426 
of valuetis any thing but superfluous, and 
we may recommend the book as fresh, to 
the*greater)part of readers. ‘ My object 
has been,’! says ‘the writer—that is, Mr. 
Hazlitt—(what) affectation is this, by the 
way, of concealing the name ?) 
6 give the reader some notion of what he might 
expect to find in travelling the same road. ‘There 
is little of. history or antiquities or statistics; nor.do 
I regret the want of them, as it may be abundantly 
supplied from other sources. The only thing I 
could have wished to expatiate upon more at large 
is the manners of the country: but to do justice to 
this, a greater length of time, and a more intimate 
acquaintance with society and the language would 
be necessary. Perhaps, at some furture opportu- 
nity, this defect may be remedied. 
The tour is the very common one by 
Dieppe, Rouen, Paris, Lyons, Chambery, 
Turin, Bologna, Florence, Rome, and 
back again by Venice, Ferrara, Milan, the 
Simplon, Geneva, down the Rhine, through 
Holland, home. Adventures, there are 
none; novelty of objeety there is none; 
hie has an eyé mainly for pictures—picture 
after picture is inflicted upon us, without 
measure or mercy—but a reflection for any 
thing and every thing. Saving the pictures, 
the book’ is full ‘of remark, more or less 
lively, ‘sometimes sagacious, but oftener 
fantastie—in the writer’s usual rambling, 
put'still agreeable manner—governed by no 
law of assoGiation that ever was heard of 
before, though never forgetting his con- 
tempt for’ Sir W. Scott, his abhorrence of 
Croker and'the Quarterly, or a smile at 
the charlatannerie of our classical Foreign 
Minister. | Let nobody be repulsed by the 
introductory letter, full of miaiseries as it 
is; they will’ find compensation for a 
little perseverance. We will give a speci- 
men. Speaking of the French. theatres, 
and of Racine, and the well-known line of 
poetry—why it is called poetry, we do not 
know— 
Craignez Dieu, mon cher Abner, et ne craignez 
que Dieu; 
It is certain (says he) that a thousand such lines 
would have no effect upon an English audience but 
to set them to sleep like a sermon, or to make them 
commence a disturbance to avoidit. Yet, though the 
declamation of the French stage is as monotonous as 
the dialogue, the French listen to it with the tears 
in their eyes, holding in their breath, beating time 
to the cadence of the verse, and following the actors 
with a book in their hands for hours together. The 
English most assuredly do not pay the same atten- 
tion to a play of Shakspeare’s, or to any thing buta 
cock-fight, or a sparring-match. This is no great 
compliment to them; but it makes for the gravity 
of the French, who have mistaken didactic for dra- 
matic poetry ; who can sit out a play with the great- 
est patience and complacency, that an Englishman 
would hoot off the stage, or yawn over from begin- 
ning to-end for its want of striking images and lively 
effect, and with whom Saturn is aGod no less than 
Mereury ! I am inclined to suspect the genius of their 
religion may have something to do with the genius of, 
The first absorbs in a manner their. 
their poetry. 
powers of imagination, their love of the romantic 
and the marvellous, and leaves the last in possession 
of their sober reason and moral sense. Their 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
[ecr. 
hieroglyphic obscurity ‘and quaint, devicess,,and,, 
when they come to the tangible| groundof, human, 
-affairs, they are willing. to’ repose alike from orna-" - 
ment and extravagance, ‘in plain language and intel-( 
ligible ideas.' They: go to mass in the morning to; 
dazzle their senses, and bewilder their imagination,’ 
and inflame their enthusiasm ; and they resortto the 
theatre in the evening to seek relief from)supersti- 
tious intoxication in the prose of poetry, and)fiom 
Gothic mysteries and gloom, in classic elegance and) 
costume.—— 1 GemMoey 3 
The theatre, in short, ‘is the throne of'the’ French’ 
chayacter, where it is mounted on’ its’ pedestal of’ 
pride, and seen to every advantage. ’ T like to’con- 
template it there, for it recoriciles me te them and 
to myself.’ It isa common and amicable’ ground on: 
which we meet. " Their tears are such as others shed 
—théir interest in what happened three thousand 
years ago is not exclusively French. They are no 
longer a distinct race or enste, but human beings. 
To feel towards others as of a different species, is 
not the way to increase our respect for ourselves or 
human nature. Their defects and peculiarities, we 
may be almost sure, haye corresponding opposite 
vices in us—the excellencies are confined pretty much 
to what there is in common. 
The ordinary prejudice entertained on this sub- 
ject in England is, that the French are little better 
than grown children— ; 
** Pleas’d with a feather—tickled with a straw—” 
full of grimace and noise and shew, lively and pert, 
but with no turn or capacity for serious thought or 
continued attention of any kind, and ‘hardly deserv- 
ing the name of rational beings, any more than’apes 
or jackdaws. They may laugh and talk more'than 
the English; but they read, and, I suspects’ think 
more, taking them as a people. You see an apple- 
girlin Paris, sitting ata stall with her feet over a 
stove in the coldest weather, or defended from the 
sun by an umbrella, reading Racine or Voltaire. 
Who ever saw’such a thing.in London, as a barrow-— 
woman reading Shakspeare or Fielding? You see 
a handsome smart grisette at the back of ‘every little 
shop or counter in Paris, if she is not at work, 
reading perhaps one of Marmontel’s Tales, with all 
the absorption and delicate interest of a heroine of 
romance. Yet we make doleful complaints of the 
want of education among the common people, and 
of the want of reflection in the female character in 
France. There is something of the same turn for 
reading in Scotland ; but then where is the gaiety or 
the grace? They are more sour and formal even than 
the English. The book-stalls al! over Paris present 
avery delightful appearance; they contain neatly- 
bound, cheap, and portable editions of all their 
standard authors, which, of itself, refutes the 
charge of a want of the knowledge or taste for books. 
The French read with avidity whenever they can 
snatch the opportunity; they read, standing in the 
open air, into which they are driven by the want of 
air at home; they read in garrets and in cellars; 
they read at one end of a counter, when a person is 
hammering a lock or a piece of cabinet-work at the 
other, without taking their eye from the book, ‘or 
picking a quarrel with the person who is making the 
noise. Society is the school of education in France}) 
thera is a transparency in their intellects as im their 
atmosphere, which makes the’ co munication jot 
thought or sound more rapid general. The, 
ha 
