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"It is a great pity," said I, "that

Her soirées were among the most | Scote's play of Robe Roi is very agreeable at Paris-she united all the inferior to his novel of the same rank and talent to be found in the name." ultra party, for she professed to be quite a female Mecænas; and whether | Byron did not turn his Childe Harold it was a mathematician or a romancewriter, a naturalist or a poet, she held open house for all, and conversed with each with equal fluency and self-satisfaction.

A new play had just been acted, and the conversation, after a few preliminary hoverings, settled upon it.

"You see," said the Duchesse, "that we have actors, you authors; of what avail is it that you boast of a Shakspeare, since your Liseton, great as he is, cannot be compared with our Talma?"

"And yet," said I, preserving my gravity with a pertinacity, which nearly made Vincent and the rest of our compatriots assembled lose theirs, "Madame must allow that there is a striking resemblance in their persons, and the sublimity of their acting?"

"Pour ça, j'en conviens," replied this critique de l'Ecole des Femmes. "Mais cependant Liseton n'a pas la nature, l'âme, la grandeur de Talma!"* "And will you then allow us no actors of merit?" asked Vincent.

"Mais oui !—dans le genre comique, par exemple votre buffo Kean met dix fois plus d'esprit et de drollerie dans ses rôles que La Porte."+

"The impartial and profound judgment of Madame admits of no further discussion on this point," said I. "What does she think of the present state of our dramatic literature?"

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into a tragedy-it has so much energy, action—variety!”

"Very true," said Madame, with a sigh; "but the tragedy is, after all, only suited to our nation-we alone carry it to perfection."

"Yet," said I, "Goldoni wrote a few fine tragedies."

"Eh bien!" said Madame, "one rose does not constitute a garden!"

And satisfied with this remark, la femme savante turned to a celebrated traveller to discuss with him the chance of discovering the North Pole.

There were one or two clever Englishmen present; Vincent and I joined them.

"Have you met the Persian prince yet?" said Sir George Lynton to me; "he is a man of much talent, and great desire of knowledge. He intends to publish his observations on Paris, and I suppose we shall have an admirable supplement to Montesquieu's Lettres Persannes!"

"I wish we had," said Vincent: "there are few better satires on a civilised country than the observations of visitors less polished; while on the contrary the civilised traveller, in describing the manners of the American barbarian, instead of conveying ridicule upon the visited, points the sarcasm on the visitor; and Tacitus could not have thought of a finer or nobler satire on the Roman luxuries than that insinuated by his treatise on the German simplicity."

"What," said Monsieur d'E(an intelligent ci-devant émigré), "what political writer is generally esteemed as your best?"

"It is difficult to say," replied Vincent, "since with so many parties we have many idols; but I think I might venture to name Bolingbroke

Vincent did not reply.

"Yet," said Sir George Lynton, "there will be a disadvantage attend

as among the most popular. Perhaps, indeed, it would be difficult to select a name more frequently quoted and discussed than his; and yet his politi-ing your writings of this description, cal works are not very valuable from which, by diminishing their general political knowledge: - they contain applicability, diminish their general many lofty sentiments, and many utility. Works which treat upon man beautiful yet scattered truths; but in his relation to society, can only be they were written when legislation, strictly applicable so long as that most debated, was least understood, relation to society treated upon conand ought to be admired rather as tinues. For instance, the play which excellent for the day than admirable satirises a particular class, however in themselves. The life of Boling- deep its reflections and accurate its broke would convey a juster moral knowledge upon the subject satirised, than all his writings: and the author must necessarily be obsolete when the who gives us a full and impartial class itself has become so. The polimemoir of that extraordinary man, tical pamphlet, admirable for one will have afforded both to the philo- state, may be absurd in another; the sophical and political literature of Eng- novel which exactly delineates the land one of its greatest desiderata." present age may seem strange and "It seems to me," said Monsieur unfamiliar to the next; and thus d'E, "that your national litera- works which treat of men relatively, ture is peculiarly deficient in bio- and not man in se, must often confine graphy am I right in my opinion?" their popularity to the age and even 'Indubitably!" said Vincent; "we the country in which they were have not a single work that can be written. While on the other hand, considered a model in biography (ex- the work which treats of man himcepting, perhaps, Middleton's Life of self, which seizes, discovers, analyses Cicero). This brings on a remark I the human mind, as it is, whether in have often made in distinguishing the ancient or the modern, the savage your philosophy from ours. It seems or the European, must evidently be to me that you who excel so admira- applicable, and consequently useful, bly in biography, memoirs, comedy, to all times and all nations. He who satirical observation on peculiar discovers the circulation of the blood, classes, and pointed aphorisms, are or the origin of ideas, must be a phifonder of considering man in his losopher to every people who have relation to society and the active veins or ideas; bnt he who even most commerce of the world, than in the successfully delineates the manners more abstracted and metaphysical of one country, or the actions of one operations of the mind. Our writers, individual, is only the philosopher of on the contrary, love to indulge a single country, or a single age. If, rather in abstruse speculations on Monsieur d'E, you will condetheir species to regard man in an scend to consider this, you will see abstract and isolated point of view, and perhaps that the philosophy which to see him think alone in his chamber, treats of man in his relations is not so while you prefer beholding him act useful, because neither so permanent with the multitude in the world." nor so invariable, as that which treats of man in himself." *


