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“English travellers swarm here, as everywhere else; but they do not mix with the society of the country more than they do elsewhere, and seem to like it even less. The people of Geneva, on the other hand, say, ‘Their former friends, the English, are so changed they scarcely know them again. They used to be a plain downright race, in whom a certain degree of sauvagerie (oddity and shyness) only served to set off the advantages of a highly cultivated understanding, of a liberal mind, and generous temper, which characterised them in general. Their young men were often rather wild, but soon reformed, and became like their fathers. Instead of this, we now see (they say) a mixed assemblage, of whom lamentably few possess any of those qualities we were wont to admire in their predecessors. Their former shyness and reserve is changed to disdain and rudeness. If you seek these modern English, they keep aloof, do not mix in conversation, and seem to laugh at you. Their conduct, still more strange and unaccountable in regard to each other, is indicative of contempt or suspicion. Studiously avoiding to exchange a word with their £ountrymen, one would suppose they expected to find a sharper in every individual of their own nation, not particularly introduced,—or at best a person beneath them. Accordingly you cannot vex or displease them more than by inviting other English travellers to meet them, whom they may be compelled afterwards to acknowledge. If they do not find a crowd, they are tired. If you speak of the old English you formerly knew, that was before the Flood If you talk of books, it is pedantry, and they yawn; of politics, they run wild about Bonaparte' Dancing is the only thing which is sure to please them. At the sound of the fiddle, the think. ing nation starts up at once. Their young people are adepts in the art; and take pains to become so, spending half their time with the dancing master You may know the houses where they live by the scraping of the fiddle, and shaking of the floor, which disturbs their neighbours. Few bring letters; and yet they complain they are neglected by the f. company, and cheated by innkeepers. The atter, accustomed to the Milords Anglais of former times, or at least having heard of them, think the may charge accordingly; but only find des Anglais pour rire, who bargain at the door, before they venture to come in. for the leg of mutton and bottle of wine. on which they mean to dine !”

“Placed as I am between the two parties, I hear }. Englishmen repeat, what they have heard in

rance, that the Genevans are cold, selfish, and interested, and their women des précieuses ridicules, the very milliners and mantua-makers giving them. selves airs of modesty and deep reading ! that there is no opera, northéâtre des variétés; in short, that Geneva is the dullest place in the world. Some say it is but a bad copy of England, a sham republic; and a scientific, no less than a political, counterfeit.

* Many travelling details, and particular descriptions, are here omitted.


In short, the friends of Gene va, among or r rhodern English travellers, are not namerous-though they are select. . These last distinguished themselves during the late hard winter by their bounty to the poor-not the poor of Geneva, who were sufficiently assisted by their richer countrymen, but those of Savoy, who were literally surving. If English travellers no longer appear in the same light as formerly, it is because it is not the same class of people who go abroad, but all classes, and not the best of all classes, either. They know this too, and say it themselves; they feel the ridicule of their enormous numbers, and of the absurd conduct of many of them. They are ashamed and provoked ; describe it with the most pointed irony, and tell many a humorous story against themselves. Formerly, the travelling class was com of young men of good family and fortune, just coming of age, who, after leaving the University, went the tour of the Continent under the guidance of a learned tutor. often a very distinguished, man, or of men of the same class, at a more advanced age, with their families, who, after many years spent in professional duties at home, came to visit again the countries they had seen in their youth, so the friends they had known there. In those better times, when no Englishman left his country either to seek his fortune, to save money, or to hide himself; when travellers of that nation were all very rich or very learned; of high birth, yet liberal principles; unbounded in their generosity, and with means equal to the inclination, their high standing in the world might well be accounted for; and it is a great pity they should have lost it. Were I an Englishman. I would not set out on my travels until the new fashion were over.”—Vol. i. pp. 356–359.

