a short impatient speech to Hagano, and springing up, throws his lance at him. It pierces shield, breast-plate, and slightly wounds the mighty body of the warrior. At the same moment he rushes impetuously with his drawn sword upon Gunther, dashes by his shield to the right, and, with an astonishing and puissant stroke, cleaves up shin, knee, and hip. The King falls over his shield at the feet of his terrible foc. The good liegeman Hagano turns pale on seeing the danger of his lord; and as Alpher's son raises his blood-thirsty sword for the last blow, heeding no longer his own pain, the hero thrusts his stooped head before the furious stroke. The helmet of perfect temper and artifice, receives the blow in such wise that the sparkles flash out, and the sword, shivering against the impenetrable metal, glitters in fragments in the air and on the grass. Walter, overcome with rage, loses all his self-command, and impatiently flings from him the useless hilt, disdaining it, much as it was graced with skilful workmanship and costly metal. But as, in casting it away, he stretched out his hand widely from him, Hagano, espying his advantage, hews it off at the wrist, rejoicing to deal him so swift a wound. The dreaded, the conquering right hand, so honoured by rulers, by nations, falls in the midst of its act. But the warlike man, who was not used to yield even to adverse fortune, whose strong spirit vanquished all suffering of his body, let neither his hope nor his countenance fall. He hides the mutilated arm behind his shield, and with the uninjured hand draws his dagger, which hung girded on the right side, to avenge his loss. With it he struck out the gallant Hagano's right eye, slit down face and lip, and reft him of half a dozen cheek-teeth.

These bloody feats end their warfare. Every one was summoned, by his wounds and his spent breath, to lay aside his weapons. For which of them could go free from this strife? When all was over, they looked about at their trophies. Here lay King Gunther's foot-there Walter's hand, and a little to one side, Hagano's quivering eye. This was all the division they made of the bracelets of the Huns. Two-for the third was lying-two sat in the grass, and staunched the streams of blood that gushed from

them. Then Alpher's son called the fearful concealed maiden, who came forth and bound up their wounds. He then said, "Bring, Hiltegund—bring hither wine. Bear first the goblet to Hagano. He is a brave man in battle, did he only not prefer loyalty to right. Bring it next to me, because I have endured more than the others. And Gunther, because he is so slothful, and yet has dared to appear among men who wield arms with might, lithely and slackly as he wages war, Gunther shall drink the last."-The daughter of Herrich obeys his words. But Hagano, much as his bosom panted with thirst, spake, as she proffered him the goblet, "Give it, lady, give it first to thy lord and bridegroom; for Alpher's son, I must confess it, is braver than I. He towers above me, and the Frank warriors all in the fight."

The heroes, unvanquished in spirit, fatigued in their whole body-Hagano, and the thorny son of the King of Aquitaine, began, after so many a bout of war and bloody dealing, to engage over their full cups in an encounter of wit. The Frank is gamesome on the future left-handed performances of his friend, and Walter makes as merry with the misfortune of the one-eyed Sicambrian, as he calls him. The raillery that passes speaks more for the stout heart of the warriors than for their talent at humour; but it derives some merit from the circumstances, and its strain is at least purely antique and original.

The story is here, abruptly, as it will appear to most readers, but undoubtedly on sufficient grounds, terminated. They now renew their bloody compact, meaning, apparently, their ancient compact, now sealed anew in blood. They lay the groaning king on his steed, and separate the Franks for Worms-the Prince of Aquitaine for his native land. Here he was splendidly welcomed, and, beloved by all, reigned, after the death of his parents, thirty years over his happy people. What wars he waged, how often he triumphed, the worn-out pen of the author refuses him to describe.

Thou that shalt read, forgive the chirping grasshopper, and think not so much on her hoarse voice as on her tender years, which forbid her yet to forsake the nest, and stretch her flight through the loftier atmosphere.

DEAR SIR,-A new society of men of letters, under the title of the Asiatic Society, held its first meeting here on the first of this month, under the presidency of M. le Baron Sylvester de Sacy, well known for his extensive and profound acquaintance with the languages of the East. The object of this society, which counts among its members some of the most illustrious names in French literature and in the state, is the propagation of the study of the languages of Asia. They be gan on this occasion by adopting the rules and regulations which are to conduct them in their future labours, and by the preliminary operations indispensable for the constitution of the society. M. de Sacy pronounced a discourse, distinguished by the most profound views and most ingenious observations, on Oriental studies, and on the advantages which must result from their progress to religion, history, the useful arts, and diplomacy. M. Remusat afterwards read the first chapter of his Translation of a Chinese novel, entitled The two Cousins. This novel, which appears to give a faithful picture of Chinese manners, will probably be admired by those who seek in works of this kind for something else than incredible adventures, extravagant sentiments, and other abuses of the imagination, too prevalent in the romantic productions of these times. The Duke of Orleans has declared himself the Protector of this society.

