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Vicomte Chateaubriand, the style of which, he informs us, is sometimes "affected and turgid," in which we perfectly agree; "but," continues our author, "amidst all his faults, we can always perceive the man of genius;" for our own part, we cannot boast of an equally pleasing result of the exertion of our critical optics;-if, for "genius," we should read " affectation," we would willingly subscribe to the opinion. From these writers M. Ventouillac passes to the literature of the present day; but, as if conscious that he had already extended his essay far enough, he rather suddenly draws the curtain upon a very interesting period, and leaves us to regret that he had not dwelt, with rather more fulness of detail, upon a subject which the preceding part of his sketch entitles us to believe he would have examined with candour and good sense. He alludes, indeed, but no more than alludes, to the change which is going on in the political and literary character of the French; a change which may perhaps rush into some extremes, ere it settles down into established usage, but which, as it is calculated to promote the reign of nature and of truth, over affectation and mannerism, is as interesting in its progress, as it will be beneficial in its results.

It is somewhat singular that though the French have a word (l'abandon) which signifies more than any one English word, the freedom from the constraint of rule, yet perfect freedom, (we speak not of licentious madness, which is not of nature, and by excess destroys itself,) natural freedom of thought and expression, was, until of late, scarcely conceived amongst them. It was not that they were conscious of any restraint; but they wrote their books, as they made their bows, with a mistaken notion that the excellence of politeness and of literature, lay in the improved manner of doing things after the established rule. As there was one form of politeness for the court, another for the coffee-house, and another for the streets, so there was a style for each department of literature, and he who, in either case, endeavoured to follow nature rather than les règles, was, by unanimous consent, convicted of barbarism. As, however, there is in this world nothing of unmixed good, so there is little of unmixed evil, and this habit of attention to the rules, VOL. XXVI. NO. CLV.

while it cramped the bolder flights of imagination, and forbade a genuine association with the wild mysteries of nature, gave to almost all that was written a neatness and correctness of expression, a terseness and a tournure, that redeemed it from the fault of rugged carelessness, so common in English composition. In comedy, which seems to find its natural soil in the smiling land of France, and its most appropriate guardians amongst a people of spirits so quick and volatile, we have nothing to do but adinit the superiority of the French writers; yet it is worthy of observation, that, in the comedy of nature, which we call humour, they can shew nothing by the side of which we should blush to place the productions of Fielding or Goldsmith, while in the comedy of art-in wit and repartee-in drôlerie and équivoque-in sparkling and artificial sprightliness, they are far and away beyond us. Again, they boast to take the lead of us in their sermons; but we have a word to say to them on this head. True it is, that our orthodox divines, our profound and serious men, who teach in colleges, or in crowded cities, with parish beadles pacing up and down the aisles of the churches, are considerably dull at times, and deliver their treatises on religion, as if it had no more to do with the hearts and feelings of men, than mathematics; and it is also true, that they have managed these matters better in France. They have not been wanting in a better attention to the subject, so far as it can be made a matter of art; and their rhetorical artifice-their well-contrasted pictures, and their studied, yet animated appeals to feeling, are no doubt better than a dull argument upon a science, the leading principles of which few men understand, and in which still fewer cordially agree;-but could France shew us a Whitfield? Could France shew us a multitude of ten thousand men, assembled in the open air, the souls of the whole mass moved as the soul of one man, by an awful, deep, and calm emotion of religious feeling? Could they point out to us a man, who, triumphing over all rules of art, and trusting boldly to the com mon sympathies of our nature, could make the universal heart of the mul titude swell like the sea, when, before the storm arises, it slowly heaves the

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enormous bulk of its waters, but does not break into waves? If our English preachers have been inferior, it is because, in their important opportunities for the exertion of the power of genius, they have too little followed nature.

But to return to the modern literature of France ;-the advocates for writing by rule have now met with practical adversaries, who are likely very much to change the whole character of French literature. The controversy waxes strong between the advocates of the Classique, and the Romantique; and the latter party, with the wonderfully increased know ledge of English and German literature, to support them, are manifestly gaining ground. We should not be surprised if, within a few years, Shakspeare were pretty generally understood in France, and the eyes of the French being opened, they should discover the sublime, where but lately they could only see the ridiculous. The vigorous and spirited songs of Beranger shew that things are not as they were in France; and Victor Hugo, though he rushes on with something of the extravagance which may be expected in the successful leader of a new school, yet is a true follower of nature. His "Dernier jour d'un condamné" is a very extraordinary and powerful production, -over-wrought certainly, but it is the exaggeration of truth, not the extravagance of affectation. To this story, or transcript of the reflections of a criminal condemned to death, he prefixes a little comedy by way of preface, in which the doctrines of the opponents of his style are introduced and ridiculed with that happy piquant levity, in which he is as successful as the generality of his countrymen, while he surpasses them in the tra gedy which follows. "What!" says the poet, whom he introduces, speak ing of his book-" Comment intéressait-il? Il a un crime, et pas de remords. J'eusse fait le contraire. J'eusse conté l'histoire de mon condamné; né de parens honnêtes; une bonne éducation; de l'amour; de la jalousie; un crime qui n'en soit pas un; et puis des remords, des remords, beaucoup des remords!”