"It must be allowed," said Monsieur d'E, "that if this be true, our philosophy is the most useful, though yours may be the most profound.”

*Yet Hume holds the contrary opinion to

this, and considers a good comedy more

durable than a system of philosophy. Hume

suppose," said I to Vincent, "that you will not leave your discussion." "Pardon me," said he, " amusement

I was now somewhat weary of this conversation, and though it was not yet twelve, I seized upon my appointment as an excuse to depart-accord-is quite as profitable to a man of sense ingly I rose for that purpose. "I as metaphysics. Allons.”


I was in this terrible situation when the basket stopped.

We took our way to the street in which Madame Laurent resided. Meanwhile suffer me to get rid of myself, and to introduce you, dear Reader, to my friend, Monsieur Margot, the whole of whose adventures were subsequently detailed to me by the garrulous Mrs. Green.

At the hour appointed he knocked at the door of my fair countrywoman, and was carefully admitted. He was attired in a dressing-gown of sea-green silk, in which his long, lean, hungry body, looked more like a starved pike than any thing human.

"Madame," said he, with a solemn air, "I return you my best thanks for the honour you have done me behold me at your feet!"-and so saying, the lean lover gravely knelt down on one knee.

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Rise, sir," said Mrs. Green, "I confess that you have won my heart;

is right, if by a system of philosophy is understood-a pile of guesses, false but plausible, set up by one age to be destroyed by the next. Ingenuity cannot rescue error from oblivion; but the moment Wisdom has discovered Truth, she has obtained immortality.-But is Hume right when he suggests that there may come a time when Addison will be read with delight, but Locke

be utterly forgotten? For my part, if the two were to be matched for posterity, I think the odds would be in favour of Locke. I very much doubt whether five hundred years hence, Addison will be read at all, and I am

quite sure that, a thousand years hence,

Looke will not be forgotten.

Oriental Tales-History of the Basket.

but that is not all-you have yet to show that you are worthy of the opinion I have formed of you. It is not, Monsieur Margot, your person that has won me-no! it is your chivalrous and noble sentimentsprove that these are genuine, and you may command all from my admiration."

"In what manner shall I prove it, madame?" said Monsieur Margot, rising, and gracefully drawing his seagreen gown more closely round him.

"By your courage, your devotion, and your gallantry! I ask but one proof-you can give it me on the spot. You remember, monsieur, that in the days of romance, a lady threw her glove upon the stage on which a lion was exhibited, and told her lover to pick it up. Monsieur Margot, the trial to which I shall put you is less severe. Look, (and Mrs. Green threw open the window)-look, I throw my glove out into the street-descend for it."

"Your commands are my law," said the romantic Margot. "I will go forthwith," and so saying, he went to the door.

"Hold, sir!" said the lady, "it is not by that simple manner that you are to descend-you must go the same way as my glove, out of the window."

"Out of the window, madame!" said Monsieur Margot, with astonished solemnity; "that is impossible, be

cause this apartment is three stories | Margot, feeling the rope; "but it really high, and consequently I shall be is a most dangerous exploit." dashed to pieces."

"By no means," answered the dame; "in that corner of the room there is a basket, to which (already foreseeing your determination) I have affixed a rope; by that basket you shall descend. See, monsieur, what expedients a provident love can suggest." "H-e-m!" said, very slowly, Monsieur Margot, by no means liking the airy voyage imposed upon him; "but the rope may break, or your hand may suffer it to slip."


'Go, monsieur! and St. Louis befriend you!"

"Stop!" said Monsieur Margot, "let me fetch my coat: the night is cold, and my dressing-gown thin.”

"Nay, nay, my chevalier," returned the dame, "I love you in that gown: it gives you an air of grace and dignity quite enchanting."