In a former letter I gave you some account of a sort of public fete, which takes place here at Shrovetide, or on the three days preceding Lent, which in Paris are called les jours gras, and of which you have preserved a memorial in your public ball on ShroveTuesday, called Fastens-e'en. The Parisians have a similar fete on the three last days of Lent, which is called la fete de Longchamp, and it fell this year on the first week of this month. A foreigner, or a person ignorant of the origin of this public ceremony, would be quite at a loss to imagine how the Holy-week-the most solemn time of the year, expressly marked by the church for the most awful and penitential exercises of religion, as a preparation for Easter,

Paris, April 30, 1822.

could ever have been selected for such a gaudy show of dissipation as is exhibited in Paris on this occasion. But this public fete is another striking proof how customs, ceremonies, and institutions, may continue to flourish when the original purpose for which they were established is gone by and forgotten. At the western extremity of the Bois de Boulogne, which is the Hyde-Park of Paris, close on the bank of the river Seine, an Abbey was founded in the 13th century, by Isabella, sister of Louis IX. commonly called Saint Louis, which obtained the name of Longchamp. On the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, in Holy-week, it has long been a custom in the Roman Catholic church to perform an evening service, called Tenebra, which is composed in a great measure of the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah, and other mournful passages from the Prophets, and the Book of Psalms, in allusion to the sufferings and death of Christ. Some of the first musical composers in Italy and other countries, have exercised their talents on different parts of this fine church-service. As the Operahouse and the other Theatres used to be closed formerly in Paris during Holy-week, the nuns of the Abbey of Longchamp were in the habit of getting the principal female singers of those public places to sing the office of Tenebræ in their church; whose performances, joined with the vocal music of the nuns, and aided by various instruments, formed, as you may easily imagine, a delightful concert of sacred music. All the first people in Paris used to flock to the church of Longchamp to assist at the Tenebræ ; and though the Abbey is now so completely destroyed that scarce a vestige of it remains, yet the custom still continues, of driving for three days together through the Champ-Elysées and the Bois de Boulogne, with no other object than that which takes our London fashionables to Hyde-Park on a Sunday. However, the Parisians look to the arrival of this fete with all the anxiety of impatient pleasure, and seem to enjoy it exceedingly; while a person of a serious and religious turn of mind, cannot help regretting, that the amusements of a people should be

so ill-timed, and so sadly discordant with the spirit and injunctions of their established religion.

In a sort of puffing advertisement, of a new literary enterprize, undertaken by Ladvocat, a bookseller in the Palais-Royal, under the title of Collection des Chefs-d'œuvre des Theatres Etrangers, it is said that the work has as great success in the rest of Europe as in France; it has just obtained the most distinguished mention dans l'excellent Edinburg Magasin de Blakwood. I think I see you stretching out your neck through one of the garret-windows of the Temple of Fame, and drinking with your ear, as Horace says, the intoxicating buzz of applauding nations.

The celebrated historian of the Italian Republic, Sismondei Sismondi, has lately published a novel, entitled Julia Severa, or The Year 492. In order to judge this novel with impartiality, it would be sufficient to copy the advertisement of the author, in which he indicates the object he wished to attain, and expresses his apprehensions of having failed. What he feared is positively what has happened. Mr Sismondi allows himself, that at his age, and in a life perfectly serious, it is rare for a man to possess the qualities which give life to works of imagination. His book will justify his advertisement. We find no imagination either in the events; the style, or the characters; nevertheless, it is not the work of an author without talent, and much less without learning; and grave persons, who read novels, will regret less than frivolous characters the time they have given up to the perusal of Julia Severa.

Mr Sismondi had, till now, occupied himself with writing history, and had given himself up to serious researches, in order to set up a system under the appearance of profound impartiality; for science is useful for many purposes, and even to make the past affirm what may flatter or shock present ideas. He avows that he often regretted that he was obliged to remove from his narrations, details of manners, and social situations, which, exhibiting men in the habits and prejudices of the times in which they lived, might have thrown a great light on historical events. But then, he must have done like the historian Mezeray, who, at the end of each

reign, places a chapter entitled Manners and Customs, which certainly is very interesting, and contributes not a little towards the explanation of the events of the reign following.

