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superior genius, instead of being weakened, seemed to acquire new strength by age.

Arch. No flattery, friend: I know I am liable to sink all at once. People at my age begin to feel infirmities, and the infirmities of the body often' affect the understanding. I repeat it to thee again, Gil Blas, as soon as thou shalt judge mine in the least impaired, be sure to give me notice. And be not afraid of speaking freely and sincerely, for I shall receive thy advice as a mark of thy affection.

Gil B. Your grace may always depend upon my fidelity.

Arch. I know thy sincerity, Gil Blas; and now tell me plainly, hast thou not heard the people make some remarks upon my late homilies?

Gil B. Your homilies have always been admired, but it seems to me that the last did not appear to have had so powerful an effect upon the audience as former ones.

Arch. How, sir, has it met with any Aristarchus ?3

Gil B. No, sir, by no means, such works as yours are not to be criticised; everybody is charmed with them. Nevertheless, since you have laid your injunctions upon me to be free and sincere, I will take the liberty to tell you that your last discourse, in my judgment, has not altogether the energy of your other performances. Did you not think so, sir, yourself?

Arch. So, then, Mr. Gil Blas, this piece is not to your taste? Gil B. I don't say so, sir: I think it excellent, although a little inferior to your other works.

Arch. I understand you; you think I flag, don't you? Come, be plain; you believe it is time for me to think of retiring.

Gil B. I should not have been so bold as to speak so freely, if your grace had not commanded' me; I do no more, therefore, than obey you; and I most humbly beg that you will not be offended at my freedom.

Arch. God forbid! God forbid that I should find fault with it. I don't at all take it ill that you should speak your sentiments,

1 Often (¿f′ fn).—2 Låst.— ARISTARCHUS was a celebrated grammarian of Samos. He was famous for his critical powers; and he revised the poems of Homer with such severity, that, ever after, all severe critics were called Aristarchi.—* Com månd′ed. There' fore.

it is your sentiment itself, only, that I find bad. I have been most egregiously deceived in your narrow understanding.

Gil B. Your grace will pardon me for obeying

Arch. Say no more, my child, you are yet too raw to make proper distinctions. Be it known to you, I never composed a better homily than that which you disapprove; for, my genius, thank Heaven, hath, as yet, lost nothing of its vigor: henceforth I will make a better choice of a confidant. Go! go, Mr. Gil Blas, and tell my treasurer to give you a hundred cŭcats, and may Heaven conduct you with that sum. Adieu, Mr. Gil Blas! I wish you all manner of prosperity, with a little more taste.

LE SAGE.

ALAIN LE SAGE, a French novelist and dramatist, was born in 1668. In 1692, after having studied at the Jesuit College of Vannes, he came to Paris, where he was admitted as an advocate, but soon betook himself exclusively to literature. Few of his plays were successful; and for many years his career was very obscure. Entering on the study of Spanish literature, he used models from that language for his comic novels, some of which are among the liveliest and wittiest of their class. His most celebrated work is "Gil Blas," from which the above is taken. He died at Boulogne, in 1747.

87. CHARGE AGAINST LORD Byron.

THE charge we bring against Lord Byron is, that his writings

have a tendency to destroy all belief in the reality of virtue, and to make all enthusiasm and constancy of affection ridiculous and this, not so much by direct maxims and examples, of an imposing or seducing kind, as by the constant exhibition of the most profligate heartlessness in the persons who had been transiently represented as actuated by the purest and most exalted emotions; and in the lessons of that very teacher who had been, but a moment before, so beautifully pathetic in the expression of the loftiest conceptions.

2. When a gay voluptuary descănts, somewhat too freely, on the intoxications of love and wine, we ascribe his excesses to the effervescence of youthful spirits, and do not consider him as seriously impeaching either the value or the reality of the severer virtues; and, in the same way, when the satirist deals out his sarcasms against the sincerity of human professions, and unmasks the secret infirmities of our bosoms, we consider this as aimed at hypocrisy, and not at mankind: or, at all events, and

in either case, we consider the sensualist and misanthrope as wandering, each in his own delusion, and are contented to pity those who have never known the charms of a tender or generous affection.

3. The true antidote to such seductive or revolting views of human nature, is to turn to the scenes of its nobleness and attraction; and to reconcile ourselves again to our kind, by listening to the accents of pure affection and incorruptible honor. But, if those accents have flowed in all their sweetness from the věry lips that instantly open again to mock and blaspheme them, the antidote is mingled with the poison, and the draught is the more deadly for the mixture!

