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which may not be so grateful to the author as what has preceded. In the first place, why was not Falaise, with which the second volume opens, incorporated with the first? The account of Normandy would then have been contained in one volume. Of all places, Falaise is the most to our liking, on account of its respectable society, and delightful neighbourhood. It has happened to us to have been there, to have seen M. Monton officiating in his church, and the Comte de la Fresnaye presiding at his table. But the amiable, the engaging, the modest, and the learned Abbé Langevin, it was not our good fortune to meet with. Mr Dibdin's account of him, together with his speaking portrait, is among the most charming pieces of biographical detail scattered throughout these volumes. In respect to other characters and events, we think too much is said of the Saracen's-head resemblance of William the Conqueror, which may as well be the Emperor Lotharius; and which, indeed, is admitted by the author to be a very suspicious relic of antiquity. The visit to the printingoffice of Monsieur Brée l'Ainé might have been amusing enough; but no one would have regretted its omission. M. Lewis, we think, should have given us a sketch of the reverend author evincing his gallantry and loyalty by singing the national air of" (OD SAVE THE KING," to the surrounding and admiring pressmen, and the latter, in return, fiddling their popular song of William the First and his harlot mother, Arlette! There is some pretty French ballad poetry interspers

ed in this account of Falaise, and we
make no apology for selecting, al-
though a little puzzled which to take,
the first of the two songs which pre-
sent themselves at pp. 48, 49.

LE BAISER D'ADIEUX.
PRES de toi l'heure du mystère
Ne m' appellera plus demain,
Vers ta demeure solitaire
Mes pas me guideront en vain
J'ai respiré ta douce haleine,
Et des pleurs ont mouillé mes yeux,
J'ai tout senti, plaisir et peine,
J'ai reçu ton baiser d'adieux.

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Tu pars, et malgré ta promesse
Rien ne m'assure de ta foi ;
Nul souvenir de ta tendresse
Ne vient me dire: Pense à moi.

VOL. 1X.

bis.

Ton amour qu'en vain je réclame
Ne me laisse, en quittant ces lieux,
Que l'humide et brûlante flamme
De ton dernier baiser d'adieux.

The engravings connected with the account of Talbot's Tower, one of the finest castles in Normandy, and situated to the left, on the entrance into the town of Falaise from Vire,

are all that we could wish them to be. The bas-relief of Christ bearing his cross, from an ancient church at Guibray, in the vicinity of Falaise, is all that the Society of Antiquaries could wish it to be-barbarous, old, and ugly. In the second place, mixing up Falaise with Normandy, we portion of the work, compared with must be allowed to remark, that this the two remaining portions, affords a less substantial basis for the permanency of the author's fame. It is what, we are aware, the ladies will like best; and what, when we cast our eyes upon the quantity of matter with which it has furnished us, we ourselves may be disposed to view Yet, if with no unfriendly feelings. this part of Mr Dibdin's Tour were not followed up by what does absolutely succeed it, we should say, that the author's reputation as a tourist would not be of the very highest déscription. There are many substantial, and many very interesting details, connected with the accounts of Rouen, Caen, Bayeux, and Vire, and the whole is written with the air of a man of good breeding and good nature, but it is not what Mr Dibdin himself would read fifty years hence, (when he will undoubtedly be a very old gentleman,) with the satisfaction, or rather information, which must arise from a reperusal of the account ings, however, in the first volume, of Paris and Germany. The engrav

are of a most brilliant class of charac ter, and more generally picturesque than in the succeeding volumes.

Notwithstanding the bulk of the second volume, we shall detain the reader but a comparatively short time in our review of it. It is, almost from beginning to end, wholly bibliographical; and the author informs us in his preface, that, by means of the truly exquisite engravings of historical portraits, given for the first time from illuminated manuscripts, he hopes to "scatter a few flowers

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upon the otherwise unalluring path of bibliography." The flowers which he has scattered are really as beautiful in tint as they are delicious in fragrance; For flowers, read portraits of Louisa of Savoy, Anne of Brittany, Louis XII., Chess Play, &c. to say nothing of those representations of a doubtful genus, in the portraits of Charles the Bald, and his brother the Emperor Lotharius. These latter are not to our taste; but Mr Dibdin is never happy, unless he discovers something grotesque to balance his beauties.* All these treasures belong to the Royal Library of France, which, with the early printed books in the same matchless collection, must, we conceive, be of incalculable advantage and comfort to the Roxburghers at London, and to the Bibliophiles at Paris. Such details, however, are meant for a wider and more beneficial circulation, and it may be the boast of the author, that he is absolutely the FIRST MAN to make, not only his countrymen, but foreigners, acquainted with such treasures. The descriptions of other public libraries, although necessarily less elaborate, are of the same characteristic utility. We admit, that our criticism relates entirely to the quantum of good deducible from the study of bibliography.

