SKETCHES OF PARISIAN SOCIETY, POLITICS, & LITERATURE.

To the Editor of the New Monthly Magazine.

SIR, ' Paris, July 23, 1828. THE interest of the fashionable world in Paris has this month been exclusively engaged, 1st, by the sudden and extraordinary popularity of Madame Malibron; 2d, by an amusing comedy, performed at the Gymnase, entitled "Avant, pendant, et après;" and, 3d, by the discussion of the comparative merits of Macready and Kean. Since Martignac's Ministry has declared its hostility to the Jesuits, by the two famous ordinances of last month, public interest is beginning to be a little diverted from politics. Three months ago, the question repeated every evening in the drawing-rooms of Paris was, whether the Charter or the Jesuits would be triumphant? About midnight, some important personage would enter a saloon, and relate an anecdote of the interior of the Court, tending to show that the King was either abandoning the cause of the Jesuits, or was becoming more and more devoted to them. Now that people think they know the state of this great question, and that the triumph of the Jesuits appears to be deferred for a year, they begin to look to literature for excitement; but, unfortunately, French literature was never at so low an ebb as at present. Allow me for a moment to explain the causes which seem to have had an influence in corrupting French genius. The numerous manufactories which have risen up in every corner of France since the year 1817, have produced a class of people who are in opulent, or, at all events, in easy circumstances. M. de St. Simon calls this the classe industrielle. Except at Lyons and Nismes, these manufacturers are rarely found in the South of France. The families that have been enriched by trade since 1817, chiefly reside between the Loire, the Rhine, and the frontiers of the Netherlands. The principal centres of industry are St. Quintin in Picardy, and Louviers in Normandy. Our rich manufacturers are for the most part men about forty-five or fifty; but it must not be supposed that they bear the least resemblance to your worthy city merchants. Nothing can be more different. The wealthy French provincial thinks himself obliged to be un homme galant; or, if past the age for that, he sets up for un homme d'esprit.

Never at any period of civilization, in any city in the world, were so many books published as those which have issued from the Paris press since 1817. The Jesuits have calculated that, adding together all the editions of Voltaire, each of which frequently amounted to between two and three thousand copies, upwards of two millions of volumes of Voltaire have been published in Paris within ten years. Now, two-thirds of the books printed in Paris are bought by the provincial manufacturers who know nothing about them.

This utter incompetency of the purchasers of books to judge of what they pay for at a very dear rate, has had the effect of degrading French literature. Every petty provincial dealer lays the foundation of his library by purchasing Voltaire, Rousseau, the Memorial de St. Hélène, the rhapsody entitled "Victoires et Conquêtes des Armées Françaises," and the pleasant novels of Pigault Lebrun. If the fortune of the calico manufacturer should improve, he buys Molière, Corneille, Racine, all the celebrated authors of the reign of Louis XIV, and a French translation of the novels of Sir Walter Scott. He does not, to be sure, read all these books; but he gets them nicely bound, and arranges them in conspicuous places in his rooms. Should the cloth and calico trade continue so profitable as to produce to our manufacturer an income of twenty or thirty thousand francs per annum, he then gets introduced to the society of Monsieur le Prefet, Monsieur le Marechal de Camp commanding the department, and to the principal fiscal and judicial officers. The aristocracy formed by the functionaries just mentioned, constitutes what is called high society in the provincial towns of France. On getting introduced to this class of society, our newly enriched merchant

