But the ci-devant cuisinier is not content with comparatively harmless, plain-sailing humbug; he must add some sauce piquante to his musical hashes. He cannot rest with merely stunning English ears, but must shock our morals, At the bals masqués, the French dancers, and the hardly mentionable cancan, were hooted back to their native stews under the Palais Royal; but he provides substitutes for them in the tableaux vivans now exhibiting. This, because a more insidious, is a safer introduction. The living figures are dressed to imitate plaster-of- Paris, and are so arranged as to form groups, called in the bills “classical;” but for which it would be difficult to find originals. In short, the whole thing is a feeler thrown out to see how far French impudence and French epicureanism in vice may carry themselves. It shall not be our fault if they do not experience an ignominious downfall, and beat a speedy retreat, to the tune of the “Rogue’s March,” arranged as a quadrille! MADAME TUSSAUD’S, THE REAL TEMPLE OF FAME. “Some men are born to greatness, some men achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”—SHAKSPEARE. Reader, should you doubt the above assertion, in the true showman phraseology, just “Walk up! walk up!” to Madame Tussaud’s, the real Temple of Fame, and let such doubts vanish for ever; convince yourselves that the mighty attribute not more survives from good than evil deeds, though, like poverty, it makes its votaries acquainted with the strangest of strange bedfellows! The regal ermine and the murderer’s fustian alike obtain their enviable niche. The likeness of departed majesty, robed in the matchless splendour of a ruler’s state, redolent with all the mimic glories of a king’s insignia, the modelled puppet from the senseless clay, that wore in life the imperial purple, and moved a breathing thing, chief actor in its childish mummeries, may here be seen shining in tinselled pomp, in glittering contrast to the blood-stained shirt through which the dagger of Ravaillac reached the bosom of the murdered Henry. The “Real Robes” of the dead George give value to his waxen image! The heart’s-blood of the slaughtered Henry immortalises the linen bearing its hideous stain. The daring leader of France’s countless hosts—the wholesale slaughterer of unnumbered thousands—ambition’s mightiest son—now ruling kingdoms and now ruled by one—once more than king—in death the captive of his hated foes—“the great Napoleon!” shares the small space with the enshrined Fieschi! The glorious triumphs of the mighty Wellington are here no better passports than the foul murders of the atrocious Burke; the subtle Talleyrand, the deep deviser of political schemes, ruler of rulers, and master mover of the earth’s great puppets, is not one jot superior to the Italian mountebank, whose well-skilled hand drew tones from catgut rivalling even the ideal trumpet of great Fame herself!