marching there, with a promptitude and precision which would have delighted Major Sturgeon, had that respectable and ever-to-be-lamented officer been now alive.

Perhaps these instances of egregious error might be sufficient to give the work at once its due place; but we must notice one more passage, which fairly outdoes all its fellows. This refers to the taking of the Hotel de Ville, and we cannot refrain from giving it at length.

"As the Hotel de Ville was a position of considerable importance, the Place de Grève, and the other avenues which lead to it, became the scene of several bloody engagements. In the course of Wednesday, the 28th, the town-hall had been taken and retaken, perhaps ten or twelve different times, by the National Guard and the citizens on the one hand, and the regular troops on the other; and, as the resistance was as obstinate as the attack was courageous, the struggle was necessarily attended with a dreadful slaughter. When the people were the assailants, they rushed out from a number of points on the Arcade Saint Jean, the streets De la Tixeranderie and De Moûton, the iron bridge, and the adjoining quays. The importance of this central point was felt on all sides, from the great moral influence it would give to the insurgents, through the establishment of a provisional government. Every effort was, in consequence, employed for securing its permanent possession; but, by turns, the chances were favourable and unfavourable to the popular cause. It was nightfall when the firing was interrupted, and then only to be begun again at an early hour on Thursday morning. So many efforts of heroism were crowned at length with complete success. Tired out and disheartened by the constant renewal of the masses opposed to them, the royalist forces were finally forced to evacuate this dangerous post; and there also floated the victorious colours of the nation."

We have but one little sentence to place against this; but that, with the touch of an enchanter's wand, dissolves this mighty fabric into "thin air."

"It is now indisputable," says the Officer who commanded in the Hotel de Ville, speaking in the face of all his fellow-countrymen-" It is now indisputable, that this edifice was not during the whole of the 28th retaken by the people, and after it had been evacuated at midnight by the guards,

it remained unoccupied and deserted till the morning of the 29th."

"Ten or eleven times!!!" says Mr Turnbull. Not once! says the eye-witness." Utrum horum mavis?" But this to us is quite sufficient ; and we shall say no more in regard to the accuracy of "Paris in 1830."

We must again repeat, that we have no doubt whatever that Mr Turnbull believes every word which he has written; and judging from the date and several other passages of his preface, we are led to suppose that he lives in Paris, in the midst of scenes where passions have not yet subsided, and where facts are very slowly becoming divested of the exaggerations with which they have been obscured.

He states, also, that dispatch has been solicited of him in the composition of his work; and this, of course, has prevented him from accurately investigating every particular, ere he placed it on paper. We are sorry for it, for his own sake; for this book will not do him credit; and he will have much wherewith to reproach those, who have so hurried him with a work which would have required time and long investigation to have accomplished it properly. He does not want ability, and we hope to see something yet from his pen, very far superior to the production before us. Let us warn him, however, against a certain bad taste which he has caught from the most disagreeable class of French writers. All his anecdotes of heroic bakers, and generous printers, and independent blacksmiths, and disinterested Jews, are of this cast, as well as the details of patriotic lasses, and selfdevoted midwives; but the worst of all is the tale of Dr Fabré Palaprat. This gentleman, roaming through the streets of Paris, seeking whom he might cure, encountered the ugliest man imaginable, armed with a bloody sword, who fell down at his feet through pure inanition, and a wound in his left leg. The Doctor tended him, dressed his wound, and offered him a five franc piece to get some dinner; but so magnanimous was the ugly man with the wounded leg, that he started up, and nearly sabred the good Samaritan, for talking of money and dinner to a Parisian revolutionist!!! So infinitely edified was the

Doctor with this attempt to sabre him, that he threw himself on the neck of the ugly man with the gunpowder face, and wept with admiration. If Mr Turnbull fancies that such tales are calculated to promote any thing but laughter, he is mistaken.

Though we cannot, as we proposed at first, go through each chapter separately, let us remark, that the best of the book consists in two sketches of Lafayette and Louis Philippe, which are given with some spirit. Let Mr Turnbull choose a favourable subject, consider it dispassionately, and add to the sincere desire of truth, which we doubt not he possesses, the spirit of calm and patient investigation, which is absolutely necessary to find it; let him beware of spending high-sounding language on trifles, and of striving for enthusiasm where enthusiasm is not applicable, and we doubt not that we shall see from his hand, something which may distinguish him from the crowd, instead of a book that is of no service to the public, and no credit to himself.

In regard to the late Revolution, we must add one or two words: Let us first remark, that it is an extraordinary fact that Napoleon-who held the crown of France by the same rights as Louis Philippe, that is to say, by the choice of the people, called forth by the necessity of the moment -abdicated exactly upon the same conditions as Charles X., that is to say, provided the nation would receive his heir. In both instances the condition was rejected; and, consequently, the abdication, as a voluntary act, was null. At all events, it

did not affect either the King of Rome, or the Duke of Bordeaux. Thus, when Louis Philippe, Charles X., and the Duke of Angouleme, shall have gone to that place whither Napoleon has preceded them, three young competitors will exist for the often contested throne of France, all three claiming by hereditary right alone-Time, the great hazard player, must decide the chances.