Doubtless, so he would, and have violated nature at every step. Remorse, as the author afterwards justly observes in the course of his book,

visits the mind of a criminal more frequently before than after his condemnation-once condemned, the horrible contemplation of death is all in all. There may be remorse in his sensations, but he knows it not-distinguishes it not as remorse-he thinks of his punishment, not of his crime.

But what is most new throughout this French book, is the perception of the true poetical connexion between visible external things, and internal feelings and emotions, Hitherto we find French writers giving us merely a highly finished picture of external things, and apparently insensible of the thoughts which lie wrapped up in them, but which come forth, when genius places them in such a situation, that they seem to speak to the occa sion. When the criminal described in Victor Hugo's book is brought from his dungeon to the hot exhausted crowded court, to hear the verdict of the jury; after the painful indifference of the various members of the crowd is described, and contrasted with his own agony of suspense, he says-" En face de moi une fenêtre était toute grande ouverte. J'entendais rire sur le quai les marchandes de fleurs, et au bord de la croisée une jolie petite plante jaune, toute pénétrée d'un rayon du soleil, jouyait avec le vent dans une fente de la pierre."

He allows his mind to dwell for a moment upon the possibility of the verdict being against him, and the sentence of death being pronounced; but instantly his soul rejects with loathing the idea of death under such circumstances-"Mais au mois d'août, à huit heures du matin, un si beau jour, ces bons jurés; c'est impossible! Et mes yeux revenaient se fixer sur la jolie fleur jaune au soleil!”

Why is it that this mention of the yellow flower waving in the morning breeze, and glancing in the sunbeams, is so affecting? It is that we give it a language, we know what it said to the mind of the criminal; it spoke to him of freedom, and the clear sky, and the summer wind floating over wide plains and vineyards, and gardens full of flowers, that, like it, waved in the breeze, and glanced in the sun!

Throughout this little book, the wanderings of the tortured imagination of the condemned man are tra ced and described with great power and truth, and the minute circum

stances which make up the details of the misery of a creature in so wretched a situation, are drawn with a curious fidelity, which makes us start back from the picture as from a horrible reality. Yet after all, M. Hugo's criminal is a poor creature, with womanish nerves, and womanish sensibility, with whom we stern English could have but small sympathy; and though he claims and receives our pity, we cannot avoid mingling it with some contempt. When will the French nation be able to afford a Thurtell-a man who could turn his pistol round in his friend's brains; not in any insane paroxysm of jealousy, or hatred, or revenge, but merely to ascertain satisfactorily that he had completely effected his business-who could then walk in to his supper of mutton chops, with the same composure as if he had come from giving a feed of oats to his horse-a clever and acute man, too, without any stupid insensibility of mind-a man who, when seized and put on his trial, gets off by heart a long and eloquent speech, full of the most solemn and false asseverations of his innocence; not that he clung with desperate eagerness to the hope of escaping, but that, as there was a chance, it was prudent not to throw it away who, when condemned, displayed neither terror nor indifference, neither exquisite sensibility nor sullen brutality, and at the last swung out of life from the gallows with the settled air of a man who feels he has lost the game at which he played, and that he may as well pay the stake calmly? There was a true British composure about the unutterable atrocity of this villain—murderer he was, and a most detestable murderer too-but his character belongs to our country as fully as that of our heroes. Hunt and Probert were pitiful wretches, fit for the Bicêtre. Doubtless the agony of Hunt's feelings until his reprieve came, would, if properly divided into chapters, make a good romance; but we should be sorry that any Englishman as clever as M. Hugo should not be able to find a better subject.