or manufacturer finds that continual, allusion is made to different passages in "Quentin Durward, Ivanhoe," &c. He is therefore obliged to read Sir Walter Scott, lest he should be set down for a Goth when conversing with Madame la Prefette. He next finds himself obliged to procure all the literary novelties that appear in Paris; and this is the fatal circumstance which operates to the prejudice of French literature, and tends to compromise the high reputation we established in Europe during the reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. Now-a-days, as soon as a book issues from the press in Paris, however bad an opinion the bookseller may entertain of its literary merits, he never fails to send off copies to St. Petersburgh, Stockholm, Moscow, Copenhagen, Berlin, and even to Naples, Rome, and Vienna. In towns nearer to us, such as Turin for example, there is an enormous demand for French books. A Russian nobleman residing at Florence is at present collecting a French library, which, when complete, will be worth several hundred thousand francs. This nobleman is a man of talent and taste. Many distinguished literary characters in St. Petersburgh and Berlin transmit to Paris extensive orders for French books; but how must they be disgusted when they receive the publications brought out for the amusement of our provincial traders! What must be the reflections of a man of literary taste in Munich or Turin, when he receives from Paris the “ Memoires d'une Contemporaine;" "The History of Napoleon by M. Norvins;" "General Foy's History of the War in Spain ;" and the whole host of paltry publications which are daily puffed off by the booksellers in the Paris papers? What must be the astonishment of a foreigner on perusing such a production as the volume entitled "Keledor, Histoire Africaine; publiée par M. le Baron Roger, Ex-Administrateur du Senegal." The worthy Baron, instead of presenting us with a simple and correct narrative of Senegal and its inhabitants, with which he was probably well acquainted, thought fit to write a romance, full of high-sounding phrases. His hero is a being named Keledor, who relates a series of events in which he himself took part. From the emphatic and exaggerated language put into the mouth of this poor negro, it is evident that the author has been aiming at an imitation of the character of Chactas, in Chateaubriand's celebrated romance of " Atala.” Nothing certainly can be more absurd than the history of the war of AbdoulKader against the impious Daniel de Caior, who sometimes presumed to mock the holy precepts of Mahomet. The reader searches in vain, amidst all this Chateaubriantic bombast, for any portion of that curious information which M. Roger's intimate acquaintance with Senegal might have enabled him to give.

The attractive title of Keledor, together with the author's high-flown style, has occasioned the circulation of twelve or fifteen thousand copies of the work among our provincial industriels. "Stevenson's Travels in South America” issued from the press at the same time with the romance of Keledor. Of Mr. Stevenson's work, which is written in a plain unaffected style, some hundreds of copies have been circulated in Paris, but the booksellers declare that not more than eighty-seven copies have been sold in the provinces. Had the author adopted the style of Baron Roger, his work would have been as successful as Keledor. But this last production, indifferent as it is, is nevertheless infinitely superior to the wretched imitations of Jouy's style, with which we are daily inundated.

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The above particulars will serve to show that we have at present two dis tinct styles of literature in France. The "Memoires of Brienne," which are remarkable for simplicity and the absence of all exaggeration, have been circulated extensively in the polite circles of Paris. But the sale of this work, has been nothing in comparison with that of the "Memoires d'une Contemporaine," of which, even in the little town of Honfleur, a vast number of copies were sold; people were absolutely fighting for them. All the Contemporaine's falsehoods respecting General Moreau and Marshal Ney are adopted as articles of faith at Honfleur, and, after being burlesquely exaggerated, become the subject of conversation; while, if a single copy of the

Memoires of Brienne had found its way to Honfleur, the style would have been thought very flat. There is no doubt that the "Memoirs of Harriet Wilson" suggested the idea of the "Memoires d'une Contemporaine." The taste and political tendency of the French and English nations are different, and therefore, instead of attempting to draw satirical portraits of persons in high life, the Contemporaine presents us with a tissue of anecdotes of the heroic period of our Revolution, written in an emphatic style. Marshal Ney is an object of adoration to the great bulk of the French people. He has, too, the advantage of being dead; and these reasons have induced the Contemporaine to make him her hero. But she seems to forget that General Marescot, by whom she pretends she was carried to Holland, is not also numbered with the dead. The gallant General has expressed himself fully sensible of the compliment paid to him; but he at the same time declares that he never was acquainted in Holland with any lady resembling the Contemporaine. But I shall say no more about these Memoires, lest I be suspected of ill-will against the writers by whom they have been manufactured for Ladvocat, the bookseller. I have merely explained the reasons of their extraordinary circulation, in order to give you an idea of the two styles of literature which are rising up in France. All the femmes de chambre in Paris and the mercantile classes in the provinces read the Contemporaine's "Memoires," while the literary circles of the capital and the provincial nobility read the "Memoires de Brienne." Of this last work two thousand copies have been sold, while the circulation of the Contemporaine has amounted to at least twenty-five thousand.