On the conduct of Charles X., there can be but little difference of opinion. With the best wishes for the good of his people, and with the fatal consequences of his brother's (Louis XVI.) mildness before his eyes, he thought to stem the tide of Revolution, which was overwhelming France, by a violent and ill-timed exertion of authority. It may be a question, whether, if he had refrained, he would have been still on the throne or not. Perhaps, when the revolutionary faction had thrown off its disguise, and stood forth in all the hideousness of its anarchical features, the good and moderate, at length undeceived, might have rallied round the throne, and protected the monarch from the insidious monster that had glided forward with a thousand convolutions, till it was ready to envelope him in its serpent folds. Perhaps their aid would have come too late, and he might still have succumbed; but in either case, had he refrained till the first blow was struck by his enemy, he would have had right and justice on his side. Had he triumphed, he would have triumphed with the dignity of moderation; and had he fallen, he would have received present sympathy and ultimate redress.

THE time is come when, without offence, the truth may be spoken of Dr Parr. Standing by the side of the grave, men's eyes, as it were, fastened upon the very coffin of an excellent person, all literary people under any restraint of honourable feelingsall writers who have trained themselves to habits of liberal sympathy and of generous forbearanceevery body, in short, but the very rash or very juvenile, the intemperate or malignant-put a seal upon their lips. Grief, and the passionate exaggerations of grief, have a title to indulgent consideration, which, in the upper walks of literature, is not often infringed; amongst polished Tories, amongst the coterie of this journal, we may say never. On this principle it was that we prescribed to ourselves most willingly a duty_of absolute silence at the time of Dr Parr's death, and through the years immediately succeeding. The sorrow of his numerous friends was then keen and raw. For a warm-hearted man-and Dr Parr was such-there is an answerable warmth of regret. Errors and indiscretions are forgotten; virtues are brought forward into high relief; talents and accomplishments magnified beyond all proportions of truth. These extravagancies are even graceful and becoming under the immediate impulses which prompt them: and for a season they are, and ought to be, endured. But this season has its limits. Within those limits the rule is-De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Beyond them, and when the privilege of recent death can no longer be sustained, this rule gives way to another-De mortuis nil nisi verum et probabiliter demonstratum. This canon has now taken effect with regard to Dr Parr. The sanctities of private grief have been sufficiently respected, because the

grief itself has submitted to the mitigation of time. Enough has been conceded to the intemperance of sorrowing friendship: the time has now arrived for the dispassionate appreciation of equity and unbiassed judgment.

Eighteen years have passed away since we first set eyes upon Dr Samuel Parr. Off and on through the nine or ten years preceding, we had heard him casually mentioned in Oxford, but not for any good. In most cases, the anecdote which brought up his name was some pointless parody of a Sam-Johnsonian increpation, some Drury-Lane counterfeit of the true Jovian thunderbolts:

Demens qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen

Ære et cornipedum sonitu simularet equorum,

In no instance that we recollect had there appeared any felicity in these colloquial fulminations of Dr Parr. With an unlimited license of personal invective, and with an extravagance of brutality not credible, except in the case of one who happened to be protected by age and by his petticoats,-consequently with one power more than other people enjoy, who submit themselves to the restraints of courtesy, and to the decencies of social intercourse,-the Doctor had yet made nothing of his extra privilege, nor had so much as once attained a distinguished success. There was labour, indeed, and effort enough, preparation without end, and most tortuous circumgyration of periods; but from all this sonorous smithery of hard words in osity and ation, nothing emergedno wrought massy product-but simply a voluminous smoke. Such had been the fortune, whether fairly representing the general case or not,

London: 1828.

econd hand in respect to Dr Parr and his colloquial prowess. When we add, that in those years of teeming and fermenting intellects, at a crisis so agitating for human interests upon the very highest scale, no mere philologist or grammaticaster -though he had been the very best of his class-could have held much space in our thoughts; and, with respect to Dr Parr in particular, when we say that all avenues to our esteem had been foreclosed from our boyish days by one happy sarcasm of the Pursuits of Literature, where Parr had been nicknamed, in relation to his supposed model, the Birmingham Doctor; and, finally, when we assure the reader that he was the one sole specimen of a whig parson that we had ever so much as heard of within the precincts of the Church of England;-laying together all this, it may be well presumed, that we did not anticipate much pleasure or advantage from an hour's admission to Dr Parr's society. In reality, having heard all the fine colloquial performers of our own times, we recoiled from the bare possibility of being supposed to participate in the curiosity or the interest which, in various degrees, possessed most of those who on that morning surrounded us. The scene of this little affair was-a front drawing-room in the London mansion of one of Dr Parr's friends. Here was collected a crowd of morning visitors to the lady of the house: and in a remote back drawing-room was heard, at intervals, the clamorous laugh of Dr Samuel Parr, then recently arrived from the country upon a visit to his London friend. The miscellaneous company assembled were speedily apprised who was the owner of that obstreperous laugh-so monstrously beyond the key of good society; it transpired, also, who it was that provoked the laugh; it was the very celebrated Bobus Smith. And, as a

