taken with him, and whose air, manners, and information he che rishes in turn. I ask pardon of the English, but I have usually observed that they have exaggerated their advantages, and raised their men of moderate talents to a rank above all that is distinguished and illustrious in other nations. This is the first time that I have not been deceived by their encomiums. Garrick is, in truth, above all eulogy, and to form any idea of him he must be seen. He who has not seen Garrick has never seen a drama performed.’— It is easy to disfigure a face: this may be conceived: but Garrick neither grimaces nor overcharges his parts; all the changes which affect his features arise from his internal emotions; he never exceeds the truth; and he is possessed of that other inconceivable secret of embellishing himself without any farther aid than that of passion. We have seen him play the dagger-scene in the tragedy of Macbeth in a room, dressed in his usual clothes, without the assistance of any theatrical illusion; and, in proportion as he followed with his eyes the suspended dagger traversing the air, he became so admirable that he forced an exclamation of applause from all the company. Who would imagine that the same man, the instant afterward, could counterfeit with equal perfection a pastry-cook's boy, who, in carrying his little pâtés on his head while he is gaping in the streets, lets his tray fall into the kennel, and, after having stood for a minute astonished at the accident, ends with bursting into tears?' -- In the same perfection, he plays all those parts of which the models are to be found in nature the only characters that he cannot act are those fictitious beings who resemble nothing, and have no foundation but in the wild and poverty-stricken imagination of a poet. He affirms that to be a good tragic actor it is necessary to be a good comedian, and I believe him to be in the right.' He asserts that Racine, so beautiful, so enchanting in the closet, cannot be adapted to the stage, because he says every thing, and leaves nothing to the actor. We have ever been of the opinion of Roscius Garrick on this point; we who are but a little flock of true believers, who recognize Homer, Eschylus, and Sophocles for the law and the prophets; we who are delighted with the gifts of genius wherever they may be found, without exception of language or of nation : the English Roscius is of the religion professed by our little flock.' The essay on Preaching appears at first sight to be founded on a ridiculous and extravagant hypothesis: but we cannot help suspecting its real basis to be truth. The Abbé Coyer, who is the author of this essay, endeavours to prove that all those who have undertaken to ameliorate men by their writings are mere idle talkers and gossips, who may amuse but can never correct. The true preacher, the only one, (according to the Abbé Coyer,) who preaches to the purpose, because the only one who joins to the recommendation of morality the force and example of practice and execution, is the government. Thus, when the government knows how to preach, all goes well; and when when it preaches ill, all the sermons of all other preachers put together are mere waste paper. Among the authors of the day, Piron figures frequently and agreeably through this work. After the first representation of Semiramis, Voltaire, meeting Piron in the green-room, asked his opinion of the play. "You would be extremely happy if I were its author," was the answer.-Piron appears to have been the only author who associated with the patriarch without any apprehension of being eclipsed by his wit. We remember an anecdote in proof of this assertion which M. de GRIMM has omitted, and which is far superior to any that he has recorded. Voltaire had requested Piron to tell him his opinion of a new dramatic piece, on which the patriarch had bestowed great pains, and which he believed to be beyond the reach of any serious objection. Having perused it, "I think," said Piron, "it will be hissed." "I bet you that it will not," replied the patriarch. The wager being accepted, they both were present at the representation; it went off heavily, but did not meet with the compliment denounced by Piron.Voltaire called on him for his money. "True," said Piron, counting it out to him, " it is impossible to hiss and yawn at the same time." The physical truth contained in this observation heightens the humour of the remark. Among a number of idle metrical pieces scattered through this publication, a few may be selected that have considerable merit. An old thought on the subject of truth was happily improved by M. de L'Isle into the following little apologue: "Aux portes de la Sorbonne At La Vérité se montra ; "Que demandez vous, la bonne ?" "Hélas! l'hospitalité." "Votre nom?”—“ La Vérité.”. "Fuyez," dit-il en colère, "Fuyez, ou je monte en chaire, "Vous me chassez, mais j'espère IMITATED. College, once of late Was seen the modest face of Truth; The provost met the blushing youth, And asked what brought him to their gate. ""Twas for admission, Sir, I came." "Your name, young man."-He gave his name. 15 "Fly," 86 Fly," " cried the doctor in a fury— "Fly-or this instant I assure ye, I'll bawl aloud, "The Church in danger !" "You refuse me," said the stranger, may "But, to your cost, you soon may learn Will grant whatever I require." The epitaph on Voltaire by a lady of Lausanne is highly appropriate : "Ci git Penfant gâté du monde qu'il gáta." The project for a statue of this extraordinary man occupied the attention of the world in 1770, to such a degree that most of the European sovereigns, and more particularly those of the North, subscribed to perpetuate the countenance of the writer whose works were gradually undermining their thrones, and the altars on which they rested. The patriarch appears to have discovered a considerable degree of coquetry on the occasion. We translate a letter from him to Madame Necker: 21. May, 1770. "My modesty, Madam, and my reason, induced me to believe at first that the idea of a statue was merely a pleasantry: but, as it is seriously intended, permit me to speak to you seriously. "I am now seventy-six years old, and am hardly recovered from a severe illness which has excessively maltreated my body and soul for these six weeks. M. Pigalle, they tell me, is to come and model my face but this must be intended on the supposition that I had one, whereas it would now be difficult to find it out. My eyes are sunken three inches deep, and my cheeks are like old parchment, ill glued down on bones which adhere to nothing. The few teeth that I had are gone. What I tell you is not a piece of affectation, it is the simple truth. Never was statue