At Schaffhausen, again, he observes,

“There were other admirers here besides ourselves; some English, and more Germans, who furnished us with an opportunity of comparing the difference of national manners. The former, divided into groups, carefully avoiding any communication with each other still more than with the foreigners. never exchanged a word, and scarcely a look, with any but the legitimate interlocutors of their own set; women adhering more particularly to the rule—from native reserve and timidity, full as much as from ride or from extreme good breeding. Some of the adies here might be Scotch; at least they wore the national colours, and we overheard them drawing comparisons between what we had under our eyes and Coralyn; giving justly enough, the preference to the Clyde; but, at any rate, they behaved a l'Anglaise. The German ladies, on the contrary, contrived to lier conversation in indifferent French. With genuine simplicity, wholly unconscious of forwardness, although it might undoubtedly have been so qualified in England, they begged of my friend to let them hear a few words in English. just to know the sound, to which they were strangers. If we are to Judge of the respective merits of these opposite manners, by the impression they leave. I think the question is already decided by the English against themselves. Yet, at the same time that they blame and deride their own proud reserve, and would depart from it if they well knew how, but a few have the courage to venture :-and I really believe they are the best bred, who thus allow them

selves to be good-humoured and vulgar."

Vol. i. pp. 94, 95.

We have not much to say in defence of our countrymen—but what may be said truly, ought not to be suppressed. That our travelJers are now generally of a lower rank than formerly, and that not very many of them are fitted, either by their wealth or breeding, to uphold the character of the noble and honourable persons who once almost monopolised the advantages of foreign travel, is of course


implied in the fact of their having become vastly more numerous,— without supposing any actual degeneracy in the nation itself. At a very popular point of M. Simond's journey, it appeared from a register which he consulted, that the proportion of travellers from different countries, was twenty-eight English to four Prussians, two Dutch, five French, one Italian, and three Americans.— That some of this great crowd of emigrants might not be suitable associates for some others, may easily be conjectured—and that the better sort may not have been very willing to fraternise with those who did least honour to their common country, could scarcely be imputed to them as a fault. But these considerations, we tear, will go but a little way to explain the phenomenon; or to account for the "Morgue Aristocratique," as Bonaparte called it. of the English gentry—the sort of sulky and contemptuous reserve with which, both at homo and abroad, almost all who have any pretensions to bon ton seem to think it necessary to defend those pretensions. The thing has undoubtedly been carried, of late years, to an excess that is both ludicrous and offensive—and is, in its own nature, unquestionably a blemish and a misfortune: But it does not arise, we are persuaded, from any thing intrinsically haughty or dull in our temperament—but is a natural consequence, and, it must be admitted, a considerable drawback from two very proud peculiarities in our condition—Ihe freedom of our constitution, and the rapid progress of wealth and intelligence in the body of the nation.

In most of the other countries of Europe, if a man was not born in high and polished society, he had scarcely any olher means of gaining admission to it—and honour and dignity, it was supposed, belonged, by inheritance, to a very limited class of the people. Within thai circle, therefore, there could be no derogation—and, from without it, there could he no intrusion. But, in this country, persons of every condition have been long entitled to aspire to every situation—and, from the nature of our political constitution, any one who had individual influence, by talent, wealth, or activity, became at once of consequence in the community, and was classed as the open rival or necessary auxiliary of those who had the strongest hereditary claims to importance. But though the circle of Society was in this way at all times larger lhan in the Continental nations, and embraced more persons of dissimilar training and habits, it does not appear to have given a tone of repulsion to the manners of those who affected the superiority, till a period comparatively remote. In the days of the Tudors and Stuarts there was a wide pale of separation between the landed Aristocracy and the rest of the population; and accordingly, down at least to the end of Charles the Second's reign, there seems to have been none of this dull and frozen arrosrance in the habits of good company. The true reason of this, however, was. that though the competition was constitutionally open, good education was, in fact, till

after this period, ccnfined to the, 'hildren of the gentry; and a certain parade in equipage and dress, which could not be easily assumed but by the opulent, nor naturally carried but by those who had been long accustomed to it, threw additional difficulties in the way of those who wished to push themselves forward in society, and rendered any other bulwarks unnecessary for the protection of the sanctuary of fashion.

