

Monthly' Review of Literature. 3 1 7 



patrie ! la patrie ! is the last word we should exclaim, were the entire world 

 crumbled to dust. 



" There are some men who regard love for one's native place as a kind of 

 fanaticism ; mirid how you speak before them of the village where your eyes 

 first beheld light, of your attachment to the very earth, to the atmosphere, to 

 the village bell, or to the gentle murmur of the passing stream. All this is 

 impenetrable mystery to their cold and egotist souls in such hearts self is the 

 dominant power, such men love nought but themselves ; they possess not a 

 single generous association ; listening to them you might believe that they 

 exist without having submitted to the weakness of infancy that they are 

 secure from the tomb. 



"Delicious is the privilege to enjoy the remembrance of a spot upon the 

 earth, where all our delightful dreams are assembled, our youthful loves and 

 our parting hour ! Delicious to picture a happy life in the little white cottage 

 sheltered with rosy tiles, as did Rousseau. There are you known by the 

 very trees that grace the hamlet that crowing cock announced your birth, 

 that wooden cross looked on whilst you received the name of Christian 

 that heavenly star rose through the ethereal arc to protect your life the old 

 church portals have creaked a kindly welcome to your repeated presence. 

 There alone are you at home, and beside your family ; there rests your 

 father, there sleeps your mother ; there were you a helpless babe ; there 

 will you return in old age. 



' O village charmant, O riantes demeures, 



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II semble qu'une autre air parfume vos rivages, 

 II semble que leur vue ait ranime mes sens,- 

 M'ait redonne la joie et rendu mon printemps.' 



" ' I remember/ says Bernadin de Saint Pierre, ' that when I arrived in 

 France on board a vessel from the East Indies, as soon as the seamen came 

 in sight of the coast of their country, they became incapable of further labour. 

 Some looked upon it without power to avert their eyes, others put on their 

 best clothes, some whispered in the others' ears, others wept. As we 

 approached nearer, their emotion increased : they had been absent several 

 years.' 



* * * * * * * * 



" There is a little Swiss air called the ' Rang des Vaches.' At one period it 

 was not permitted to be played in France or Holland, for on hearing it the 

 Swiss soldiers deserted by companies. 



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" Sir Walter Scott's exclusive love for Scotch subjects shows his attachment 

 for Abbotsford and Scotland. Passionately attached to the ancient customs 

 of his country, he solaced himself in his inability to follow them religiously, 

 by his warm descriptions. His pious admiration of the national character 

 induced us to choose him for our type, an admiration which compels Mr. 

 Jedediah Cleichbottom to detail every point of character, even to the very 

 faults. 



"Addressing Washington Irving, in one of their walks from Abbotsford, Sir 

 Walter exclaims, ' Here, then, I have led you like the Pilgrim in the ' Pil- 

 grim's Progress,' to the summit of these delicious hills, that I might spread 

 before your eyes all the beauties of our country. There is Lammermoor and 

 Smailholme there is Galashiels and Torwoodlee there Gala Water ; and in 

 this direction you see Tiviotdale and the Yarrow : and this silvery thread that 

 winds beneath your eye is the limpid current of Ettrick that empties itself 

 into the Tweed.' He continued, passing in review all the celebrated names 

 of the songs of Scotland, and which at the present day owe their lively 

 interest solely to his pen. 



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I looked around me for some time with mute surprise, I might say in mute 



