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these remarks, the Russian Emperor at Moscow, and the Austrian Emperor at Buda, were in the very act of “ hanging over it enamoured.”

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* We rejoice to be able to add, that a continuation, or a New Series, is already in progress, and before the public; but in the larger and original form of folio. The subjects are equally important, equally well engraved, and equally likely to meet with the patronage of their predecessors." A few of the drawings by Mr. Duby, from the original pictures,-and which we happen to have seen-are master-pieces of art.

Charlemagne, ou La Caroléide, poeme Epique. Le Solitaire ; Le

Renégat; Ipsiboé; Romans, 7me. Sme. ou 9me. Editions. Par M.
LE VISCOMTE D'ARLINCOURT. Paris. 1824.

The Viscomte D'Arlincourt is a man of some wealth and of singular literary diligence, who has for some time occupied the conversation of the Parisian coteries. As publicity, no matter of what kind, was his ambition, he appears to have pursued it with becoming knowledge of the world. The public journals were inoculated with a sudden admiration of every thing that the Viscomte wrote, was writing, or should ever write ; weekly and monthly criticism grew ardent with the same suspicious celerity. Select literary dinners stole upon the severer hearts that could be softened by no other application; and the vrai Amphytrion rose rapidly into the honours that he loved. Románce followed romance, edition trod on the heels of edition, and the Viscomte D'Arlincourt stands at this hour at the summit of success and absurdity in the civilized and scribbling world.

At the last exhibition of paintings in the Louvre, we observed an allegorical picture of a very singular description. It seemed meant as an illustration of the great moral truth, that human nature may boldly and successfully struggle with the most appalling combinations of worldly ill, figured under the semblance of elemental strife. Earth, air, fire and water,

huge forests and unharboured heaths, Infamous hills and sandy perilous wilds,"

were all united in unholy alliance against one man; and this individual representative of humanity gazed with undaunted

air on their innocuous assaults. He was environed by vapours, a tempest was bursting round his head, a mountain toppled over his back, a torrent rushed between his legs. His dress was a brown frock coat, tight pantaloons, and hessian boots. We enquired of a bystander the name of the personi represented." That,” replied he with a sheer," is the celebrated auteur chiromantique-le chantre de la Vallée-le Prophete de la Montagne-l'inspiré de la roche Solitaire l'homme des extremes- le Viscomte D'Arlincourt !"

It must be evident to all who think modern French literature worth their study, that it has been latterly in its lighter departments making considerable improvement. It will be, we think, readily admitted, that poetry is no longer looked on as a merely mechanical product; for though our Gallic neighbours do not yet possess the power and passion of English bards, we may safely assert that less mere versification and more true poetry has issued from the Paris press within the last ten years, than it had produced since the days of the Fabléaux. The Drama is positvely at this moment revelling in the early dawn of reformation. Several plays have lately appeared not unworthy of the banner of the romantic school, if that be taken; as we understand it, as the type of liberty and nature opposed to the emblem of constraint and art. Nothing but injudicious efforts to force this new taste can destroy the promise of a profuse recoltes and the public give continual proofs of the avidity with which they watch for the harvest. Some authors, however, resemble unskilful gardeners, who make their melons rot instead of ripen; or, to quit metaphor, produce plays filled with unsoundness and extravagance, and cry out “Voila, voila Shakspeare!" But the French Parterre is wonderfully enlightened of late, and it begins to discriminate the divine spirit of our bard from the mists through which it shines. The public make very acute distinctions between the genius which immortalized him, and the age which he ennobled. Schlegel has taught them to devour his beauties, but he cannot persuade them to swallow his defects. Our reverence for Shakspeare is not idolatry, and we wish to see imitations of him, not burlesques. Monsieur Lemercier might, for instance, advantageously take bur hint; as well as that afforded him by the kindness of the public, who having recently damned his “ Jane Shore," on its first representation, had the unprecedented indulgence to suffer its repetition in an altered form, and crouded to see it for several successive nights, wholly and solely (let not our readers be sceptical, however they may be surprized) because it was a supposed imitation of Shakspeare.

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In romance writing, which is our more immediate subject, considerable changes, to say the least of them, have been effected. The country which has produced “ La nouvelle Eloise,” “ Corinne," and " Elizabeth,” will scarcely yield, or be expected to yield, the palm to any nation on the score of eloquence, imagination, and pathos. But even France, in all her just pride on this particular point, has not been ashamed to acknowledge the influence of the modern English romance, and her candour has been, naturally, in proportion to her strength. Where she feels her feebleness, she" assumes a virtue though she has it not;" and mixed with the growing admission of Shakspeare's glory, a murmur of devotion for Racine is sure to be heard the praises of Byron are still frequently drowned in those of J. B. Rousseau—and such is the obstinate attachment to the good old times, that recourse is often had even to our own authors, and “ Young's Night Thoughts,” and “ Tonsou's Seasons" brought in opposition to the works of our best living poets. But they admit honestly that we have led the way in the historical novel, and the Scotch novels have no pretender to dispute their sovereignty. Their author rules supreme abroad. Like our Henry V. he has been crowned in Paris, and each of his offspring, more fortunate than the hapless son and successor of that hero, not only enjoys the advantage of a double inheritance, but also of a double nativity, being ushered into life on the same day in the Capitals both of England and France. There have been some happy productions in the style of this writer in France, but the most unhappy are indisputably those of Monsieur D'Arlincourt. He gets astride of his Hippogriff to be inevitably flung from his seat. Were these ludicrous mishaps, however, strictly personal, we should most assuredly have left the Viscount to lie unnoticed in the ditch which he digs for himself; but it is in consequence of the injury inflicted by his failures on the character of the school of which he professes himself one, that we are compelled to notice his true authorship. Of all the writers of the romantic style, he is without exception the most bombastic, offering a ready handle to the keen cutting blade of its opponents, and enabling them to support their attacks by citing him, a process as candid as if we judged of Shakspeare's heroes by Bardolph, or Homer's by Thersites. It is such a style as his which is thus well defined in a recent satire against romanticism generally.