From the time of Sir Robert Walpole, however, the communication between the higher and the lower orders became far more open and easy. Commercial wealth and enterprise were prodigiously extended — literature and intelligence spread with unprecedented rapidity among the body of the people; and the increased intercourse between the different parts of the country, naturally produced a greater mixture of the different classes of the people. This was followed by a general relaxation in those costly external observances, by which persons of condition had till then been distinguished. Ladies laid aside their hoops, trains, and elaborate head-dresses ; and gentlemen their swords, periwigs, and embroidery ;—and at the same time that it thus became quite practicable for an attorney's clerk or a mercer's apprentice to assume the exterior of a nobleman, it happened also, both that many persons of that condition had the education that fitted them for a higher rank— and that several had actually won their way to it by talents and activity, which had not formerly been looked for in that quarter.— Their success was well merited undoubtedly, and honourable both to themselves and their country: but its occasional occurrence, even more than the discontinuance of aristocrática) forms or the popular spirit of the Government, tended strongly to encourage the pretensions of others, who had little qualification for success, beyond an eager desire to obtain it.— So many persons now raised themselves by their own exertions, that every one ihousrht himself entitled to rise; and very few proportionally were contented to remain in the rank to which they were born ; and as vanity is a still more active principle lhan ambition, the effects of this aspiring spirit were more conspicuously seen in the invasion which it prompted on the prerogatives of polite society, than in its more serious occupations; and a herd of uncomfortable and unsuitable companions beset all the approaches to good company, and seemed determined to force all its

! barriers.

We think we have now stated the true

! causes of this phenomenon—but, at all events, the fact we believe to be incontrovertible, that within the last fifty years there has been an incredible increase of forwardness and solid impudence among the half-bred and halfeducated classes of this country—and that there was consequently some apology for the assumption of more distant and forbidding manners towards strangers, on the part of those who were already satisfied with the extent of their society. It was evidently easier and more prudent to reject the overtures of

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unknown acquaintances, than to shake them off after they had been once allowed to fasten themselves—to repress, in short, the first attempts at familiarity, and repel, by a chillin and somewhat disdainful air, the advances o all, of whom it might any way be suspected that they might turn out discreditable or unfit associates. This, we have no doubt, is the true history of that awful tone, of gloomy indifference and stupid arrogance, which has '''. become so striking a characteristic of Englis manners. At its best, and when most justified by the circumstance of the parties, it has, we must allow, but an ungracious and disobliging air: But the extravagant height to whic it is now frequently carried, and the extraordinary occasions on which it is sometimes displayed, deserve all the ridicule and reprobation they meet with. We should not quarrel much with a man of family and breeding being a little distant and cold to the many very affable people he may meet with, either in his travels, or in places of public resort at home. But the provoking thing is, to see the same frigid and unsociable manner adopted in private society, and towards persons of the highest character, if they happen not to belong to the same set, or to be occupied with the same pursuits with those fastidious mortals—who, while their dignity forbids them to be affable to men of another club, or women of another assembly, yet admit to the familiarity of their most private hours, a whole ; of led captains, or led parsons, fiddlers, xers, or parasitical buffoons. But the most remarkable extravagance in the modern practice of this repulsive system, is, that the most outrageous examples of it are to be met with among those who have the least occasion for its protection,-persons whose society nobody would think of courting, and who yet receive the slightest and most ordinary civilities, being all that the most courteous would ever dream of offering them, - with airs of as vehement disdain as if they were really in danger of having their intimacy taken by storm | Such manners, in such people, are no doubt in the very extreme of absurdity.— But it is the mischief of all cheap fashions, that they are immediately pirated by the vulgar; and certainly there is none that can be assumed with so little cost, either of indust or understanding as this. As the whole of it consists in being silent, stupid, and sulky, it is quite level to the meanest capacity—and, we have no doubt, has enabled many to pass for persons of some consideration, who could never have done so on any other terms; or has permitted them at least to think that they were shunning the society of many by whom they would certainly have been shunned. We trust, therefore, that this fashion of mock stateliness and sullen reserve will soon ss away. The extreme facility with which it may be copied by the lowest and dullest of mankind,-the caricatures which are daily exhibited of it in every disgusting variety,+ and the restraints it must impose upon the good nature and sociality which, after all, do

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really form a part of our national character, must concur, we think, with the alienation it produces in others, speedily to consign it to the tomb of other forgotten affectations. The duties that we owe to strangers that come casually into our society, certainly are not very weighty—and a man is no doubt entitled to consult his own ease, and even his indolence, at the hazard of being unpopular among such persons. But, after all, affability and complaisance are oil a kind of duties, in their degree; and of all duties, we should reall think are those that are repaid, not only wit the largest share of gratitude, but with the greatest internal satisfaction. All we ask is, that they, and the pleasure which naturally accompanies their exercise, should not be sacrificed to a vain notion of dignity, which the rson assuming it knows all the while to be alse and hollow—or to a still vainer assumption of fashion, which does not impose upon one in a thousand; and subjects its unhappy victim to the ridicule of his very competitors in the practice. All studied manners are assumed, of course, for the sake of the effect they are to produce on the beholders: And if a man have a particularly favourable opinion of the wisdom and dignity of his physiognomy, and, at the same time, a perfect consciousness of the folly and vulgarity of his discourse, there is no denying that such a man, when he is fortunate enough to be where he is not known, will do well to keep his own secret, and sit as silent, and look as repulsive among strangers as possible... But, under any other circumstances, we really cannot admit it to be a reasonable, any more than an amiable demeanour. To return, however, to M. Simond. If he is somewhat severe upon our national character, it must be confessed that he deals still harder measure to his own countrymen. There is one passage in which he distinctly states that no man in France now pretends to any principle, either personal or political. What follows is less atrocious-and probably nearer the truth. It is the sequel of an encomium on the domestic and studious occupations of the well-informed society of Zurich.

