sharp, northern climate: perhaps its infant senses were braced by the vague rumours of the chaunts of Ossian and his unknown brothers in poesy--the strong sharp wail of the persecuted native bards may have thrilled on his ear, as they hovered between earth and heaven in their mountain fastnesses. Whatever may be the cause, the poetry of each country possesses in its maturity the same character, the same beauties, graces, and defects which marked the half-formed features of its infancy. In their personal memoirs, the French own a mine of wealth; they have an army of delightful writers of this class, tinctured, to be sure, with personal and national vanity, but, nevertheless, most charming and valuable, while we starve upon a few volumes. Would there had been more sweet Mrs. Hutchensons and Ladies Fanshawe- -more Sir Simon D'Ewes, Evelyns, Pepyses, and Burnets among us. They would have rendered the paths of English history more flowery and agreeable.

The genuine wit of the French must strike every reader of their literature; it is eminently compact and keen; compared with ours, it is as the blade of a lancet to the rusty, coarse-grained steel of a schoolboy's bread-and-cheese knife; its meaning may travel from one mind to another, by the airy conveyance of an intonation, an interjection, a single word. It is playful, brilliant, intangible as the sunbeam, which we might as well attempt to catch and shut up in an oak box, as to pack in the strong practical sounds of Saxon English, French wit, or the delicate beauty of French sentiment they belong neither to our mind nor our language; they shrink from our grasp; they grow pale and spiritless when we attempt to embody them.

At the present moment we may call the French the novel-writers for the world. Widely in every quarter is the use and knowledge of their language spread, and thither travel those cheap, light saffron-coloured and pale-grey volumes, which contain so much of the prose-poetry of passion and sentiment, and a subtle and sparkling humour. These books have become almost a necessary luxury to those who read without a plan, and for the amusement of the passing hour; and we do not hesitate to say, that such works exercise a most enervating and deteriorating moral influence. We cannot wonder at

the zest with which they are perused, for the writers, in very many instances, possess great power; they hold at their command a passionate and melting eloquence, an exquisite sensibility to grace and beauty, the acute delicacy of the most vivid perceptions, and the resources of the most expressive of living languages. Disguised and coloured by these precious properties, for the last twenty years the novelists of France have been laying before the reading world their perverted notions on the laws of God and man, on the subjects of right and wrong, of morality and immorality; they have been endeavouring to excite our feelings and enlist our sympathies in behalf of the woman, bien conservée of 45, who employs herself in the artistic seduction of some handsome youth-in the unnatural rivalry of mother and daughter for the affections of one man-in the betrayal at the same time of the erring, confiding mistress, and her ignorant, hapless femme-de-chambre-in the love of the high-born countess for some intelligent peasant or mechanic. At other times, to give an additional zest to the narrative, we are kept quivering through the whole of two volumes with the fear that our interesting heroine may be unknowingly involved in an intrigue with her own natural son; or, by way of variety, the whole treasure of an innocent young heart is lavished on some abominable criminal; and others contain scenes and passages with the mention of which we dared not sully our page. To deal rightly with a great proportion of these books-so remarkable for perverted power-we should possess Hugh Latimer's heroic gift of plain-speaking; and did we arraign at the bar of critical justice, by their right names, the sins to which those pages are dedicated, we can assure the reader we should startle their ears by a very ugly and ill-sounding nomenclature.

We particularly object to these writers when they assume the tone of piety, and treat of mercy and repentance. The comparisons which involve the mention of names and characters, sacred and divine, are remarkable for their ignorance and profanity. It reminds one of Madame, when she likens her son, the Regent Orleans, to the Psalmist King of Judah, founding the comparison solely, we presume, on the affair of Bathsheba. In a like spirit the "pauvres anges dechus" of these

novelists comfort themselves with the incidents and characters of Holy Writ. It was well for the morality of our higher and middle classes, and especially for the young, that the memorable article on this subject in a leading cotemporary scared the public with the mention of some of the grosser abominations in which many of these writers have dealt. We assume to ourselves a more pleasant task-it is to mention some volumes that may be read fearlessly, and an author who may be perused with delight by the most scrupulous. Let us say also, in justice to our French neighbours, that many a husband who values his own peace, and almost every priest in any degree eminent for zeal and sincerity, forbids the most objectionable of these works to their wife, daughter, or spiritual charge.