Upon revision, we find we are getting into an inverted order, and have omitted to notice the author's account of the city of Paris, as connected with the Boulevards, churches, fountains, and street scenery, &c. Some of this might have been spared, because much that is like it is in every tour; but the description of the Boulevards is not only handled in an original manner, but is, as far as our memory furnishes us, one of the very best extant. We have no space for its insertion. The engraving of the Boulevards Italiens is quite enchanting. We almost fancy ourselves walking among the spruce Parisiennes who are tripping so gaily before us.

It is not often that the staid and oldfashioned pages of the Gentleman's Magazine are quoted, or referred to, as containing specimens of vigorous criticism; but we must do the last number (July 1821) of that journal the justice to say, that in the account of this part of Mr Dibdin's labours (p. 51) there is a very animated and just appreciation of it.

The accounts of the Abbé Rive, Gouget, Mercier St Leger, and Dom Brial, each accompanied by a portrait, have greatly amused us. The last is the only one of these characters now alive. He will be principally known to posterity as the Editor of the Recueil des Historiens des Gaules, commenced by Bouquet, and continued by the Benedictines; a work which shames ourselves, in proportion as it exalts our neighbours. Will the foundation of such, and of so glorious a national undertaking, never be laid at home? Dom Brial has an old croney of the name of Bétencourt; and these two "green old" Benedictine dandies are the two secretaries of the Institute. They gave our author one or two soup and bouilli entertainments, of which we select a description; beginning with the sketch of Dom Brial.

No

"Dom Brial is very little above the mean height. He stoops somewhat from age; but, considering his years and incessantly sedentary labours, it is rather marvellous that he does not exhibit more striking proofs of infirmity. His voice is full and strong; his memory is yet retentive, and his judgment sound. His handwriting is extremely firm and legible. man ever lived, or ever will, or can live, more completely devoted to his labours. They are his meat and drink, as much as his bouilli et petites poies:' of which I saw him partaking on my first visit. Occupied from morning till night in the prosecution of his studies,-in a quarter of Paris extremely secluded, he appears to be almost unconscious of passing occurrences without; except it be of the sittings of the Institute, which he constantly attends, on Fridays, as one of the Secretaries. Even the late Revolution seems to have passed by

as the sound Of thunder, heard remote although few, I understand, have suffered more severely from its effects in the de`privation of property. His guileless character luckily rendered him unsuspected, and as luckily, the Rue Servandani was a

6

petite lieve' from the Place de Grève. So lives and so labours the venerable Dom Brial. I have twice dined with him, and, each time, in company with the Abbé Bétencourt, his brother secretary at the Institute, and his old, long-tried, and most intimate friend.

"The Abbé Bétencourt was not unknown to me during his late residence in England, as an emigré, but he is still better known to our common friend

who gave me the letter of introduction to D. Brial. That mutual knowledge brought us quickly together, and made us as quickly intimate. The Abbé is above the middle height; wears his own grey hair; has an expressive countenance, with a nose of not quite such capacious dimensions as that of his colleague; talks much, and well, and at times drolly. Yet his wit or mirth is well attempered to his years. His manner of rallying his venerable friend is very amusing; for Dom Brial, from his deafness, (like most deaf men,) drops at times into silence and abstraction. On each of my dinner visits, it was difficult to say which was the hotter day. But Dom Brial's residence, at the hour of dinner, (which was four for my own accommodation,) happened luckily to be in the shade. We sat down, three, to a small circular table, (in the further or fourth room,) on the tiled floor of which was some very ancient wine, within the immediate grasp of the right hand of the host. An elderly female servant attended in the neighbouring room. The dinner was equally simple, relishing, and abundant; and the vir

tues of the old wine were quickly put into circulation by the Benedictine founder of the feast. If (thought I to myself) certain of our friends could have witnessed me, from the opposite side of the rooms, thus sitting down to dainty fare between these two venerable Benedictines, in a small apartment, lined from top to bottom with books, the effect must have been somewhat odd!

"At six we rose from table, and walked in the Luxembourg gardens hard by. The air had become somewhat cooler.