“Probably a mode of life so entirely domestic would tempt few strangers, and in France particularly, it would appear quite intolerable. Yet I doubt whether these contemners of domestic dulness are not generally the dullest of the two. Walking occasionally the whole length of the interior Boulevards of Paris, on a summer evening, I have generally observed on my return, at the interval of several hours, the very same figures sitting just where I had left them; mostly isolated middle-aged men, established for the evening on three chairs, one for the elbow, another for the extended leg. a third for the centre of gravity; with vacant looks and a muddy complexion, appearing discontented with o and others, and profoundly tired. A fauteuil in a salon, for the passive hearer of the talk of others, is still worse, I take it, than the three chairs on the Boulevard. The theatre, seen again and again, can have no great charm; nor is it every one who has money to spare for the one, or free access to the other; therefore, an immense number of people are driven to the Boulevard as a last resource. As to home. it is no resource at all. No

one thinks of the possibility of employing his time, liiere, either by himself or with his family. And the result, upon the whole, is, that I do nui believe (here is a country in the world where you see so many long fares, cure-worn and cross, us among the very people who are deemed, and believe iheuifcelves, the merries! in the world. A man of rank and talent, who has spent many years in ihe Crii/ira, who.einploved himself diligently and usefully when there, and who naturally loves a country where he has done much good, praising it to a Inend, has been heard to remark, as the main objection to a residence otherwise delightful—• Mais un est obligé de s'aller coucher tous les soirs à sept heures,—parcequ'en Crimée on ne sait pas où aller passer la soirée!' This remark excites no surprise at Paris. Every one there feels that ihere can be no alternative,—some place, not home, to spend your evening!) in. ortobed at seveno'clock! Itputs one in mind of the gentleman who hesitated about marrying a lady whose company he liked very much, ' lor,' as he observed, ' where could I then go to pnss my evenings?' "—Vol. i. pp. 404, 405.


The following, though not a cordial, is at least a candid testimony to the substantial benefits of the Revolution :—

"The clamorous, restless, and bustling manners of the common people of Aix their antiquated and ragged dress, their diminutive stature and ill-favoured countenances, strongly recalled to my mim! the population of France, such as I remembered it formerly; lor a considerable change has certainly taken place, in all such respects, between the years 1789 and 1815. The people of France are decidedly less noisy, and graver; better dressed, and cleatier. All this may be accounted for; but handsomer is not яо readily understood, à priori. It seems as if the hardships of war, having successively carried off all the weakly, those who survived have regenerated the species. The people have undoubtedly gained much by the Revolution on the score of property, and a little as to political institutions. They certainly seem conscious of some advantage attained, end to he proud of it—not properly civil liberty, which is little understood, and not properly estimated, but a certain coarse equality, asserted in small things, although not thought of in the essentials of society. This new-horn equality is very touchy, if it felt yet insecure; and thence a degree of rudeness in the common intercourse with the lower class, and. more or less, all dusses, very different from the old proverbial French politeness. This, I hough in ¡"self not agreeable, is, however, a çood sign. Pride is a step in moral improvement, trom a verv low state. 'I hese opinions, I am well aware, will not pass in France without animadversion, as it is not to be expected the same judgment will be formed of thines under different circumstances. II my critics, however, will only go three or four thousand miles off, and stay away a quarter of a century, I dare say we shall agree better when we compare notes on their return."

Vol. i. pp. 333, 334.