4. The reveler may pursue his orgies, and the wanton display her enchantments, with comparative safety to those around them, as long as they know or believe, that there are purer and higher enjoyments, and teachers and followers of a happier way. But, if the priest pass from the altar, with persuasive exhortations to peace and purity still trembling on his tongue, to join familiarly in the grössest and most profane debauchery—if the matron, who has charmed all hearts by the lovely sanctimonies of her con'jugal and maternal endearments, glides out from the circle of her children, and gives bold and shameless way to the most abandoned and degrading vices, our notions of right and wrong are at once confounded, our confidence in virtue shaken to the foundation, and our reliance on truth and fidelity at an end forever.

5. This is the charge which we bring against Lord Byron. We say, that under some strange misapprehension as to the truth, and the duty of proclaiming it, he has exerted all the powers of his powerful mind to convince his readers, both directly and indirectly, that all ennobling pursuits and disin ́terested virtues are mere deceits or illusions-hollow and despicable mockeries, for the most part, and, at best, but laborious follies. Religion, love, patriotism, valor, devotion, constancy, ambition-all are to be laughed at, disbelieved in, and despised! and nothing is really good, so far as we can gather, but a succession of dangers to stir the blood, and of banquets and intrigues to soothe it again!

6. If this doctrine stood alone with its examples, it would re

volt, we believe, more than it would seduce. But the author has the unlucky gift of personating all those sweet and lofty illusions, and that with such grace and force, and truth to nature, that it is impossible not to suppose, for the time, that he is among the most devoted of their votaries-till he casts off the character with a jerk, and, the moment after he has moved and - exalted us to the very height of our conception, resumes his mockery at all things serious or sublime, and lets us down at once on some coarse joke, hard-hearted sarcasm, or fierce and relentless personality, as if on purpose to show "whoe'er was edified, himself was not," or to demon'strate, practically as it were, and by example, how possible it is to have all fine and noble feelings, or their appearance, for a moment, and yet retain no particle of respect for them, or of belief in their intrinsic worth or permanent reality. FRANCIS JEFFREY.

FRANCIS JEFFREY, one of the most eloquent writers and most masterly critica in the English language, an eminent jurist and orator, was born at Edinburgh, Scotland, on the 23d of October, 1773. He passed six years at the High School of Edinburgh, studied at the University of Glasgow for two sessions of six months each, and in his eighteenth year resided for a few months at Oxford. His reading in his youth embraced classics, history, ethics, criticism, and the belles lettres: he was indefatigable in practicing composition, and in early manhood wrote many verses. He was admitted to the Scottish bar at the age of twentyone. The first numbe: of the "Edinburgh Review," which contained five papers of JEFFREY's, appeared in October, 1802, when he was twenty-nine years old; and he became its editor after the first two or three numbers. The celebrity which the Review at once attained, was owing far more to him than any other of the contributors. His professional practice became very great; and from 1816 till he ceased to practice, he was the acknowledged leader of the Scottish bar. In 1820, and again in 1821, he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. He was appointed president of the Faculty of Advocates in 1829, when he resigned the editorship of the Review, a position which he had held for twenty-seven years. During that period he contributed more than two hundred articles. In 1830 he was appointed Lord Advocate, an office which, besides many other duties, involved those of Secretary of State for Scotland. Is thus entered parliament in his fifty-eighth year. In 1834 he was raised to the bench, and became an eminent judge, assuming the title of Lord Jeffrey. In 1843 he published three volumes, containing selections from his "Contributions to the Edinburgh Review." He died at Edinburgh, on the 26th of January 1850.

1.

A

88. LORD BYRON.

MAN of rank, and of capacious soul,

Who riches had, and fame, beyond desire;
An heir of flattery, to titles born,

2.

And reputation, and luxurious life:
Yět, not content with ancestorial name,
Or to be known, because his fathers were,
He on this height hereditary stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step.

Above him seem'd,
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards, and thitherward,
By Nature taught, and inward melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.

No cost was spared. What books he wish'd, he read;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see,
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days,
Britannia's mountain-walks, and heath-girt lakes,
And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids, as dew-drops, pure and fair, his soul
With grandeur fill'd, and melody, and love.

3. Then travel came, and took him where he wish'd.
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp;
And mused alone on ancient mountain-brows;
And mused on battle-fields, where valor fought
In other days; and mused on ruins gray

With years; and drank from old and fabulous wells,
And pluck'd the vine that first-born prophets pluck'd;
And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave

Of ocean mused, and on the deşert waste;
The heavens and earth of every country saw.
Where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt,

Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul,
Thither he went, and meditated there.

4. He touch'd his harp, and nations heard entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flow'd,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,
In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,
And soar'd untrodden heights, and seem'd at home,

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