be 1 franc.
Consequently in William Tell:

'Ma (1 fr.) presence (3 fr.) pourvous est peut etre un outrage (9 fr.)
Mathilde (3 fr.) mes pas indiscret (100 sous).
On osee jusqu'a vous se frayer une passage! (13 fr.)

'These three lines therefore cost 34 francs. A great sum! Engaging
under these circumstances a Prima Donna, at the miserable pittance
of 40,000 francs, the answer of Mathilde amounts to much less, for
every syllable would then cost but 8 sous: but even that is not so
bad after all.

'We laugh,' adds Berlioz, 'but the theatres have to pay. They will
pay until the treasury is empty, and after that the 'Immortals'
will have to condescend to give singing lessons (i.e., those who
know enough for it), or to sing at public places with accompaniment
of one guitar, four candles, and a green carpet. After that we may
be able to construct the Temple of Music on a firmer basis.'

At these rates, the old form of declaring that any thing went for 'a
mere song,' would not say much for its cheapness. But if--as Berlioz
seems to think--these high prices are to be regretted, we still cannot
see how they are to be remedied. The public, for want of better
amusement, keep up the opera, and the different opera houses keep up
the prices by outbidding each other. When municipal governments shall
recognize the fact that amusement is a constant quantity in the
administration of a state, and provide first-class entertainments
_gratis_ or at nominal rates, there will be much vice done away with and
many rum shops closed--which would be bad, by the way, for the
Democrato-Rum-elected Governor Seymour, for the whole alcoholic vote was
cast in his favor. There will, we believe, come a time when the party of
progress will urge an enlarged provision of education and recreation for
the people, with the same earnestness which it now shows in forwarding
Emancipation.

* * * * *

England has by her Southern sympathy fairly put a serpent girdle of her
treachery around the earth. For further particulars consult the
following:

TO JOHN BULL.

Oh don't you remember sweet Ireland, John Bull?
Green Erin beyond the blue sea?
And the patriots there whom you starved, hung, and shot,
Because they desired to be free.
On the lone heather wild, in the dark silent glen,
The peasant still shows you the graves
Of the heroe