The way in which M. Simond speaks of Rousseau, affords a striking example of that struggle between enthusiasm and severity— romance and cool reason, which we noticed in the beginningas characteristic of the whole work. He talks, on the whole, with contempt. and even bitterness, of hi» character: But he follows his footsteps, and the vestiges and memorials even of his fictitious personages, with a spirit of devout observance—visits Claretis, and pauses at Meillerie—rows in a burning day to his island in the lake of Bienne—expatiates on the beauty of his retreat at the Charmi'ttcs—and even stops to explore his tempotary abode at Moitier Travers. The following passages are remarkable :—

"Rousseau, from his garrel, governed an empire—that pi the mind; the founder of a new religion in politics, and to his enthu*i:isiic followers a prophet—He said, and they believed! 'I he disciples of Voltaire might be more numerous, but they were bound to him by far weaker ties. These of Rousseau made the French Revolution, and perished for it; while Voltaire's, miscalculating its chances, perished by it. Both, perhaps, deserved their late ; but the former certainly acted the nobler' part, and went to battle with the best weapons too, —for in the deadly encounter of all the passions, of the most opposite principles and irreconcilable prejudices, cold-hearted wit is of little avail. Heroes and martyrs do not care for epigrams ; and he must have enthusiasm who pretends to lead the enthusiastic or cope with them, [fue intime рггяиаишп, Rousseau has somewhere said, m'a toujours ttiiu litu d'éloquence! And well it might; lor the first requisite lo command belief is to believe yourself. Nor is it easy to impose on mankind in this respect. There is no eloquence, no ascendancy over the minds of others, without this intimate persuasion in yourself. Rousseau's might only be a son of poetical persuasion, lasting but as long as the occasion; yet it was thus powerful, only because it was true, though but for a quarter of an hour perhaps, in the heart of this inspired writer.

"Mr. M , son of the friend of Rousseau, to

whom he left his manuscripts, and especially his Confessions, to be published after his death, had the goodness lo show them to me. I observed a fair copy written by himself, in a small band like print, very neat nnd correct; not a blot or an erasure to be seen. The moat curiousot these papers, however, were several sketch-books, or memoranda halt filled, where the same hand is no longer discernible; but the same genius, and the same wayward temper and perverse intellect, in every fugitive thought which is there put down. Rousseau's composition, like Montesquieu's, was laborious and slow; his ideas flowed rapidly, but were not readily brought into proper order; iney did not appca'r to have come in consequence of a previous plan; but the plan itself, formed afterwards, came in aid of the ideas, and served as a sort of frame for them, instead of being a system to which they were subservient. Very possibly some of the fundamental opinions he defended so earnestly, and for which his disciples would willingly have suffered martyrdom, were originally adopted because a bright thought, caught as it flew, was entered in his commonplace book.

"These loose notes of Rousseau afford a curious insight into his taste in composition. You find him perpetually retrenching epithets—reducing his thoughts to their simplest expression—giving words a peculiar energy, by the new application of their original meaning—going back to the naïveté of old language: and, in the artificial process of simplicity, carefully effacing the trace of each laborious footstep as he advanced ; each idea, each image, coming out, at last, as if cast entire at a single throw, original, energetic, and clear. Although

Mr. M had promised lo Roussi au ihai he would

publish his Confessions as they were, yet he ti ok upon himself to suppress a passage explaining certain circumstances of his abjurations at Anneci, affording a curious, but frightfully disgusting, picture ol monkish manners at that time. 'It is a pity that

Mr. M did not break his word in regard to some

few more passages of that most admirable and mosl vile of all ihe productions ol genius."

Vol. i. pp 5ГЛ—566.

The following notices of Madame de Staël are emphatic and original :—

"1 had seen Madame de Staël a child; and I paw her airain on her deathbed The intermediate years were spent in another hemisphere, as lar as possible from the scenes in which she lived. Mixing again, not many months since, with a world iu which I am

a stranger, and feel that I must remain so, I just saw this celebrated woman; and heard, as it were, her met words, as I had read her works before, uninfluenced by any local bias. Perhaps, the impressions of a man ilitia dropped from another world into this rany be deemed something like those oí posterity.; "Madame de Staël lived for conversation: She was not happy out of a large circle, and a French circle, where she could be heard in her own lan• guage to the best advantage. Her extravagant admiration of the society oí Paris was neither more nor less than genuine admiration of herself. It was the best mirror she could get—and that was all. Ambitious of all sorts ol notoriety, she would have givei: the world to have been born noble and a beauty. Yet there was in this excessive vanity so much honesty and frankness, it was 80 entirely