The best History of the French Revolution that has hitherto appeared, is that recently published by M. Thibeaudeau, who was a Counsellor of State and the Prefect of Marseilles under Napoleon. But his History has the fault of being written in a simple and natural style, therefore its sale has been very limited; while our wealthy provincials have purchased twenty thousand copies of the Abbé Montgaillard's "History of the Revolution." This Abbé Montgaillard was a little hump-backed man, who was employed in the commissariat at a salary of four or five hundred francs per month. He had a brother, Count Montgaillard, who is celebrated for his portrait of Louis XVIII. which he published in 1814, and which the Liberals pronounced to be a striking likeness. Count Montgaillard was said to be a spy in the employment of the Duke de Rovigo, by whom he was paid at the rate of two thousand francs per month. The rhapsody entitled "The History of the Revo lution," is the joint production of the two brothers, and the fifteenth edition is now in the course of publication. An excellent refutation of this produc tion has appeared from the pen of M. Laurent, the editor of the Globe; but the publisher of Montgaillard's History is protected by the Constitutionnel, which is the oracle of the mercantile classes in the provinces. Montgaillard's work is written in a style to suit the taste of provincial readers, and, therefore, it will probably pass through ten editions. On the other hand Count Thibeaudeau's excellent "Memoirs of the Consulate" will not probably reach a second.

The influence of the two classes of readers, and the two styles of literature which they create, is most remarkable in the department of novel-writing. One author has published eighty volumes, and all his works have gone through three editions. His name, though celebrated in Lyons and Bourdeaux, is utterly unknown in Paris. M. Benjamin Constant's clever novel of "Adolphe," which paints with so much truth the torments experienced by a man of delicate feeling wishing to separate himself from a mistress whom he no longer loves, has, probably, never found a place in the libraries of Toulouse and Nantes, which are filled with the productions of M. M. Mortonval, Paul de Kock, and Victor Ducange. This last-named writer has a most prolific imagination.

M. Broussais, one of the most fashionable physicians in Paris, has improved upon the system of the celebrated Razori of Milan, and pretends to cure all disorders by bleeding and leeches. One of his patients lately died after the application of eight hundred leeches. This system is so much the rage in

Paris that leeches are now brought from the heart of Hungary. Absurd as this may appear, M. de Broussais is nevertheless a man of considerable talent. He has recently published a work, entitled "De la Folie et de l'Irritation, ouvrage dans lequel les Rapports du Physique et du Moral sont établis sur les bases de la Medecine." It is an exceedingly clever book, and well worthy of notice in England.

In France, where fashion reigns with despotic sway, there is an incessant craving for novelty. In 1800, Locke and Condillac were admired for the manner in which they explain the formation of our ideas and judgments; but they could not continue to enjoy permanent favour. Towards the end of 1803, M. M. Cabanis and de Tracy published their immortal works. Count de Tracy's Ideology, Grammar, and Logic, are the most profound and clear works in the French language on the formation of ideas, the art of expressing them, and on the right conduct of the understanding. But Napoleon detested the writings of M. M. Cabanis and de Tracy. About the year 1803, M. de Chateaubriand brought the Catholic religion into vogue. M. Frayssinous, now a peer of France, invested with the cordon bleu, and M. Royer Collard, now a Liberal, and the President of the Chamber of Deputies, attacked the philosophy of Locke and Condillac. M. Royer Collard has been succeeded by M. Cousin and the conductors of "The Globe," who endeavour to throw Locke and Condillac into oblivion, and to establish the mystical reveries of the Germans. Translations of the works of Plato, and of Reid the Scotch philosopher, have been published here. The young men of fortune in Paris are somewhat touched with mysticism, and are enthusiastic admirers of M. Cousin's lectures, which they pretend to understand. M. Cousin is accordingly lauded to the skies by those journals which are supported by the subscriptions of his disciples. M. M. Royer Collard and Cousin take good care to say nothing definite and clear on the formation and expression of ideas, and the art of conducting the understanding to truth, in the examination of any subject whatever; but they tell us a multitude of vague things on the nature of the Deity, on the soul, and the manner in which God created man. M. Cousin pretends to have discovered all this in what he terms the interrogation méditative de la conscience. This is the whole secret of the new school of philosophy, which it is pretended is to upset Locke and Condillac. If these gentlemen did not cloak themselves under obscurity of style, every one would see the inanity of their ideas. While interrogating their consciences, in which they say they read so many fine things, they close their eyes against the clear facts established by Locke and Condillac, and set up ideal speculations in lieu of facts and experience. Because it is the fashion among our young men to listen with enthusiasm to M. Cousin's lectures; because a young professor has been imprisoned in Berlin, in consequence of M. Franchet having denounced him to the King of Prussia as a turbulent spirit; and because M. Cousin states that he himself was thrown into a dungeon several feet below the level of the Spree, no professor or journalist dares presume to comment on the obscurity of our new philosopher's language, and the mystical emphasis with which he speaks of God, the soul, and sometimes of the formation of ideas. Men of forty shrug their shoulders, because knowledge of human nature and of the world has taught them that that which is not clear is not worth attending to. On the other hand, in proportion as M. Cousin's lectures are obscure and mystical, the more they are admired by our young men of twenty. The youth of France are no longer distinguished for gaiety and levity, as they were before the Revolution. They have become gloomy, meditative, and calculating; and if the Jesuits had managed well, they might have been very devout, for their thoughts are constantly wandering to a future world.