The

sun was partially concealed by thin speckled clouds: a gentle wind was rising; and the fragrance of innumerable flowers from terraces crowded with rose trees, was altogether so genial and refreshing, that my venerable companions between whom I walked arm in arm-declared, that they hardly knew when the gardens had smelt So sweetly.' We went straight onward, towards the Observatoire, the residence of the Astronomer Royal. In our way thither we could not avoid crossing the Rue d'Enfer, where Marshal Ney was shot. The spot, which had been stained with his blood, was at this moment covered by skittles, and groups of stout lads were enjoying themselves in all directions. It should seem that nothing but youthful sports and pastimes had ever prevailed there. So insensibly do succeeding occupations wear away all traces of the past. I paused for half a minute, casting a thoughtful eye towards the spot. The Abbé Bétencourt moralized aloud, and Dom Brial seemed inwardly to meditate. We now reached the Observatory. The Sub-Principal was at home, and was overjoyed to

receive his venerable visitors. He was a fellow-townsman of Dom Brial, and we were shown every thing deserving of notice. It was nearly night-fall, when, on reaching the Rue Servandani, I wished my amiable companions adieu, till we met again." Vol. II. pp. 425–427.

The collections of Denon, Sommariva, and Craufurd, interspersed with beautiful cuts, are then formally described; but we think Mr D.'s observations upon the far-famed Madonna lections, a little too refined, if not of Canova, in the second of these colhypercritical. Denon is hit off to the life. His picture follows us, like the original, into every room. If he were a dark, instead of a fair man, we should say, 'Mungo here, Mungo dere, Mungo everywhere." A very via lactea of engravings overspreads the account of miscellaneous antiquities. The busts of Francis I., and Diana of Poictiers, are perfect bijoux fine arts, we rejoice to find the folof their class. In the account of the lowing mention of our Wilkie; nor do we less relish the anecdote connected with the battle of Waterloo.

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"In the midst of all the graphic splendour of modern Paris, it was delightful music to my ears to hear WILKIE and RAIMBACH so highly extolled by M. Bé nard. Ha votre Wilkie-voila un génie distingué !' Who could say Nay! But let BURNET have his share of graphic pularity throughout Europe to his burin. praise; for the Blind Fiddler owes its po They have recently copied our friend Wilkie's productions on a small scale, in aquapiece. I told Bénard that the Duke of tint; cleverly enough, for three francs a Wellington had recently bespoke a picture from Mr Wilkie's pencil. What is the subject to be ?' demanded he quickly. I replied, in the very simplicity of my heart, 'Soldiers regaling themselves, on receiving the news of the victory of Waterloo.' Mons. Bénard was paralysed for one little moment; but rallying quickly, he answered, with perfect truth, as I conceive,

• Comment done! TOUT EST WATERLOO CHEZ VOUS!'" p. 510.

Shortly after this follows a most frightful and black-looking gentleman, called St Bernardinus; which may be hugged with fondness by Messrs Van Praet and Dibdin; but with which, we declare, we will have nothing to do, even were the original wood-cut worth half of the Vallarfer Boccaccio! The account of Millin

(together with the very fine portrait of him executed at Paris) is exceedingly interesting. Millin was not a Montfaucon, certainly; but he had zeal, taste, and an unabating patriotic feeling. He did much, but did nothing exactly as it should be. Yet we are indebted to his industry for the notice, and the engravings, of very many very curious relics of antiquity. (To be continued.)

LITERARY

LABOUR. POPULARITY
AND MERIT.

A PIECE of finished composition, in which every sentence, every word, nay every letter, performs its duty, gives great delight to the mind by effecting its primary object, whether of persuasion or amusement; but it also yields a secondary pleasure of the highest and most permanent kind, by presenting an image of perfect beauty. It is like a great army, levied for the defence of the peculiar endearments of our society. When we remark its discipline, arms, and warlike equipments, we are assured of its sufficiency, and we rejoice for our country; but we also feel an independent and very high gratification in viewing its stately ranks, its graceful evolutions, and its magnificent aspect. The force and effect with which history or poetry is first read, depend greatly on the finished character of the composition; but the repetition of our enjoyment, or the increase of our acquaintance, is to be referred entirely to the tasteful delicacy of the arrangement, and the fine polish of the execution. Mr Hayley has justly remarked, that although love may be originally inspired without particular beauty, the husband's temper in the married life is much influenced by the beauty of his wife. Love, that highest, holiest, and most delightful of passions, is the legitimate offspring of beauty. If there were no beauty and no love in the world, the primary purposes of nature might be accomplished; but without their enchantments, what were human life? So it is with literary compositions ;-the facts of history and the images of poetry might be communicated by coarse and vulgar phrases, but our highest and richest pleasures arise from the beauty, and grace, and per

fect loveliness of literary execution. Yet there is not an elegant commodity, or a source of mental luxury, which is exposed to so much difficulty in the production, or so much hazard in its circulation, as literary pearls. This is a subject of infinite loss and regret to all persons of cultivated taste.