Some passages in M. Hugo's romance hint that it has a political object, and that a desire to induce the abolition of the punishment of death has been the motive for writing it. If such be indeed the author's view, the means and the end are about equal

ly extravagant. To attempt a reform in the law by writing a romance, seems an exploit rather more worthy of the Knight of la Mancha, than of a sane man in this age, when the Schoolmaster and sober reason are said to have so much to do with the affairs of men ; and the notion that no crime, however atrocious, should be punished with death, is certainly more appropriate to the dreams of a romance-writer, then the deliberate judgment of a politician, It is not, however, to be wondered at, that he who makes a romance the vehicle of his politics, should form his politics after the dictates of romance.

The French press has of late been deluged with volume after volume of memoirs and reminiscences of all sorts and conditions of men-and women, too, connected with Bonaparte's times and government. Some of these are very good; but for the mass, it cer tainly would be much pleasanter to buy than to read them through; though to do neither, would be the most agreeable. There are a set of worn out men of pleasure about Paris, who have had something to do with political matters in former times, and have a strange and morbid satisfaction indwelling upon these details of intrigue, which are artfully contrived to have a smack of sensuality about them-but such books are only fit for the atmosphere of Paris. We heard, some months ago, an immense talk about the "Mémoires d'une Contemporaine," and happening to find a bundle of volumes, all with that title, upon our table, we took up one at random, which proved to be volume seventh, and opening it somewhere about the middle, we found the fair authoress-we are bound by courtesy to suppose her fair-sitting down to write a treatise respecting the battle of Waterloo; having first shrugged up her shoulders with becoming modesty at the bare idea of such an attempt, but presently afterwards, taking heart of grace, and falling to, in right earnest. Then she makes a discovery, which she is kind enough to communicate to the public in manner following:

"Quand mon cœur est fortement ému, les pensées m'étouffent, et ma plume, brûlante comme mon cœur, peut à peine en exprimer la chalereuse abondance."

Imagine to yourself, gen'le reader, the pleasure and profit of reading

through seven volumes, half politics, and half scandal, written by a person whose thoughts stifle her, when her heart is moved, and whose pen, on fire, even as the heart aforesaid, can scarcely express the warm abundance of it, that is to say, the before-mentioned heart!

But we have wandered far away from M.Ventouillac's "French Librarian," which led us into these rambling observations. He promises some improvements for future editions, should they be called for, and we hope he will soon be under the necessity of redeeming his pledge.

J.

THE OLD GENTLEMAN'S TEETOTUM.

AT the foot of the long range of the Mendip hills, standeth a village, which, for obvious reasons, we shall conceal the precise locality of, by bestowing thereon the appellation of Stockwell. It lieth in a nook, or indentation, of the mountain; and its population may be said, in more than one sense of the word, to be extremely dense, being confined within narrow limits by rocky and sterile ground, and a brawling stream, which ever and anon assumes the aspect of an impetuous river, and then dwindles away into a plaything for the little boys to hop over. The principal trade of the Stockwellites is in coals, which certain of the industrious operative natives sedulously employ themselves in extracting from our mother earth, while others are engaged in conveying the "black diamonds" to various adjacent towns, in carts of sundry shapes and dimensions. The horses engaged in this traffic are of the Rosinante species, and, too often, literally raw-boned; inasmuch, that it is sometimes a grievous sight to see them tugging, and a woful thing to hear their masters swearing, when mounting a steep ascent with one of the aforesaid loads.

Wherever a civilized people dwell, there must be trade; and, consequently, Stockwell hath its various artisans, who ply, each in his vocation, to supply the wants of others; and, moreover, it hath its inn, or public house, a place of no small importance, having for its sign a swinging creaking board, whereon is emblazoned the effigy of a roaring, red, and rampant Lion. High towering above the said Lion, are the branches of a solitary elm, the foot of which is encircled by a seat, especially convenient for those guests whose taste it is to "blow a cloud" in the open air; and it is of two individuals, who were much given thereon to enjoy their "otium cum dignitate," that we are about to speak.

George Syms had long enjoyed a monopoly in the shoemaking and cobbling line, (though latterly two oppositionists had started against him,) and Peter Brown was a man well to do in the world, being "the man wot" shod the raw-boned horses before mentioned, "him and his father, and grandfather," as the parish-clerk said, "for time immemorial." These two worthies were regaling themselves, as was their wonted custom, each with his pint, upon a small table, which was placed, for their accommodation, before the said bench. It was a fine evening in the last autumn; and we could say a great deal about the beautiful tints which the beams of the setting sun shed upon the hills' side, and undulating distant outline, and how the clouds appeared of a fiery red, and, anon, of a pale yellow, had we leisure for description: but neither George Syms nor Peter Brown heeded these matters, and our present business is with them.