In this state of French society, M. Broussais has had the courage to publish a book full of facts and observations. He attacks the new philosophers formed in the school of M. M. Royer Collard and Cousin, whom he designates by the title of “ Kanto-Platoniciens.” M. Broussais shows anger at the very outset; for he well knows that all the young men in Paris will rise up against him. He plainly tells them that the figurative style which they so

extravagantly admire is that of poetic fiction; that the logic of their masters is a perpetual anthology; and that their language is nothing but a metaphorical phraseology, as obscure as it is bombastic. M. Broussais attacks the only intelligible idea which these new philosophers have started. They assert, that "conscience is a feeling in itself, and is not felt through the senses. They pretend that, to hear the revelations of conscience, it is necessary to wrap oneself up in silence and obscurity, so as to be free from the operation of the senses. In a word, one must "hear oneself think." The philosophers of this new school allege that, after being long accustomed to these reveries, they discern an immeasurable perspective extending from man to God. A good pupil of M. Cousin clearly sees in his conscience, after closing his eyes for a time, a new world, presenting a multitude of beautiful, singular, and holy facts. These facts are connected together by relations, the laws of which may be understood. Finally, and this is better than all the rest, these facts are entirely distinct from those which are proved to us through the medium of the senses.

But I fear I shall weary your patience with all this detail. I shall therefore conclude my remarks on this subject by observing, that all our young Parisians, who are not hangers-on of the Court, or the dupes of Jesuitical intrigues, are enthusiastic disciples of M. Cousin. Napoleon would have made all these young men cavalry officers, or auditors of the Council of State; and M. Broussais tells them, without any ceremony, that their brains are turned with Cousin's mysticism, only because they want employment.

I am aware, Sir, that all these remarks on the new philosophy of Paris would present but little interest to you, were it not that they serve to show the turn of mind which prevails among that class of young men who, ten or fifteen years hence, will be Peers of France, and employed in all the departments of Government.

The corrupt taste and absurd doctrines which at present prevail in France have already had the most mischievous effects upon our literature. No author can enjoy success but by endeavouring to please our newly-enriched provincial traders, or by gaining a reputation among M. Cousin's mystical followers. The author who steers clear of these two shoals will gain but little profit. The only real judges of literary merit, and those whose opinions are worth any thing, are the females of the higher ranks, and men of about thirty, whose maturity of age secures them against the influence of our fashionable philosophy. But fashion, which has plunged us into this state of mental degradation, will probably soon extricate us from it. I doubt not but that Cousin's philosophy will be wholly forgotten two or three years hence. Instead of "closing their eyes, and looking into their consciences" for the immense chain of facts which connects them with God, our young men will again seek the society of the fair sex. The renewal of war, which every one heartily wishes for in France, would speedily convert our young philosophers into gallant officers.

SONNET ON REVISITING A SCHOOL.

WHO but will sigh-while pacing oft alone

O'er the same walks, careless where once he stray'd
With playmates-many of whom a deeper shade

Than of your bowers hath wrapt! Yes, many are gone
The dark, the silent, phantom-flitting way

Which lies beyond the grave! for ever flown

From this vain world, from Fortune's smile or frown.

Ah Fancy! meteor shining to betray!

Thy loveliest gleams were but the rainbow's hue

That flies a parley melting from the sight!

"Tis thus-with all the flowers of man's delight!—
With all that sparkle in life's morning dew:
Hope after hope bestrews the wintry gale,
Till the bare stem be left a mourner in the vale!