"It will give me my death of cold, madame," said Monsieur Margot, earnestly.

"Bah!" said the Englishwoman:

"Feel the rope," cried the lady, "to" what knight ever feared cold? Besatisfy you as to your first doubt; and, sides, you mistake; the night is warm, as to the second, can you-can you ima- and you look so handsome in your gine that my affections would not make gown." me twice as careful of your person as of my own? Fie! ungrateful Monsieur Margot! fie!"

The melancholy chevalier cast a rueful look at the basket. "Madame," said he, "I own that I am very averse to the plan you propose: suffer me to go down stairs in the ordinary way; your glove can be as easily picked up whether your adorer goes out of the door or the window. It is only, madame, when ordinary means fail, that we should have recourse to the extraordinary."

"Begone, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Green -"begone! I now perceive that your chivalry was only a pretence. Fool that I was to love you as I have done! -fool that I was to imagine a hero where I now find a "

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"Do I!" said the vain Monsieur Margot, with an iron expression of satisfaction. "If that is the case, I will mind it less; but may I return by the door?"

"Yes," replied the lady; "you see that I do not require too much from your devotion-enter."

"Behold me!" said the French master, inserting his body into the basket, which immediately began to descend.

The hour and the police of course I made the street empty; the lady's handkerchief waved in token of encouragement and triumph. When the basket was within five yards of the ground, Mrs. Green cried to her lover, who had hitherto been elevating his serious countenance towards her, in sober, yet gallant sadness

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Monsieur Margot, in that position, I cannot pretend to determine, because he never favoured me with them; but about an hour afterwards, Vincent and I (who had been delayed on the road), strolling up the street, according to our appointment, perceived, by the dim lamps, some opaque body leaning against the wall of Madame Laurent's house, at about the distance of fifteen feet from the ground.

We hastened our steps towards it; a measured and serious voice, which I well knew, accosted us

"For God's sake, gentlemen, procure me assistance. I am the victim of a perfidious woman, and expect every moment to be precipitated to

the earth."

"Good heavens !" said I, "surely it is Monsieur Margot whom I hear. What are you doing there?"

"Shivering with cold," answered Monsieur Margot in a tone tremulously slow.


then, instead of being ridiculed by the porter, you will be ridiculed by the whole street!" "Go,

Monsieur Margot groaned. then, my friend," said he, "procure the ladder! Oh, those she devils!what could make me such a fool!"

Whilst Monsieur Margot was venting his spleen in a scarcely articulate mutter, we repaired to the lodge, knocked up the porter, communicated the accident, and procured the ladder. However, an observant eye had been kept upon our proceedings, and the window above was re-opened, though so silently that I only perceived the action. The porter, a jolly, bluff, hearty-looking fellow, stood grinning below with a lantern, while we set the ladder (which only just reached the basket) against the wall.

The chevalier looked wistfully forth, and then, by the light of the lantern, we had a fair view of his ridiculous figure. His teeth chattered woefully, and the united cold without and anxiety within, threw a double sad

But what are you in? for I can see nothing but a dark substance." "I am in a basket," replied Mon-ness and solemnity upon his withered sieur Margot, "and I should be very much obliged to you to let me out of it."

"Well-indeed," said Vincent (for I was too much engaged in laughing to give a ready reply), "your ChâteauMargot has but a cool cellar. But there are some things in the world easier said than done. How are we to remove you to a more desirable place?"

"Ah," returned Monsieur Margot, "how indeed! There is, to be sure, a ladder in the porter's lodge long enough to deliver me; but then, think of the gibes and jeers of the porter! -it will get wind-I shall be ridiculed, gentlemen-I shall be ridiculed -and what is worse, I shall lose my pupils."

"My good friend," said I, "you had better lose your pupils than your life; and the day-light will soon come, and

countenance. The night was very windy, and every instant a rapid current seized the unhappy sea-green vesture, whirled it in the air, and threw it, as if in scorn, over the very face of the miserable professor. The constant recurrence of this sportive irreverence of the gales-the high sides of the basket, and the trembling agitation of the inmate, never too agile, rendered it a work of some time for Monsieur Margot to transfer himself from the basket to the ladder. At length, he had fairly got out one thin, shivering leg.

"Thank Heaven!" said the pious professor-when at that instant the thanksgiving was checked, and, to Monsieur Margot's inexpressible astonishment and dismay, the basket rose five feet from the ladder, leaving its tenant with one leg dangling out, like a flag from a balloon.

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