made of a poor man in such a plight. M. Pigalle would think you intended to ridicule him; and, as for myself, I have so much self-love that I should really be ashamed to appear in his presence. I should advise him, if he intends to bring this strange adventure to a conclusion, to take his model from the little figure of the Seves porcelaine. But, after all, what matters it to posterity whether a block of marble resembles this man or that? I am perfectly philosophical on that point. As, however, I am yet more grateful than philosophical, I give you over the remnant of my body the same power that you have over the remnant of my mind. Both of them are much out of order: but my heart is as entirely yours, Madam, as if I were only twenty five years of age, and this with the most sincere respect. Present my obedience, I intreat you, to M. Necker." In spite of so much modesty, M. Pigalle set off on his journey for the purpose of modelling the remnant of Voltaire's face, and most agreeably the work went on. "Phidias "Phidias Pigalle, it appears, remained a week at Ferney. The day before his departure, he had utterly failed in his object, and had determined to abandon the enterprize, on the plea that it was not feasible. Not but that the patriarch sat to him every day, but during the sitting he was, like a child, unable to be still for a moment. In general, he dictated letters to his secretary, while the artist was modelling him; and, as customary with him when so employed, he continued to shoot peas out of his mouth, or made a hundred grimaces which were so many death-blows to the statuary's art. The statuary was therefore in despair, and saw no alternative but to return, or fall ill at Ferney of a burning fever. At length, on the last day the conversation turned, luckily for the enterprize, on the golden calf of Aaron; and the patriarch was so delighted with Pigalle for requiring at least six months to model such a machine, that, during the rest of the sitting, the artist did what he would with him, and succeeded in making his model as he desired." Such was the power of irreverence for the holy volume over Voltaire, that it would even make him sit still, and be docile and tractable. Besides the model, Pigalle brought a most favourable account of the patriarch's health. He assured me,' says GRIMM, that this Septuagenary ran up stairs quicker than all the subscribers to his statue put together, and was more alert in shutting a door, opening a window, or twirling round on one leg, than any of the persons around him.' At repartees, Voltaire was ambi-dexter. An English traveller, on his way to Ferney, had met the celebrated Haller. On hearing that name, Voltaire was loud and copious in praise of his abilities. "Your praise," said the Englishman," is the more generous, as it is unrequited on the part of M. Haller." "Alas," said the patriarch," perhaps we are both mistaken.” This, we think, is the ne plus ultra of repartee. Jean Jacques Rousseau, whose subscription to the statue was not much relished by the patriarch, returned to Paris unexpectedly with Mademoiselle Vasseur, whom he had married some time before. He had left off the Armenian and resumed the French dress. An impertinent tale was current on this occasion, not wholly favourable to the reputation of Madame Jean Jacques, and yet less complimentary to the taste of the person who was her accomplice. It is said that her husband, on detecting her in flagranti with a monk, left off the Armenian habit, declaring that he had only worn it for the purpose of assuming an exterior different from other men, but that he now saw he was merely an every-day mortal. It was, however, shrewdly suspected that the charms of Paris had more effect in inducing Jean Jacques to change his dress than the frolics of Madame Rousseau. On this condition, and on that of publishing nothing for the future, he obtained permission from the Attorney Attorney-General to return. His arrival created a great sensation at Paris. That city was necessary to him. In those nations in which unfettered genius, as it is called, marks out its way to fame by extravagances relieved by an occasional beauty, the country, or a foreign land, are no obstacles in the way of the candidate: but in France, where genius itself makes but small impression unless aided by taste, the metropolis is requisite to the writer during the period of his exertions, and when they have arrived at their close. Paris and its society directed and rewarded Rousseau's labours at his return, he was every where followed; and, as he had prevailed on himself to leave his bear's skin behind, he became one of the favoured guests among the élite d'élite of petits-maîtres at Sophie Arnoud's and elsewhere. The eventful life of this vain and unhappy man is frequently introduced in these volumes; the adventure of the dog, which figures so mournfully in the history of his solitary walks, is cited; and a curious and incredibly absurd story is inserted of a dispute between him and a Curé at the table of Baron d'Holbach, which, as it rests on no other authority than that of the Baron, whose account of England is one tissue of wilful, stupid, and calumnious falsehoods, we totally disbelieve. That the death of Rousseau is attributable to poison, the investigation brought to light by these memoirs appears clearly to establish. The account of the chemist Rouelle is highly entertaining. This man introduced by instinct (for he was too illiterate to master the science by any other process) the system of Sthal, and advanced this study to a great degree of perfection among his countrymen. He must be considered as the father of chemistry in France; yet his name will be lost, because he had not received an education that enabled him to publish an account of his discoveries; and because all the great chemists of that day were brought up in his school, obtained possession of the fruits of his labours, and gave them to the world as their own. These larcenies engaged the master and his disciples in perpetual quarrels. He avenged himself on their ingratitude by inveighing against them in public and private; and it was well known whose portrait would be drawn before the lecture began. He called them openly ignoramuses, barbers, fools, and plagiaries. This last term of reproach assumed in his imagination so odious a meaning, that it was applied by him to the greatest criminals; and he could invent no expression to signify his horror of Damiens's atrocious deed so strongly as that of plagiary.' All his sufferings arose from this source. It became a species of madness. His utmost indignation could not devise a term so horrible as that of plagiary; and when he received the news of |