" C'est une verité qui n'est point dans la nature,

Un art qui n'est point l'art, de grands mots sans enflure ;

C'est la mélancholie et la mysticité ;
C'est l'affectation de la naïveté ;
C'est un monde idéal qu'on voit dans les nuages ;
Tout, jusqu'au sentiment, n'y parle qu'en images.
C'est la voix du desert ou la voix du torrent,
Ou le roi des Tilleuls, ou le fantôme errant,
Qui, le soir, au Vallon, vient souffler ou se plaindre ;
Des figures enfin qu'un pinceau ne peut peindre ;
C'est un je ne sais quoi dont on est transporté ;
Et moins on le comprend plus on est enchanté,”

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We may on some future occasion notice the more prominent of the modern French writers who do credit to the romantic style. For the present we must be satisfied with the other extreme; and now, for the honor of poetry in the abstract, as well as in strict right of etiquette, we will first venture a hasty sketch of “ La Caroléide.”

The exploits of Charlemagne, that fertile field of Italian poetry, had already been the subject of two regular epics in France, and there is perhaps none more inspiring to genius, or more liable to burlesque; for in this instance, as in most others, les extremes se touchent. Chivalry and superstition are combined in Charlemagne, with all that can unite to rouse the sympathies or elevate the mind. A great nation struggling against a host of enemies; the religion of Christ opposed to paganism; a mighty monarch combating the world; the triumphant founder of a new dynasty, sometimes barbarous, oftener magnanimous, always conquering; accumulating diadems around his head, creating a code of laws, enlightening his age, dignifying his country; and in the midst of first-rate heroes, proving himself the most intrepid of warriors, as the most powerful of kings. History, we will allow, says other things, but we speak of the Charlemagne of poetry.

The first of the poets who ventured on the illustration of such a theme, unfortunately had his reputation annihilated by the following lines of a merciless satirist.

« Au plus fort du combat le chapelain Garagne,

Vers le sommet du front atteint d'un Charlemagne
(Des vers de ce poëme effet prodigieux !)
Tout prêt à s'endormir, baille et ferme les yeux."

LUTRIN. CHANT V.

The second, Lucien Bonaparte, prince of Camino, shewed more reading than poetry in his production, and seems to have formed his style on that of Chapelain, whose " apre et rude

verve” was so disagreeable to Boileau ; and perhaps a sufficient cause for the failure of Lucien was the attempt to depict his brother under the semblance of Charlemagne; for in epic poetry we shrink from masquerade.

Monsieur D'Arlincourt introduces his epic to the reader in the following style ;

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" Companion of my life, depository of my thoughts, consolation of my sorrows, charm of my pleasures, my poem has never quitted me in any

my distant adventures. Like Camoens, who when shipwrecked on the coasts of China, swam away from the open jaws of death, dashing the waves with one hand, and holding his Lusiad in the other, so have I from a thousand dangers saved but my person and

my poem.” “ If,” exclaims he in another place, “if in my Charlemagne I have succeeded in forming a new, species of poem, an epic joining the majestic severity of the ancient to the dramatic interest of the modern style, perhaps in my second production which occupies me now, I may offer to my country an entirely novel work, a composition completely French, a new muse. At once natural and dramatic, severe and lively, tragical and gay, occasionally rising to the epic, at times descending to the burlesque; my new poem will awaken the reverberation of every chord of the lyre. All keys will be familiar to it, all varieties of rhythm equal, all extravagancies allowed, all lists open. Borne on the wings of imagination into a boundless career, my independent muse in this new flight will upset every obstacle, will scour alike the beaten paths and ways unknown; graceful and fierce by turns, sublime, familiar, pathetic and jocose ; causing smiles or shudderings ; nymph, fury, amazon, shepherdess or fairy, her pictures shall be animated by all the colours with which the genius of Time can cover her pallet. Wrapped in the modest veil of allegory, or naked on the chariot of truth, now the child of folly, she will shake her tinkling bells, then the daughter of wisdom, she will utter her austere decrees. Armed with the scourge of satire, blowing the trumpet, or piping on the shepherd's reed, she will range the palaces of kings, sit down at the table of the rustic swain, plunge into the caverns of the feudal manor, pursue the wicked, evoke the infernal shades, laugh with the minstrels, take part in the tilts of chivalry, the joys of the troubadour, or the execution of the felon; preside at the councils of princes, sport with the nymphs of the vale, march fury-like with burning torch in hand before the tyrant, visit the antique hermitage and the enchanted palace, expose the mysteries of monkish convents, repeat from morn till night romances and fables, raise the dark tapestry of haunted towers, and always truly French she will sing of her country, of heroism, and of beauty.

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The readers of this ore rotundo rhodomontade will no doubt believe, as we did at first, that no man could have seriously uttered it, and that this soi-disant disciple of the romantic

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