give way to Moliere's, and that in the mighty characters
which his profound intelligence drew, Grandmesnil,
Mole, Fleur, and Dazincourt, have won their reputation,
and Madames Contat, Devienne, and Mlle. Mars, have ga-
thered lustre and fair radiance round their names?
So much, too, for the lapse of a few years: the very
characters whom he transcribed into his own page, and
that once created spite against him, now conic forward
to add to his honour. The Harpagons of France have
opened their gold-bags—while the " femmes savantes,"
and the pretty " precieuses," have written with patro-
nizing hands to help toward the erection of this column.
Yet, pauvre Moliere ! this is somewhat late for dis-
tinction. Thou halt long, been deaf to praise, and dumb
to censure ; the animosities which rage in the shadow-
world above thee create thunders that are innocuous to
thee ; thy tender milk-dietings, and thy pained chest,
are in quiet now, and no part of thy. physical organiza-
tion but has a quiet rcquiescat in the dust. Even
Armando Bejart—thy bonny and beautiful wife, who
with only seventeen blue summers of life in her eyes
thou did'st marry in a rickety old age, keeps thee no
longer in the agonies of jealousy by her lively and co-
quettish carriage.
Tony Johannot gives a sweet, joyous portrait of this
tiresome Armande in his book. She has luxuriant
tressy hair—a transcendantly fair bosom and fine bust,
with lips in a full cherry pout. While we are on edi-
tions, we may observe that Moliere, an universal favour-
ite, can be read by the modern Greek in his own ver-
nacular, as also by the Spaniard. The following fo-
reign editions are to be procured :—La Malade Ima-
ginaire, done into Spanish, under the title of "El
Medico a Palos," 4to, Madrid, 1815; Tartuffe, done into
Romaic, a Constantino Coccinaio, Bvo, Vienna, 1815 ;
and L'Avare, also in Romaic, imprinted at Vienna in
816.

ATTEMPT AT ASSASSINATION IN
FRANCE.
(From the Journal des Debats.)
An attempt at assassination has lately taken
place in France on the person of a sexagenarian
named Tetu, the circumstances of which smack
of the romantic. Tetu, some years ago, had
held an intimacy with a woman who has since
married, but who, nevertheless, retained as a
lover a fellow named Bechard, aged 23.
Bechard, drawn as a recruit, had entered ser-
vice in the 28th Regiment of the Line, and had
even advanced a rank, when he was suddenly
cashiered for violence and disorderly behaviour.
Some time after, he enlisted in the 2d Battalion
of Lancers, a Vincennes regiment, which for
three months was temporarily barracked in the
environs of Paris. So soon as garrisoned here,
he renewed his acquaintance with thewomanll—, and the terror with which lie filled her
husband by his menaces, were such as compelled
the latter finally to consent to an undisguised
e 1 di
oadulteryn withow
re
ee i rv. e d
orders
to
and unconstrained
put itself in marching array for Africa
resolved not to quit Paris, deserted,; Bechard,
himself, took asylum in the house disguising
man named - Sarrazin (living of a gentle-
Roquette), who had formerly in the Rue la
whom, as the price of his known him, and
rascal enough to .rob of the sum of 300 francs,
hospitality, he was
with which he disappeared,
himself up to and with it delivered
uncontrolled auc -d b I e wry and plea-
sure. But the 300 franc. s were soon squandered,
and Bechard, findinfr himself without resources
or asylum, presented himself at the door of M.
Tetu's house,
which is situated at the end of a
long and obscure
alley. At mid-day, Tetu was
out; at two o'clock—
at four—he had not re-
tu • tiled, and it was
not till half-past eight, when
Bechard called for
the fourth time, that his ring
r,
was answered.
Tetu came down stairs, leaving for a while his
supper on the table, and required of Bechard
the purport of his visit. "I come from Madame
H—," said Bechard, affecting a German accent;
" she must without delay speak with you, and
has despatched me to bring you to her this in-
stant. She waits for you near at hand, in St.
Pierre's-court." " I will comply with pleasure,"
answered M. Tetu, " with Mad. H--'s invita-
tion. Just permit me to finish my sup, and d
I
am at your service." So saying, he againm seate
himself at table, endeavouring to discover a rea-
son for so pressing an invitation from Mad. H—
at such an hour, with a message sent through a
perfect stranger; for though he had frequently
I seen Becliard, he did not recognise him, having
always met him in uniform, whereas he was now
dressed like a citizen.
" You will teach me, Sir," said Bechard, after
a short silence, affecting his German jargon,
" you will teach me to speak French as well as
yourself."
" I am not learned enough for that," replied
M. Tetu, " but there are plenty of professors."
During this dialogue, M. Tetu had ate his
supper, and lie was engaged in putting on his
boots again, when Bechard, throwing himself
upon him with a razor, gashed his neck, Mouth,
and face most murderously. A terrible wrestle
ensued. M. Tetu, aged as he was, and stabled