Affectation, conceit, and vanity, have made distressing inroads into all the provinces of human enjoyments, but no where are their Gothic efforts so extensive and so ruinous, as in the elegant walks of poetry and fine writing. But of all affectations, the most impudent and the most mischievous, is the affectation of producing poetry or prose worthy of public attention, without great, continued, repeated, and assiduous labour. This is a very ancient, and, in all likelihood, an everlasting species of madness. Horace, at once the most lyrical, the most witty, and the most sensible of ancient writers, has given immortality to Lucilius by his satire. Yet there can be no doubt that Lucilius in his day would despise Horace as a dull asinine grub, who wished to supply the want of genius by laborious drudgery, to which true genius could never descend.

Nam fuit hoc vitiosus; in horâ sæpe du

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Who could have anticipated at that period of the world, that, 2000 years afterwards, the same contemptible and outrageous folly would infest literary society? But before we come down to modern times, let us advert to another allusion of the same kind, and by an eminent plodder, which is fraught with meaning and instruction. The great Roman annalist records: Q. Haterius, familiâ senatoriâ, eloquentiæ quoad vixit celebratæ ; monumenta ingenii ejus haud perinde retinentur. Scilicet impetu magis, quam curâ vigebat; utque aliorum meditatio et labor in posterum valescit, sic Haterii canorum illud et profluens, cum ipso simul extinctum est.-"Haterius, descended of a senatorian family, was in his lifetime celebrated

for his eloquence; the monuments of his genius are not held in the same repute. He obtained celebrity rather by adventitious authority than by ingenious industry, and as the fruits of study and labour in others are valued by posterity, so the flowing and popular compositions of Haterius became extinct with himself." This criticism is amply borne out by the irresistible decision of time, and the unvarying testimony of history. But still we are doomed to hear the same fallacy repeated. At this moment, when the distinguished writers of the day are named, and perhaps contrasted, we hear some literary naturalist contending with all the apparent sagacity of philosophy, that genius ought not to be restrained by care, and labour, and industry; that the free spontaneous effusions of a mind inspired, would only become tame and insipid by the little touches of artificial polish; that the vigorous language of passion cannot derive improvement from the cold criticism of reflection and study. This unfortunate delusion seems to be almost entirely confined to literary displays of genius. We remember to have heard our ingenious and eloquent countryman, the late Harry Erskine, tell the anecdote of a Fifeshire laird, who, when asked if he could play on the violin, replied that he did not know, as he had never tried. Our accomplished musicians might venture perhaps to pronounce the Fifeshire gentleman a fool. But why? Merely because he had not sense enough to know that skill in music must be the result of great preparation, continued practice, and laborious repetition. But can any reason be assigned why genius should not inspire the most perfect music without any study, as well as the most sublime poetry? The truth is, that fine literary composition is the most difficult of all acquirements, but appears to be the easiest; and the cause of this deception is, that the finest piece of writing differs from the loosest ravings or the coarsest gibberish only in degree. But degrees of difference are perceived only by the initiated. A stranger knows not one sheep from another, but he can distinguish any sheep from a goat; the shepherd recognises each individual sheep. In such cases, the rudest effort may be regarded by its author as the finest

performance. Thus, in speaking, what one of a thousand pretenders is a good orator?-in manners, is there one accomplished gentleman for ten thousand coxcombs? Like the power of speaking or bowing, the faculty of authorship has, in latter times, been regarded as the gift of nature, and the use of it has been regulated rather by the degrees of discretion than by the degrees of qualification. The transition from the ordinary habits of men to positive publication, is but the transition of an illiterate declaimer into a parliamentary orator, or of a clumsy waggoner into a drunken dancer. But in arts in which the lowest step of the gradation of proficiency is raised above the vulgar walk, you have no such preposterous blunders. Rousseau, a man of genius, and in the latter period of his life a great master in music, had in early life tried the untutored power of his genius in arranging a concert; but the horrid din which filled every ear with agony, cannot be cited as an encouragement to such adventures. The builder who would use no plumb or line, but would pile up his materials according to the fervour of his genius, might be admired for his singularity, but he would get "neither Christian, Pagan, nor man," to occupy his fabrics. We believe that the time occupied in planning or in finishing St Peter's in Rome, or St Paul's in London, has never entered into the estimate of the genius and talents of the architects. The sculptor pretends not, by the first careless effort, and, as it were, by the sluggish indifference of genius, to call forth the manly grace and the living eloquence of his statue.

Even in the province of passion the same doctrine holds true. The actual, natural operations of passion are neither graceful in the movements nor affecting in their expressions. What is called nature in artificial representations is the most suitable, the most studied, the most perfect effort of art. Mr Macready would laugh at the senseless impertinence of one who should prescribe as the true mode of "o'erstepping not the modesty of nature," to use no study or preparation, but to trust to the natural energy of his genius. We see an accomplished gentleman, and an ignorant clown, under the control of a strong passion,

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