For the genius of Balzac, one of the master novelists of his time, we have a profound admiration, mingled, clouded, and embittered with regret and indignation. Superior to all the other writers of his country, he is a leader among their errors. Capable of pourtraying, with the exquisite simplicity of the most perfect art, every phase and shade of character-a great dramatist, and powerful narrator he has over the feelings of his readers the same control which the musician exercises on the strings or keys of his instrument. He holds us for the time bounden slaves to the lamp of his genius. His humour is playful and variable; we laugh and sigh at his bidding. Alas! that he should have so often and so shamelessly employed these fair and gracious gifts of his Maker in the service of vice and seduction, and swelled his pages with a wit so unpardonably gross, profane, and blasphemous. He has

taught us himself that he was formed for better things, as the beauty of Milton's "Fallen Angel" streams through all the horror and depravity of his fall. The man who could write the histories of the "Recherche de l'Absolu," and "Eugenie Grandet," is deeply culpable for lending himself as a minister to the evil tastes of his time and country. He who could trace, in "Le Doigt de Dieu," the sure punishment that visits in some form the household treachery of adultery, is a mighty criminal to devote himself to its praises and illustration. In many of his books there stand characters so pure and beautiful in their conception, we think

he must have placed them there to do penance for the sinners who surround them, and to blush for the scenes in which they act a part not always consistent with their general excellence. Prout might paint the streets of an old provincial town from his description ; Creswick might garner up in his memory hints for a future picture from his well-told landscapes. The skill of a Flemish painter guides the pen of Mons. de Balzac, - his interiors glow. Look long and steadily at the picture that he lays before youfresh objects ever start out from the dim, yet transparent, shades of his background. The quaint forms of the old-fashioned furniture-the ancient household utensils-his brazen pans and pewter platters-his tall goblets of Venice glass-they gleam, they glance with well-managed lights into observation; and among them move the hardy peasant-servants of the provinces, and the Demoiselles de Guenics, de Pen Hoels, and de Cormons. His good angel might be predominant, or a penitent mood possessed him, when he traced the character of Margaret Claes. It tells of truth, and patience, and the holy charities of the household hearth. It is an illustration of the self-denial, forbearance, and childlike belief and practice of the womanChristian. We delight to imagine the calm, blooming, Flemish face of the heroine-the broad, thoughtful brow-the clear eyes-the happy contentment of the young face-the close, white cap, and dark rich velvet robe. Such a form and countenance have now and then looked down upon us, almost majestic in their placid simplicity, from a canvass marked in some shadowy corner with a famous monogram. The "Recherche de l'Absolu' is a master-work-national, yet true to that nature which is of all countries. "La Vieille Fille" is a fair specimen of the ability and faults of M. de Balzac. We meet there his eminent descriptive powers, combined with the irresistible wit which he mingles with indecency and impiety. The monotonous life of the country town and the characters of the inhabitants are drawn with admirable skill. "Modeste Mignon" is among the least objectionable of Balzac's writings. Many of the "Scenes de la Vie Privée" seem to have been written with what the author considered an honest and good inten

tion to inculcate a valuable moral an impracticable undertaking for a genius so perverse. The scales sometimes waver, and the balance seems to be trembling toward virtue; but it speedily kicks the beam, and the evil principle prevails. We would pay our homage en passant to that great moralist in disguise, Charles de Bernard, who often turns the laugh against vice, and superannuated pretensions, and follies, though he sometimes forgets the part which he has enacted so well, and weakens, by the tone and details of his story, the moral which he works out irresistibly at the end of his book. His polished old men of the world, and his faded beauties, grasping at the last straws which vanity flings to them, are studies from life-in spite of wrinkles and rheumatism, they trip well-dressed and graceful into the grave. "La Femme de Quarante Ans" is such an exquisite morsel of satire, so pointed and strong in its ridicule, that we wonder it has not driven from the face of society the character of "la femme incomprise." In "Gerfaut," where a criminal passion is described with more force, and as much decency as is to be found, perhaps, in any of these books, we would whisper to Monsieur de Bernard that he has committed a gross treason against the laws that govern the school of novelists with which he mingles, as the author of that exciting tale; for the husband, with his high sense of honour, his confiding love, which expends itself in no pale sentimentalities, and condescends not to suspect with his courage and proud inflexibility is a far more attractive character than the Parisian dandy who undertakes to dishonour him. "L'homme Serieux" will provoke many a laugh, though it seems inferior to our vivid recollections of the wit and merit of "La Femme de Quarante Ans.

Of Mons. Paul de Kock we shall say but little. His wit is untranslatable, for two reasons-it is so purely national, and often so indecent. We confess, however, that it is perfect of the kind. We defy the sternest moralist to restrain his laugh, even had he sat down, as many a critic does, resolved to reprove and condemn. This author does not attempt to seduce us by false philosophy and vicious sentimentality. He is content with making us acknow

ledge that he is master of the subjects he handles, and evidently holds himself to be rewarded by the mirth he provokes. He is a modern Smollett, and a Hogarth without his moral intentions. We think, however, that his readers must sometimes be reminded, while engaged with his pages, of one of the discoveries of modern agriculture-namely, that it is possible to manure too highly. Partial translations have made Sue and Dumas better known to the English readers. They recall, by their gaudy, exaggerated style, the paintings of the revolutionary David; and like him, they love to grind up their colours with blood. Possessed of powerful imaginations and much industry, they are both writers of considerable ability, who blend with all that is false and immoral in their brother scribes, a coarse taste for the melodramatic and horrible. They can give us a kind of waking nightmare, and make one's hair stand on end with the powerful narration and strong colouring of some of their scenes. This quality is remarkable in "Atar Gul," and "La Vigie de Koat Ven." To the reader who wishes to judge of the writings of these authors, in their least objectionable productions, we would recommend "La Dame de Monsoreau," " Georges," and "Les Trois Mousquetaires," by Dumas; also, "La Barbeblue," "Aventures d'Hercules Hardi," "Jean Chevalier," and the afore-named "Atar Gul," by Sue,who has commenced 1850 with "Les Mysteres du Peuple."