void of affectation and trick, »he made so fair and к ¡ irresistible an appeal to your own sense of her worth, 'that what would have been laughable in any one else, was almost respectable in her. That ambition ol eloquence, so conspicuous ш her writing*. was much less observable in her conversation: there was more almidón in what ehe said than in what she wrote; while speaking, the spontaneous inspiration was no labour, but ail pleasure. Conscious of extraordinary powers, she gave herself up to the present enjoyment of the good thing», and ;he deep things, flowing in a full ы г earn from her well-stored mind and luxuriant fancy. The inspiration was pleasure—the pleasure was inspiration; and without precisely ¡mending it, sbe was, every evening of her life, in a circle ot company, ihevery Corinne she had depicted."—Vol. i. pp. 283—2SÉ.

(ЗГооетЬег, 1812.)

Rejected Addresses; or the New Theatmm Poetarum. 12mo. pp. 126. London: 1812.»

After all the learning, wrangling and solemn exhortation of our preceding pages, we think we may venture to treat our readers with a little morsel of town-made gaiety, without any great derogation from our established character for seriousness and contempt of trilles. We are aware, indeed, that there is no way by which we could so certainly ingratiate ourselves with our provincial readers, as by dealing largely in such articles; and we can assure them, that if we have not hitherto indulged them very often in this manner, it is only because we have not often met with any thing nearly so good as the little volume before us. We have seen nothing comparable to it indeed since the publication of the poetry of the Antijacobin; and though it wants the high seasoning of politics and personality, which no doubt contributed much to ihe currency of that celebrated collection, we are not sure that it does not exhibit, on the whole, a still more exquisite talent of imitation, with powers of poetical composition that are scarcely inferior.

We must npt forget, however, to inform our country readers, that these "Rejected Addresses" are merely a series of Imitations of the style and manner of the most celebrated living writers—who are here supposed to have

• I have been so much struck, on lately Iookin2 back to this paper, with the very extraordinary merit and felicity of the Imitations on which it is employed, that I cannot resist the temptation of giving them a chance of delighting a new generation of admirers, by including some part of them in this publication. I take them, indeed, to be the very be.«t imitations) and often of difficult original?) that ever were made: and, considering their great extent and variety, to indicate a talent to which I do not know where to look for a parallel. Some few of them descend to the level ol parodies: But by far the greater part are of a much higher description. They ought, 1 suppose, to have come under the head of Poetry,—but " Miscellaneous" is broad enough to cover any thing.—Some of the less striking citations are now omitted. The au* thors, I believe, have been long known to have been the late Messrs. Smith.

tried their hands at an address to be spokeu at the opening of the New Theatre in Drory Lane—in the hope, we presume, of obtaining the twenty-pound prize « hich the munificent managers are said to have held out to the successful candidate. The names of the imaginary competitors, whose works are now offered to me public, are only indicated by their initials; and there are one or two which we really do not know how to (ill up. By far the greater part, however, are such as cannot possibly be mistaken; and no reader of Scott. Crabbe, Southey. Wordsworth. Lewis, Moore. or Spencer, could require the aid, even of their initial?, to recognise them in their portraits. Coleridge. Coleman. and Lord Byron, are not quite such striking likenesses. Of Dr. Busby1!

'and Mr. Fitzgerald's, we do not hoW ourselv«. qualified to judge—not professing to be dee] ¡y read in the works of these originals.

There is no talent so universally entertaining as that of mimicry—even when it is conlined to the lively imitation of the air and manner—the voice, gait, and external deportment of ordinary individuals. Nor is this to be ascribed entirely to our wicked love of ridicule; for, though we must not assign a very high intellectual rank to an art which i.« said to have attained to perfection among <!>' savages of New Holland, some admiration i* undoubtedly due to the capacity of nice observation which it implies; and some gratification may be innocently derived from the sudden perception which it excites ut peculiarities previously unobserved. It rises in

1 interest, however, and in dignity, when it succeeds in expressing, not merely the visible and external characteristics of its objects, but those also of their taste, their genius, anJ temper. A vulgar mimic repeats a roan's cant-phrases and known stories, with an exact imitation of his voice, look, and gestures: But he is an artist of a far higher description, who can make stories or reasonings in his manner; and represent the features and movements of

i his mind, as well as the accidents of his body.

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