This method probably appeared too simple to Mr Sismondi; and that he might not leave unemployed the knowledge he had acquired, but which could not enter into the recital of memorable deeds, he conceived the project of writing novels in which he could paint the prevailing manners at the different epochs of French history, which he is now writing, and of which he has already published some volumes. Historical romances, you know, have long been made up with the names of real personages, placed in the midst of adventures in which they certainly could never have recognized themselves, either with respect to conduct, ideas, or language. Of this we have examples in the voluminous novels of Calprenede and Mademoiselle de Scudery.

But novelists manage better now; they invent the personages, but they place them in real circumstances, in the midst of known sites; they cast them among the memorable epochs of history, and thus go back to manners, the picture of which is delightful in proportion with the recollections it awakens. It is the manner of Walter Scott, and Sismondi is far from rejecting the wish of imitation. On the contrary, he avows it, and is only afraid he may not resemble the model he has chosen. Walter Scott is a poet-Sismondi is a historian; and you can directly conceive, that when an author who has always exerted his imagination, and an author who has always exerted his judgment, both consent to descend from their high rank, to class themselves among the writers of novels, the poet must have over the historian a superiority which puts aside all idea of comparison. To the historian, fiction must always be a secondary object; and it is an observation of all times, that when fiction does not entirely subjugate the mind, it fatigues it.

M. Sismondi might have made this reflection himself, when he thought it necessary to give his novel the second title of The Year 492. What connexion is there between Julia Severa, an imaginary person, and the year 492? At this period, the countries long govern

ed by the Romans had last even the idea of being able to defend themselves; and notwithstanding, the empire could no longer protect them. The Vandals, Sueves, and Huns, had several times ravaged Gaul; the Visigoths and Burgundians were established there; the Franks, led by Clovis, were forming establishments in it, with the desire of subduing those who had preceded them. Of ancient institutions nothing remained but the forms; the ancient laws fell away before the violence natural to conquerors; ancient manners disappeared in proportion as the laws lost their action; and those who preserved some sort of power, sought a compensation from the weak, for the evils imposed upon them by the strong. The world was in a state of pillage, but without regularity; it was a period of disasters, instead of one of happiness and glory; in a word, the barbarity of savages, and that barbarity which re-appears on the fall of empires, formed a frightful contrast with the remains of civilization that were still preserved in some families, proud of their past dignity, and irritated at the meannesses they were forced to commit in order to softer the conquerors whom they despised. Certainly a picture of the manners of this epoch might prove as interesting, if taken from the circumstances of private life, as it is in reality, in historical narration; but domestic details, which time has covered with a veil difficult to take up, can only be successfully recalled to mind by giving them a poetical colouring. The imagination easily lends itself to recitals which put it in motion; but it is impossible to delight it by a picture of a state of society where all is suffering, or make it take an interest in personages who have no action over the events in the midst of which they are placed.

This, you see, is the principal defect of the work of Sismondi, considered as a novel. His personages are passive; though nothing of what happens to them should happen, still they would be in the same situation in which the author takes them and leaves them. It is not because Julia loves Felix, and that she fears to become the wife of Clovis, that she is not even presented to that king, but because motives, over which these two lovers have no influence, overturn the

obstacles which opposed their union. Had they remained quiet at home, their lot would have been the same. They do not even travel by their own consent. An irruption of barbarians drives Julia to the spot where she is to meet and to love Felix; when they are united, they are carried off and separated by some monks, who make them the sport of their own projects, and at length bring them back to the place they took them from, so clumsily, that one is vexed at the author for using such feeble contrivances.

As the year 492 presents an epoch of social dissolution; as Gaul seemed more particularly destined to feel the misfortunes which accompanied the fall of the Roman empire; as, in this accumulation of disasters, the writer could imagine no possible cause of salvation for that part of the world, so interesting to Europe as the country of the Gauls and Franks-the ancestors of the French-what motive could have induced M. Sismondi to take this epoch for that of his novel? Were it not that he is a philosophical historian, the answer would be difficult; but there is no doubt that his intention was to represent the clergy as alone possessing a great power over the minds of men; as the only class capable of opposing political views to the violence of the barbarians, and of struggling with ability against the power of the conquerors, even so far as to make them subservient to the independence of the countries they had just vanquished. This design, executed in a poetical manner, so as to enchant the imagination, would have been happy, and would doubtless have presented some grand dramatic effects. Sismondi has treated it quite in a philosophical way; and though he relates events placed in the year 492, one may affirm that his work recalls to mind much more ideas familiar to the writers of the 18th century, than the prevailing ideas in the times of Clovis, of Saint Remigius, and the first successors of Saint Martin of Tours. Walter Scott would not have conceived his subject in this way; if he chose to paint scenes of burlesque ignorance, of stupid credulity, which may have found place amidst the religious enthusiasm of that epoch, he would have reserved them for the secondary personages, that he might be gay with perfect safety of conscience,