It has been much the fashion to extol the merit and productions of George Sand. We believe this judgment to be false that time and posterity will not establish and corroborate the praise. In giving this opinion, we set aside the fact, that this intellectual hermaphrodite exhibits in her works the frailties and weakness of the woman combined with the vices of the man. She is elaborate and lengthy, when it were a merit to be concise and simple; her longer works are tedious, and seem to be written without a plan-bursts of passionate verbiage and eloquent essays confuse the details. It is a great point gained, when a female author weighs with a sound judgment the depth and grasp of her own ability. Now in this most valuable knowledge she is utterly deficient. She plunges into great social questions and philoso

phic disquisitions with the same confidence that she handles a crim. con. She ministers largely to the vicious appetites and dangerous ambition of a depraved democracy. Her frequent and irreverent mention of Him who bore our sins and knew our sorrows, shocks and startles us. Thoughts beautiful and poetical are scattered over her pages, and put in the mind or mouth of some hero or heroine, whose notions on virtue and vice are as confused and perverted as her own. Yet while charmed by her eloquence, it is rather what this author might have been, than what she is, that impresses our mind after a perusal of her works. It is yet day with her, and may she amend! At present she seems to be seeking pub c esteem and influence by espousing the cause of the people and the poor -a great mission worthily fulfilled-may it find a better prophet than either herself or Sue! "Little Fadette" and the "Peché de Mons. Antoine," are translatable; but in the "Piccinino" we meet with the same odious combinations, and loves, and crimes, which startle us, and jar so unpleasantly on our minds in the works of these novelists; but enough of a writer who has maintained that virtuous dispositions and purity of mind may remain uncontaminated, and exist in a wilful and willing harlot.

Madame Charles Reybaud is but little known to the English reader. She is a good and captivating writer, of considerable ability. Her numerous productions may be perused without fear by the conscientious and scrupulous reader. We are doing them a service in recommending this interesting author to their notice. She will cheer many, a winter evening, and the pleasant langour of a July noon; she will occupy very agreeably the odd hour between the return from the drive and the appearance at the dinner-table. Her intentions and tendencies are good; her sentiments very sweet and delicate; a strong sense of religious and moral responsibility evidently pervades her mind. She introduces her readers to the antique relics of that beautiful and graceful aristocracy-let us give all their duc-which was destroyed by the first French revolution. We seem to move with her through the wide salons of her old chateaux, among their obsolete fauteuils, and tarnished gilding, and heavy faded damask-the pleasant

prospects of the once gay France spread forth before the windows. She describes with a glowing pen the beauties of the provinces; she is at home in the passes of the Cevennes and the narrow streets of the old towns, in whose tall houses wintered the provincial nobility of bygone days. In one of her later works she selects a fruitful theme-the "Annals of the Old Convents of Paris." These foundations received into their bosoms, and hid beneath their sheltering walls, heroines of histories sadder and more piteous, sufferers under woes more intense, than the public grief and pompous penitence of any king's mistress. Bossuet and Flechier did not commemorate these, nor make them live among the standard divinity of France, but Madame Reybaud has undertaken the task of imagining their narratives. To some the monotony and seclusion of the cloister was a blessed exchange for the scorn and abhorrence which they excited as the children of great and notable criminals. To these their fathers' name was a curse; men gazed on them with curiosity and turned aside; the sin of the sire, who was broken on the wheel, fell with every circumstance of shame and humiliation around his offspring. The touching little story of "Felise" is founded on this situation. Her father had committed a double murder by the destruction of his wife, the mother of Felise, and of an officer to whom his beautiful sister-in-law was affianced. He had prepared the way for marriage with the latter; but the secret witness of crime was abroad, and the guilt was traced to the criminal. Felise is consigned to a convent by her aunt, the innocent cause of these tragedies. This hapless lady, with beauty prematurely faded, and shattered nerves, dwells in a large dismal house in Paris, with two old servants, nursing her feeble health and wretched recollections. The gay, beautiful, high-spirited child of the murderer and murdered grows into a glowing, passionate womanhood, and the Marquis de Gaudale waits upon her aunt to demand her hand.

"I refuse it, M. le Marquis,' replied Mademoiselle de Saulieu, greatly agitated. "And will you favor me with the grounds of your refusal, mademoiselle?' said he.

"If you absolutely require it, sir,' murmured the grief-stricken lady, almost inaudibly; but be advised, and without explanation or details give up the hand of my niece.'