They had discussed all the village news-the last half of the last pipe had been puffed in silence, and they were reduced to the dilemma wherein many a brace of intimate friends have found themselves-they had nothing to talk about. Each had observed three times that it was very hot, and each had responded three times"Yes, it is." They were at a perfect stand-still-they shook out the ashes from their pipes, and yawned simultaneously. They felt that indulgence, however grateful, is apt to cloy, even under the elm-tree, and the red rampant lion. But, as Doctor Watts says,

"Satan finds some mischief still,

For idle hands to do," and they agreed to have "another pint," which Sally, who was ever ready at their bidding, brought forthwith, and then they endeavoured to rally; but the effort was vain-the thread of conversation was broken, and they

could not connect it, and so they sipped and yawned, till Peter Brown observed, "It is getting dark."-" Ay," replied George Syms.

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At this moment an elderly stranger, of a shabby-genteel appearance, approached the Lion, and enquired the road to an adjoining village. "You are late, sir," said George Syms. "Yes," replied the stranger, "I am ;" and he threw himself on the bench, and took off his hat, and wiped his forehead, and observed, that it was very sultry, and he was quite tired." This is a good house," said Peter Brown; "and if you are not obliged to go on, I wouldn't, if I were you."-" It makes little difference to me," replied the stranger; " and so, as I find myself in good company, here goes!" and he began to call about him, notwithstanding his shabby appearance, with the air of one who has money in his pocket to pay way." Three make good company," observed Peter Brown.-" Ay, ay,' said the stranger. "Holla there! bring me another pint! This walk has made me confoundedly thirsty. You may as well make it a pot-and be quick!" Messrs Brown and Syms were greatly pleased with this additional guest at their symposium; and the trio sat and talked of the wind, and the weather, and the roads, and the coal trade, and drank and smoked to their hearts' content, till again time began to hang heavy, and then the stranger asked the two friends, if ever they played at teetotum.-"Play at what ?" asked Peter Brown." Play at what?" enquired George Syms." At tee-to-tum," replied the stranger, gravely, taking a pair of spectacles from one pocket of his waistcoat, and the machine in question from the other. "It is an excellent game, I assure you. Rare sport, my masters !" and he forthwith began to spin his teetotum upon the table, to the no small diversion of George Syms and Peter Brown, who opined that the potent ale of the ramping Red Lion had done its office. "Only see how the little fellow runs about!" cried the stranger, in apparent ecstasy. "Holla, there! Bring a lantern! There he goes, round and round-and now he's asleep-and now he begins to reel-wiggle waggledown he tumbles! What colour, for a shilling ?"-" I don't understand the game," said Peter Brown." Nor

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I, neither," quoth George Syms; "but it seems easy enough to learn."

Oh, ho!" said the stranger; "you think so, do you? But, let me tell you, that there's a great deal more in it than you imagine. There he is, you see, with as many sides as a modern politician, and as many colours as an Algerine. Come, let us have a game! This is the way!" and he again set the teetotum in motion, and capered about in exceeding glee." He, he, he!" uttered George Syms; and "Ha, ha, ha!" exclaimed Peter Brown; and, being wonderfully tickled with the od dity of the thing, they were easily persuaded by the stranger just to take a game together for five minutes, while he stood by as umpire, with a stopwatch in his hand.

Nothing can be much easier than spinning a teetotum, yet our two Stockwellites could scarcely manage the thing for laughing; but the stran ger stood by, with spectacles on nose, looking alternately at his watch and the table, with as much serious interest as though he had been witnessing, and was bound to furnish, a report of a prize-fight, or a debate in the House of Commons.

When precisely five minutes had elapsed, although it was Peter Brown's spin, and the teetotum was yet going its rounds, and George Syms had called out yellow, he demurely took it from the table and put it in his pocket; and then, returning his watch to his fob, walked away into the Red Lion, without saying so much as good-night. The two friends looked at each other in surprise, and then indulged in a very loud and hearty fit of laughter; and then paid their reckoning, and went away, exceedingly merry, which they would not have been, had they understood properly what they had been doing.

In the meanwhile the stranger had entered the house, and began to be

very funny" with Mrs Philpot, the landlady of the Red Lion, and Sally, the purveyor of beer to the guests thereof; and he found it not very difficult to persuade them likewise to take a game at teetotum for five minutes, which he terminated in the same unceremonious way as that under the trec, and then desired to be shewn the room wherein he was to sleep. Mrs Philpot immediately, contrary to her usual custom, jumped up

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