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Poland! o'er which the avenging angel past,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear
Thou other element! as strong and stern
Of all the trophies gathered from the war,
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair!
Oh ye! and each, and all! Oh, France! who found Thy long fair fields ploughed up as hostile ground, Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill
Looked down o'er trampled Paris; and thou, isle,
Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride;
Whose path was through one long triumphal arch!
Which proves how fools may have their fortune too
The progress of the struggle for liberty in the new world leads the poet onwards to the old one. To Spain, and to the perilous but interesting condition in which she is placed, he has dedicated some verses, remarkable for the ardent martial spirit which they breathe: they stir the heart like the sound of a trumpet; all the glories of old Spain rush in a torrent upon our memories, and we feel impelled to raise voice and arm in her cause, to join her war-cry, and to assist in beating back the unjust invaders of her sacred soil.
The degradations to which Spain has of late been exposed, and to which may be ascribed the recent disorders, are admirably painted :
'The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both
By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth;
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,
And win-not Spain, but thine own freedom, France!'
The Holy Alliance receives its full meed of contempt from the indignant satirist; and of its members the Emperor of Russia is most severely handled :
"St. Iago! and close Spain!" the old Spanish war-cry.
†The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars.
Proceed, thou namesake of Great Philip's son !
To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
After touching somewhat gently poor Louis le Desiré, he turns to England, and sneers with very bad taste at the Duke of Wellington, and sheds some passing spite upon the silent grave of the late Lord Londonderry. This is pitiful, and his praise of Mr. Canning is forced and common-place-he gives him credit for talent, when to deny it would be to peril his own judgment.
The country gentlemen and the Jews, who, in their different ways, and with different success, have aided in burdening the country, fall next under the vapulation of the poet. The Congress of Verona is introduced, and the widow of Buonaparte is justly damned to everlasting fame,' for an indecency, which, when it was first reported, must have shocked every person of right feeling.
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn-
To chill in their inhospitable clime;
The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth.
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;-
So much for human ties in royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests?'
The poet makes not a swan-like end,' for he bursts into a horse laugh upon a subject which may reasonably excuse that violation of the Chesterfield rules.
My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While thronged the Chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
To see proud Albyn's Tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt,
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke-and lo! it was no dream!
A report has been spread about that this poem is not Lord Byron's, but Leigh Hunt's. This is a weak invention of the enemy,'dare say Mr. Hunt devoutly wishes it were true.
LETTERS ON ENGLAND.
BY VICTOIRE COUNT DE SOLIGNY.
It is not to be questioned that we live in times of unprecedented impudence. Next to the two medical practitioners who adroitly procured themselves to be knighted-those Poor Knights of Blackfriars, Sir Aldis and Sir Daniel-we think the author of these letters is entitled to the brazen crown. His effrontery and presumption can only be equalled by those his unworthy compeers, but we hardly think it is surpassed.
Impudence is sometimes amusing, when, either from its singularity or its dexterity, it defies detection, and almost disarms resentment by exciting laughter; but that paltry sort of impudence which has nothing to excuse it, and excites only unmingled disgust, is a com modity of the most worthless description. In this latter does the pseudo Count de Soligny deal by wholesale. He has assumed a title which no more belongs to him than does the country of which he pretends to be a native; and he speaks upon subjects which, from the obscurity of his own station in society, as well as from his limited capacity, he is utterly unable to comprehend. We do not know who the ingenious person may be; but we know, and we blush while we con. fess it, that he is an Englishman. No Frenchman, except the renowned General Pillet, would have ignorantly dared to libel and falsify the people, the modes, and the institutions of England; few,
very few Englishmen, besides the notable author of these letters, would have been base enough to slander their own country.
Under the false pretence, then, of a Frenchman visiting England, the author of these letters proposes to give a description of the manners which prevail here, and of the most eminent public persons connected with literature and the fine arts, at the same time presenting a sketch of the state of them. The plan is taken, as will be seen, from Peter's Letters, and, unless he could borrow an idea from some one, would be in a most pitiable plight; but it is infinitely below that amusing collection, in taste, spirit, and veracity. By way of keeping up the deception, which, however, does not extend beyond the title-page, the author gives himself out for the translator, and says he has performed his task by giving equivalent phrases instead of equivalent words, hoping thus to account for the vulgarities and slip-slop of his style. We do not say that, if he were so minded, he has not a right to take any travestimento that he chooses, but this should be only for masquerading; when he adopts the mask for the purpose of wounding the reputations and characters of his countrymen, he comes within the provi. sions of the Black Act, and must be convicted of felony in every court of literature.
His amiability, and good taste, and kindly feeling, may be learnt from some short extracts which we shall proceed to make. He arrives at Brighton, and does not hesitate to pronounce upon the English people in the following strain :
There is a hard coarseness of feature, and a repulsive coldness of manner, which, whatever of good or of beauty they may cover, are unequivocally bad in themselves; and these the English appear to me to possess in a remarkable degree. There is, besides, in all they say and do, an awkward and blundering abruptness, which is peculiarly offensive to a Frenchman. One is accustomed, too, in France, on all occasions, to give and receive a smile at meeting and at parting, even im one's intercourse with strangers. Perhaps these smiles do not mean much; but they are at least harmless. Here I never meet› with any thing like a smile, except sometimes an awkward half-suppressed one at my foreign English. This is one of the worst of rudenesses; and one to which the people here are more addicted than to' any other or perhaps it may appear so to me, because it is one which a Frenchman never falls into; though our language possesses such an. endless variety of delicacies, which foreigners, and, above all, the English, are perpetually violating. But, for the present, I willingly turn from the people to the country."
We have said the author is no Frenchman, but, if we were to collect** a thousand instances, none could show more plainly that he is a bad Englishman, than the profane way in which he has thought fit to talk about the South Downs, and the South Down mutton:
The country, for leagues round, is one uninterrupted range of brown barren chalk-hills; on which a few lean dirty-looking sheep' tantalize their appetites by nibbling at the dry turf.'
As regards the picturesque, perhaps, the downs near Brighton may not be very beautiful-but the mutton! -The author places his countship in a boarding-house at Brighton. Upon this we have only to