hope was expressed that one or both of these gentlemen might soon appear amongst us, most of the company lingered in the reasonable expectation of seeing Dr Sam.-we ourselves, on the slender chance of seeing Mr Bobus. Many of our junior readers, who cannot count back far beyond the year in question, (1812,) are likely to be much at a loss for the particular kind of celebrity, which illustrated a name so little known to fame in these present days, as this of Bobus Smith. We interrupt, therefore, our little anecdote of Dr Parr, with the slightest outline of Mr Smith's story and his pretensions. Bobus, then, (who drew his nickname, we conjecture, though the o was pronounced long, from subscribing the abbreviated form of Bobus, for his full name Robertus)—a brother of the Rev. Sydney Smith, who now reposes from his jovial labours in the Edinburgh Review, upon the bosom of some luxurious English Archdeaconry, had first brought himself into great notice at Cambridge by various specimens of Latin verse, in the Archaic style of Lucretius. These we have sought for in vain; and, indeed, it appears from a letter of Mr Smith's to Dr Parr, that the author himself has retained no copies. These Latin verses, however, were but bagatelles of sport. Mr Smith's serious efforts were directed to loftier objects, We had been told, as early as 1806, (how truly we cannot say,) that Mr Bobus had publicly avowed his determination of first creating an ample fortune in India, and then returning home to seize the post of Prime Minister, as it were by storm; not that he could be supposed ignorant, how indispensable it is in ordinary cases, that good fortune, as well as splendid connexions, should concur with commanding talents, to such a result. But a condition, which for other men might be a sine quá non,

of our own youthful experience at for himself he ventured to waive, in the audacity, said our informant, of conscious intellectual supremacy. So at least the story went. And for some years, those who had heard it continued to throw anxious gazes towards the Eastern climes, which detained her destined premier from England. At length came a letter from Mr Bobus, saying, "I'm coming." The fortune was made: so much, at least, of the Cambridge menace had been fulfilled; and in due time Bobus arrived. He took the necessary steps for prosecuting his self-created mission: he caused himself to be returned to Parliament for some close borough: he took his seat on a fitting occasion he prepared to utter his maiden oration: for that purpose he raised himself boltupright upon his pins: all the world was hushed and on tiptoe when it was known that Bobus was on his legs: you might have heard a pin drop. At this critical moment of his life, upon which, as it turned out, all his vast cloud-built fabrics of ambition were suspended, when, if ever, he was called upon to rally, and converge all his energies, suddenly his presence of mind forsook him: he faltered: rudder and compass slipped away from him: and-oh! Castor and Pollux!-Bobus foundered! nor, from that day to this, has he been heard of in the courts of ambition. This catastrophe had occurred some time before the present occasion; and an event which had entirely extinguished the world's interest in Mr Bobus Smith had more than doubled ours. Consequently we waited with much solicitude. At length the door opened; which recalls us from our digression into the high-road of our theme: for not Mr Bobus Smith, but Dr Parr entered.

Nobody announced him; and we were left to collect his name from his dress and his conversation. Hence it happened, that for some time we were disposed to question ourselves whether this might not be Mr Bobus even, (little as it could be supposed to resemble him,) rather than Dr Parr, so much did he contradict all our rational preconceptions.

"A

man," said we, "who has insulted people so outrageously, ought not to have done this in single reliance upon

his professional protections; a brave man, and a man of honour, would here have carried about with him, in his manner and deportment, some such language as this, Do not think that I shelter myself under my gown from the natural consequences of the affronts I offer; mortal combats I am forbidden, sir, as a Christian minister, to engage in; but, as I find it impossible to refrain from occasional license of tongue, I am very willing to fight a few rounds, in a ring, with any gentleman who fancies himself ill-used."" Let us not be misunderstood; we do not contend that Dr Parr should often, or regularly, have offered this species of satisfaction. But we do insist upon it-that no man should have given the very highest sort of provocation so wantonly as Dr Parr is recorded to have done, unless conscious that, in a last extremity, he was ready, like a brave man, to undertake a short turn-up, in a private room, with any person whatsoever whom he had insulted past endurance. A doctor, who had so often tempted a cudgelling, ought himself to have had some ability to cudgel. Dr Johnson assuredly would have acted on that principle. Had volume the second of that same folio with which he floored Osborn, happened to lie ready to the prostrate man's grasp, nobody can suppose that Johnson would have gainsaid his right to retaliate; in which case, a regular succession of rounds would have been established. Considerations such as these, and the Doctor's undeniable reputation (granted even by his most admiring biographers) as a sanguinary flagellator, throughout his long career of pedagogue, had prepared us-nay, entitled us-to expect in Dr Parr a huge carcass of man, fourteen stone at the least. Even his style, pursy and bloated, and his sesquipedalian words, all warranted the same conclusion. Hence, then, our surprise, and the perplexity we have recorded, when the door opened, and a little man, in a buz wig, cut his way through the company, and made for a fauteuil standing opposite to the fire. Into this he lunged; and then forthwith, without preface or apology, began to open his talk upon us. Here arose a new marvel and a greater. If we had been